Soul☀️

18 black asf has a degree in yearnalism

[allth3stars]

I’m so glad I’m in an era where black!reader is a continuously growing community because representation really does matter. All of these beautiful black writers out here building this space up based on love, bonding, true friendship and understanding really warms my heart. I could literally cry, you guys are so impactful, more than you think. Thank you guys so so much for all of your hard work❤️❤️❤️!

[kirbydreamssss]

Too Many Cooks (Off Campus) || John Tucker x CulinaryStudent!reader (Part 4)

Part 1 Here! Pt. 2! Pt. 3!

WC: 4.6k (yeehaw :p)

Series Summary: On top of his spot on the hockey team, Tucker declared a double major in business and hospitality pretty soon after arriving to Briar U. Not five minutes into his first culinary class, he gained his campus rival. Now it’s Junior year, nearly three years later, and you're still the only person that's ever made "Sweet Tuck" genuinely contemplate murder.

Pt.4 Summary: Tucker swallows his pride and you shove it down his throat :)

Relationship(s): John Tucker x reader (slowburn)

Tags/Warnings: Slowwwwburn (well ofc), BANTER & BICKERING (my bread and butter at this point), Off Campus season 1 spoilers, f!reader, No "Y/N" use, No physical description of reader, reader's an in-state student for plot (...so pretend you're from Massachusetts), completely inaccurate classes for hospitality majors (I'm so sorry to my culinary baddies), Rivals to Lovers!, barely edited tbh, suggestive content/discussions about sex (it's Off Campus, y'all), light Angst! FLUFF!

Notes: Just an fyi guys, reader/Honey is such a hater in this part, even I got annoyed writing it loll...also...yeah I'm def writing smut for this series, buckle up

Just incase ppl don’t know: NARP= Non-Athlete Regular Person

Tucker was late. Something which hadn’t happened since that fateful week of freshman year. 

Your withering glare those first few classes, coupled with the snide little comments about “punctuality only being necessary for us NARPS,” was enough to kick his ass into gear. 

To you, it just seemed like he did so out of competitiveness alone. Spite and a childish grudge, just like you.

In reality, Tucker was trying to impress you—to make up for his colossal embarrassment of a first impression. Eventually, after only being met by more of your glares and even more snippy comments, it sure became a competition.

Now, however, the last thing he wanted was a fight. For the first time ever, he’d planned on catching you before class. Earlier than early, like you always had been, to hopefully smooth over the awkwardness this whole Fifth Line post had created.

After hours of tossing and turning, Tucker had finally dozed off—and then he had slept through his alarm. Not terribly late, but pushing it enough that he was rushing to the bathroom for a shower. But, of course, Dean was already in there. It was the whole reason he had that alarm in the first place, to get in the bathroom before Dean camped out there for a good hour.

“Dean!” Tucker bellowed, banging a fist on the wooden door. “Come on, man! I’ve got class in forty minutes!”

By the time Tucker had weaseled his way in there, thick steam still fogging up the mirror, he barely had time to wash his armpits before he was racing his way to the sink.

And then he forgot Logan had borrowed his truck, so he had to fucking wait for Garrett to give him a ride to campus andit was raining—

and now he was bolting through the doors of your culinary lab. Sweat and rain pooling down his back. 

He looked ridiculous. He knew he looked ridiculous, probably like a shaking wet rat, and because he was late everyone was staring at him. It wasn’t the largest class Tucker had—only a dozen duo stovetop stations with rolling stainless steel islands parked at each end—but it certainly wasn’t intimate enough to stop the embarrassment singing his cheeks. 

“Welcome in, Mr. Tucker,” Professor Bernard chuckled along with the class.

Tucker gave an awkward, pinched smile before shuffling over to his station—your station, technically. Ever since that fiasco of a first culinary lab freshman year, the whole department found a fun thrill out of lumping the two of you together. You were determined enough as students that they knew neither of you would let your bitterness affect your work. In fact, Prof. Bernard had been the one to say how it would only boost your performance. “Nice, friendlycompetition,” he’d called it.

Yet, the way you glared at him was anything but friendly. Somehow, today it was even more lancing.

“Hey,” Tucker whispered, attempting a slight lift to his cheeks. 

You barely glanced up from your recipe copy, looking through your brows like he was a piece of shit on your shoe.

Tucker tried brushing it off, chuckling airily, “Okay then.” 

Even when you rolled your eyes at his response, Tucker took a controlled breath in, focusing on shoving his backpack underneath the mobile island. Just as he finally turned to face you, an apology on the tip of his tongue that he’d been fully prepared to have thrown back in his face, the professor’s voice rang out.

Shit. Now he’d have to catch you after class. Literally racing to beat you because, like everything with you apparently, you took leaving class as competitively as the class itself.

“All right!” Bernard clapped everyone to attention. “A little change of plans, some of the burners had to be disconnected for maintenance yesterday, so we’ll be working in pairs. Station partners only, please!” Then the room descended into frenzied chatter.

Huh. Well, that made things a hell of a lot easier. Tuck even smiled reflexively, damn relieved he wouldn’t have to run again today.

But then he turned to face you, still grinning stupidly—and audibly gulped at your expression. 

Recently, he'd started to forget why exactly he had found you so intimidating from the start. But then he actually looked at you—heart in his hands—and the hate in your eyes squashed it like a bug.

Well, maybe this wouldn’t be that easy.

“Get your coat and apron on, dipshit.” Hands squared firmly on your hips.

His tongue felt dry and leaden, weighing his jaw down dumbly. “Uh-um—yes, ma’am.” Before scrambling to grab the Briar blue apron off the hook. 

Your eyes rolled again and Tucker felt a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Enough with the cowboy bullshit, Marina can’t hear you from across the room.”

That actually stilled his movements, heart rate calming enough that he could speak without a stutter. “What?”

Your laugh was bitter as you roughly snatched the steel prep bowls to the center. “The whole cowboy, southern charm bullshit you pull. Save it for when I'm out of ear shot next time, cause I nearly tossed up my lunch last Thursday when you oh so graciously grabbed that sack of flour for her.”

Genuinely, utterly confused, Tucker’s brows pinched. “Wha—I was just being nice.”

With another cackle, you harshly thwacked an egg flat on the counter, cracking it into a large bowl. “Oh sureee—so it’s safe to assume calling her sweetheart was just you being nice, too?”

This felt like a trap. It absolutely was a trap. Because if he answered honestly—that he called every girl sweetheart, even his five year old cousin—she’d never believe him. He could already hear you retort: well you sure as shit don’t call me sweetheart, and don’t start now, dipshit.

“Yes?”

Your movements paused. Hand hovering over the bowl as another cracked yolk plopped into the awaiting bowl. 

Tucker visibly cringed as you slowly swiveled your head to face him. 

“Oh yeah? Real convincing, cowboy.”

A light bulb blinked over Tucker’s head before he yelped, just a bit too loudly, “So that’s why you call me that?!”

For a split second, the conversations in the room halted. Everyone glanced over at your joint station as Tucker sheepishly smiled for an awkward moment, before they all turned back to their own stations.

When he looked back at you, Tucker’s face warmed as you bit your lip. The edges of an amused smile still peeking out around it.

“Smooth.”

“Oh shut it,” he huffed, harshly tying the apron with a tug.

You only met him with another teasing, amused grin. “Yeah, real sold on this southern hospitality thing.” Then pausing as you chucked the last shell in the scraps bowl. For a second, you scanned him over like he was stupid—a common occurrence, obviously. “Why the hell are you just standing there? Roll out the dough, moron.”

Tucker had to suck in his teeth before spouting something his momma would’ve slapped him for.

Breathe. All you’ve gotta do is apologize. Stop letting her distract you, or insult you, or cut you off, and just do the damn—

“Wait,” Tucker blurted out, “why’m I rolling out dough? We’re redoing the French omelette recipe.”

Again, you looked at him through your brows. Completely exasperated. “Did you even read Bernard’s email—never mind! How could I forget? You’re too busy for that.” Going back to the large steel bowl with a whisk, wielding it in a way Tucker just knew you could certainly figure out how to use as a weapon. “Unlike me, who has so much free time, right?” Ending with a mocking, bitter guffaw.

Tucker sputtered, “I didn’t—”

Breathe. Apologize. Don’t bite her head off.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.”

Suddenly your vicious whisking halted. Head rotating again like another horror film. The look on your face was equally as confused and horrified. “Huh?”

Tucker exhaled again, smoothing over his apron. “I didn’t read Bernard’s email. You’re right, I’m sorry. Okay?”

This time your eyes searched his face, drifting down to his figure wildly like the answer to a confounding puzzle might be hidden in the fabric of his jeans. “You dying or something?”

“What? No—can I not just say sorry?”

You still stared like he’d grown two heads and somehow that irritated him even more.

“Jesus—just tell me what we’re doing...Please?”

With a satisfied smirk, you slid the paper to his side, still maintaining eye contact. “Quiche Lorraine.” Still watching as Tucker verified the paper. “We’re supposed to look at Bernard’s notes from the last time and focus on modifications before we go off book next week.”

“Huh,” Tucker wondered out loud, flicking through the notes the professor had attached for both of your individual assessments last week. “But together, right?”

“That is how a joint project works, yes.”

Tucker sighed again, still staring at the paper to prevent glaring at you. “What’d he say about yours?”

As if you’d had it engrained since that morning, you repeated “Nice structure, perfect presentation, excellent crust...lacking seasoning and depth of flavor.”

Tucker couldn’t help chuckling, looking back up at you as he read his own feedback. “Nice structure, good crust but too rustic of a presentation...excellent seasoning and depth of flavor.”

Once again, you rolled your eyes. “Figures.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Tucker grinned boyishly. “Seems like I could teach you a thing or two.”

“Roll out the fucking dough, Einstein.”

Tucker chuckled, “Yes, ma’am.” 

As expected, you fought over every aspect except bake time and temp. Tucker almost cackled at your lack of seasoning, smugly grinning when he tossed in another tablespoon of black pepper and freshly chopped dill. “Adds some brightness,” he’d said—to which you’d childishly mimicked him behind his turned shoulder. 

Then it came to the crust—and you nearly stabbed him with a chef’s knife. The way he basically flopped the dough into the quiche pan was his first offense. When you’d insisted he needed to push the crust more delicately into the scalloped edge, he whined about it taking too long and his finger being too big to actually do it gently without creating cracks. Of course, you couldn’t care less about whining and actually forced him to slow his movements, one scalloped dip at a time. After blind baking the crust, you had poured the egg mixture and popped it into the oven for the final time.

So now, you both were standing there. Silently watching the seconds tick bye in the orange glow of the oven light.

Not often were the two of you that quiet, and Tucker savored it. Sneakily glancing over to watch your face. He hated to say it, but you looked tired. It probably was the only reason you hadn't insulted him in the last five minutes. Maybe he should’ve liked it more, made a joke about finally shutting you up.

It only made his stomach twist.

“Hey—um,” Tucker coughed, a bit startled when you looked over at him with a quiet softness to your expression. “Jules showed me those dm’s, all the photos and stuff.”

He almost cursed himself for bringing it up when your content expression grew a sharp edge, an invisible wall coming back up.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he continued before you could brush it off, “That wasn’t—I...you shouldn't have to deal with that.”

The sharpness dulled a bit, arms still crossed but eyes searching his face for sincerity. “Is all that normal for you?”

He just shrugged, looking back at the oven. “Comes with the territory.”

“Real fun stuff.” Voice bitter in a way that made his heart clench. 

“Seriously, let me talk to Jules again. I’ll handle it.”

You finally let Tucker hold your eye contact, but almost instantly, he could feel the way you reinforced your shields. Shoulders bristling. “I’m a big girl, Tucker. I can handle it myself.” Then turned back around to start cleaning your station.

Sure, he expected it. A glare. A sneer. For you to chuck his apology right back at him, hitting Tucker squarely in the nose.

He just didn't expect to feel so hollowed out after.

At the end of class, Tucker and you silently presented the quiche to Bernard. After taking a couple bites and inspecting the plate for a painfully long moment, he smirked proudly. “Well done, you two. Full marks.” The man mischeviously glanced between you both, smile curling under his gray mustache. “Maybe I need to assign partner labs more often.”

Every Friday was karaoke night at Malone’s—and every Friday you were tucked into that boiling hot kitchen. 

Fridays weren’t pretty. If you mix a hoard of drunk college kids with microphones and an elevated stage, things were bound to happen. Knowing that, Hannah and Allie normally took Friday night off—unless they were downright desperate for the money (*cough cough* like you were). So they’d normally just drop in for cheese fries, a couple of drinks with Sean and Dexter, and then skedaddle. 

Most of the other line cooks avoided it as well. Having a wife and kids at home wasn’t exactly conducive to the late weekend closing times. Like Larry and José—who every shift, without fail, asked why a pretty girl like you wasn't out on the town on making memories. 

You were broke. That was the short and long of it. 

As an in-state student, you were going to school for relatively little compared to everyone else (read as: you were paying a kidney instead of an arm and a leg). Plus your parents, God love them, could only cover so much while handling the restaurant. So yeah, money was tight.

From the second you’d applied to Briar, you knew you would major in hospitality. After all, you were set to inherit The Mayflower Inn, the restaurant and boutique hotel that your grandparents started back in the 60s. A place so small that it was basically a bed & breakfast compared to the other Boston chain hotels. Being the only one of your cousins to actually give a crap about the Inn, it wasn’t really a surprise you’d run it—but a colossal burden all the same.

All day, every day, you reminded yourself what was at stake. If you skipped even one hospitality lecture, thousands of dollars went down the drain and you could miss out on a vital education that would keep the business afloat. But, if you came back fully trained with your culinary degree, your parents could hire you instead as head chef—along with a severe pay cut for the position, of course. That way the money could go towards something else, like taking on more waitstaff or better produce. You had spent these three years penny pinching and skipping meals, you could do it for a couple more. 

Because if things failed, there would be no one to fall back on. No plan B—and you sure as hell weren’t selling your soul to private equity—so it was all you. 

Your future depended solely on yourself, so you acted accordingly.

Well—not all the time. Even you could admit that Hannah, Dexter, and Allie were the best thing to happen in your lifetime. When entering Briar freshman year, the best you’d hoped for was a couple of good friends you could study and grab dinner with at the dining hall. Then, you’d say your goodbyes once you all graduated.

Those three though, you were keeping forever—as long as they’d let you.

Being the friends they were, Allie and Hannah had come back to the diner after class just to keep you company while you set up for karaoke during the post-lunch closed hours. 

And being the fact she’s Allison Hayes, Allie was grilling you about working set up shift. Alone.

“Why are you doing this by yourself? Again?”

Still unwrapping the tangled microphone cords, you huffed, “Della pays me double and Gus is always late, so I'd rather just take double the pay for double the work I'd be doing anyways.”

Actively restocking the napkin holder, Hannah cut in this time. “Okay, then, why don’t you just take the set up shift alone and swap your dinner shift with him?”

“Guys—”

“Three years, babe!” Allie whined. “Three years and not once have you gone out with us on a Friday.”

Still turned away and hunched over the mic box. “I need the money, Al.”

“Dude,” Hannah cut in this time with a sympathetic smile, “same here, but you also kinda have to enjoy life. We’ve got less than two years left together—come on.”

“I see getting fake laid made you real chipper.” Roughly, you picked up the mic box to slam it on the stage. “I’ll take a break senior year.”

“No, you won’t!” Allie cried again, this time standing up to follow so you couldn’t conveniently run away to the kitchen. “Y’know what you said last summer, when you found you out didn’t have classes on Tuesdays and Fridays anymore?”

Both girls, in unison, echoed, “You doubled your shifts.”

“Guyyyyss,” you groaned again, finally turning around with a pinched pout. 

“It’s lookin’ great, hon!” Della called out, appearing from the swinging kitchen door. “Oh, hi girls! Didn’t know you were working today. Shift swap?”

Ever Hannah, she returned Della’s wide smile. “Nope, just keeping her company.”

The older woman put a hand to her heart like she was touched. “What gems you are.”

“Oh, Della! Quick question.” Allie jumped around you to be in the older woman’s eyeline. “Is it too late for Gus to take her shift tonight?”

Your head whipped to face Allie, lips pursing. “Al—”

“Course not!” The old woman crowed. “That boy needs to learn the ropes anyways.”

“Um, Della,” you gritted out, “I had to teach Gus how to turn on the fryer last week...he’s been working here since March.”

The older woman just waved you off, looking completely unconcerned. “Karaoke night’s perfect then—a little baptism by fire.”

You gulped. 

Thanks to Fifth Line, everyone knew you worked Fridays. Apparently, your cheese fry special was legendary even. God forbid the whole campus think the way Gus cooked was your cooking. That would truly be the arsenic cherry on top of this shit cake of a week.

You awkwardly chuckled, trying to not sound like you were now bordering on a panic attack. “Could we, I don’t know, maybe put up a sign that names the line cooks for the night? Just so everyone’s aware.”

Della cackled. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want your good reputation tarnished, would we?” Ending with a wink.

For the first time that day, your shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Della.”

“Or!” Allie cut in. “You could come to karaoke night—as a normal person, for once.”

Nevermind, both shoulders were back up to your ears. “Hilarious.”

Like tweedle-dum to Allie’s tweedle-dee, Hannah piped in with the most fake sounding surprise. “What a wonderful plan, Allie! How did you ever think of that?”

At least Allie sounded like she hadn’t been practicing it in the mirror.

You glowered. “I hate you two.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” Della bellowed. “ ’Bout time you took a weekend off. Y’know, I’m surprised you never used the extra employee discount.”

All of you turned to face your boss. “What discount?”

“Didn't you read your contract? Since you girls have worked here for over a year, you get 50% off food and drinks on weekends—starting Friday nights.”

From the way you three glanced at each other stupidly, Della couldn’t help barking an amused laugh.

“I mean, at least we’re not as bad as Chris,” Allie added with a grimace. “The guy doesn't even know we get a shift meal.”

“That kid’s got a screw loose or something.” The old woman mumbled, checking her watch quickly. “Gotta head out girls—but have fun tonight, you deserve it!”

“Bye, Della!” You all called out. 

As the staff entrance slammed shut, Allie and Hannah squealed, “FINALLY!”

“You are wicked, nasty women.”

Allie clasped her hands wholesomely. “Awww, how sweet you are.”

Instantly, it came on like a migraine. “Fuckin’ hell—don’t remind me.”

“Huh?”

Hannah chuckled, popping off the top of the decorations bin for you. “Dean’s calling her Honey now.”

One side of Allie’s face screwed up in disgust. “In like a romantic way?”

“Ew—no. It’s cause of the post.” Shuffling back over to the decorations bin now. “Him and Jules got the whole hockey team in on it.” At that reminder, you groaned again. “Plus the whole campus at this point—this is why I didn't wanna go, guys! You saw it, I can’t even step campus without a phone being flung in my face.”

“Babe, at some point you just have to ignore it,” Allie sympathetically cooed, coming over to gently fix your hair while you hunched over the bin, pouting at the tangled kaleidoscope of streamers. “You take the drama out of it and they’ll get bored.”

“Oh yea, sureeee.” 

Suddenly, she clapped behind you, startling you to the point of almost dropping the streamers. “You and Tucker should do a song together tonight! Something about, like, not liking each other, or something.”

Hannah cackled, coming around your other side to grab the end of the streamer in hand. “Even I think that’s a bad idea, Al.”

Voice straining as you hung the streamers on your tippy toes. “The only people who could get me on that stage are you two so I can hide behind your voices and just hum.”

With a satisfying thump, Hannah tacked the other end of the streamer in place. “Fat chance you’re getting me up there.”

“Perfect,” you sighed, collapsing back down on flat feet.

You both jumped again as Allie squealed. “I have an idea!” Running away to the corner of speakers.

Before either of you could ask, the first phrases of piano blared out of the speaker.

“Shit—Sorry!” Allie yelled before turning the volume down, followed by the sound of a click and then the beginning phrase replayed.

She popped around the speaker with a devilish grin as she watched your face morph from horror to a pouty scowl as recognition flickered behind your eyes. 

It was “Honey, Honey” from Mamma Mia—because apparently Allie could be a real comedian only when it was at your expense.

“Allie...no.”

Hannah cackled, finally catching on. “Why didn't I think of that?”

“Because you’re not a musical theatre genius like moi,” Allie giggled with a twirl.

You however, remained unmoved, pouting at her grin. “No.”

“Oh come on!” Allie squealed, scuttling over to grip you by your shoulders. Stone cold serious as she said, “It’s Abba, you’re like contractually obligated as a woman to sing.”

“I didn’t sign anything, you’ve got nothin’ on me.”

Allie groaned, “Oh come on! Live a little!” Whipping around to run back to the speaker as she restarted the song. In her heeled boots, she nearly face planted over the wires as she tried scurrying back to the stage. Fumbling with a mic just in time to wail out the first line.

“Honey honey, how you thrill me, a-ha, honey honey!” Shimmying for added effect. 

For a whole verse, you remained strong. A pinched glare still perched on your face—right up until Hannah grabbed a pink streamer. With a friendly shove to your shoulder, she hopped on stage and slung the streamer around Allie’s shoulder like a feather boa. It was dangling so long behind her that if Hannah stepped wrong Allie might be swiftly flung down—the thought suddenly making a laugh bubble out. 

“Ah-hah!” Allie yelped while pointing at you from above.

Unconsciously, your lips puckered out as you attempted to smother a smile.

“Too late!” Hannah cackled, taking hold of your arm to tug you on stage. With another chortle, she wrapped the dangling streamer end around your shoulder. Both laughing harder as you flinched from the tickle to your neck.

For the next few minutes, you forgot all about the whole Fifth Line situation, giggling in the bubble you all created. It was maybe the first time that week where you weren’t hyper aware of anyone watching, even in an empty room. But you weren't surprised—after all, it was always like this when you were with with them. 

Most of the time you didn’t even need alcohol to feel buzzed around them. Walking home together with a warmth tugging at your cheeks and your stomach cramping from laughing so hard. When the three of you were together, the world seemed to fade out. Just you three, the music, and the dizzying feeling of being young and dumb together. 

It was probably why you hadn’t heard the front entrance bell ding past the music. 

While singing the end of a verse, shouting out “doggone beast!” Allie tried jumping from the short stage to stick her landing. However, the sharp ripping of the pink streamer shocked her back so much that she wobbled on her landing, flopping flat on her ass. 

That did you three in, practically snorting with laughter as Allie rubbed her sore butt cheek, still unable to stop grinning. 

“Owwie-hehehe,” she whined with an uncontrollable giggled. The song fading out as she still sat immobile on the floor through the final verse.

To your horror, an echo of applause rang out in the empty diner.

All three of you scrambled to face the entrance—the one that Allie supposedly locked and flipped the closed sign around hours ago. Maybe you could've handled it being Della or even another line cook, they’d tease you for days but at least you could survive it.

But Garrett, Logan, Birdie, and Tucker...you should’ve bought a gun. 

Garrett was grinning wildly, arms crossed over his black hoodie. “You guys really gotta lock that door.”

From down below, Allie laughed sheepishly, “Oops.” Before reaching a hand up, twiddling her fingers to cue one of them to help her to stand. Of course, Tucker was the first to spot it and immediately lunged forward to take hold of her hand, helping pull her back up.

Back on flat feet, Allie patted Tucker’s shoulder. “Thank you, good sir.”

He chuckled with a stupidly charming grin. “Anytime.”

Still near the front door, Logan coughed to cover a laugh. “You practicing for tonight, Honey?”

Your finger came out to point furiously at him, accidentally dropping the torn streamer. “Watch it, you’re still on thin ice, Logan.”

“Ouch,” he sighed with faux grimace, an ever present smirk still peeking through. 

Before long, Garrett had waltzed over to help hoist Hannah off the stage, instantly causing you and Allie to exchange smirks at the way she fiercely blushed beside him. 

Right as you’d turned, the torn streamer now crumpled in one fist, a hand appeared in front of you. Unconsciously, your eyes narrowed in on it like it was a weapon pointed to your head. In many ways it was, because it being Tucker’s hand made the decision all that more lethal to your pride. 

After a second, you tried opening your mouth to spat something bitter about never needing his help—but he swiftly interrupted you. Apparently, Tucker was well acquainted with the signs of an insult was coming his way, specifically from you. 

“Just shut up and take the damn hand.” 

This time your eyes narrowed in on his own, more angered by the way he’d actually shut you up with it. His tone more stern and unmoving than he had ever dared with you—and, unfortunately, more effective than you’d ever admit. 

Beyond your recognition, all of your friends were eyeing the show. Each fighting smirks as you begrudgingly accepted the hand with an eye roll and immediately ripped your hand away when you’d landed on the ground. Tucker’s own hand fell down to his side, fingers flexing quickly like the fleeting touch had stung. 

“Well,” Birdie chuckled to Logan, “guess I was wrong about that.”

Endnotes: NEXT PART IS kArAoKe nighttttt

❥In the meantime, feel free to check out my Jack Abbot series here— "I'm on Fire"

Taglist: @flashyourgreeneyesatme @pola-rosa @dina2223 @juniper-flour @tayvxi @cardcaptorrin @jissellegw @st-ev-ie @jtr-hunter-blog @ficklepicklefandoms @sandrellymendonca @foolishseven @fiction-obsessedd @heartsandheadcanons

*dividers and moodboard are mine, made on Canva

[notcoloradoo]

i want a kel washington x black fem reader from not suitable for work because nicholas duvernay is sooooo fine

[notcoloradoo]

I am begging for more off campus x black fem reader like plss i beg

[bitterbees4u]

Crush

Summary: Spencer Reid has a crush. A big, fat, all consumming, might be more than puppy love crush. On you. The latest member to join the team. Dangerous and secretive, it takes guts to try and cross you, or your family, and speaking of guts, Spencer wants to be all up in yours.

Warnings: Sick author writing (guys I have a staph infection in my eyes), stoned writing, unedited, horny yearner Spencer Reid, SMUT, soft Dom! Spencer, it is explicitly stated that reader is ASEAN and Native but not strictly just those, typical BAU stuff, some light angst, not too bad though. Did I mention Spencer Reid is so down bad for the reader??? Rich reader (god I love fabulously wealthy reader)

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Addams!Reader (yeah as in Addams family, but it's got a minor twist to it)

A/N: There will be continuations of Addams!Reader, but this was getting long and I needed to end it somehow. I hope y'all enjoy, and am I totally happy with how this came out? Not particularly, but I'm going to post it anyways, I'll probably revamp it later but not this week.

WC: 31.4K

It’s starting to get colder in Virginia. Fall comes with her array of reds, yellows, and browns, seeping into the leaves of every tree, crunching beneath the soles of strangers. Arms are covered, scarves wrapped around necks, there’s boots out on the town more often than not these days. Spencer loves the Fall, he truly does. Vegas isn’t made for the pretty leaves and the crisp morning air, not like it is in Quantico. Fall is also the best time for him to wear cardigans without too much teasing because more than half the population is also wearing a cardigan. 

He thinks of his cardigan, too big and beige but comfortable with nice wooden buttons, when he sees you enter the door looking like that. Like you just stepped off a set from a Tim Burton movie in real life. Dark hair, whether it’s dyed or natural, he doesn’t know because it could be either or, twisted up in a complicated looking bun. Face done up with sharp winged eyeliner, and your brows. Your brows. You’ve drawn them on, sharp and angled upright, somehow perfectly symmetrical. Lips painted red and lined with brown, glossy, kissable, he thinks. 

Then there’s the matter of your clothes, all in a shade of black with gold accents, you’re wearing an underbust waistcoat, and he’s ninety percent certain that you’ve got a pocket watch in there. Flowy sleeves with an Edwardian neckline, black heels, a black trench coat, and of course, straight legged black dress pants with purple pinstripes in them. You’re like something from a movie, or a story, not something that belongs in the bullpen of the BAU. Almost immediately the whispers break out, but Spencer can’t listen to them, not when you take a seat at the desk right in front of him. 

You’re either very good at ignoring the gawking or you’re taking it in stride, but you don’t acknowledge any of it. Spencer knows better than to say his co-workers are being discreet, they aren’t, and then he’s aware that he’s just staring at you. He clears his throat, desperately trying to tramp down the heat that creeps up his neck to his ears as your eyes catch onto his, “Hi, I ah, I’m uh, I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, I-I guess I’m your deskmate?”

He doesn’t reach his hand out to shake yours, and neither do you to his relief. Instead you raise one of those perfect brows at him and tilt your head a smidgen, “I see, pleasure to meet you Doctor.”

Your voice. Silky smooth and beautiful, there’s a hint of an accent there but you’ve disguised it well enough to prevent him from figuring out where exactly you had come from before sitting at a desk in the BAU. You’re confident, like you know exactly what to say and what effect it might have on the people you’re speaking to. Yet you give your name to him anyway, and still you don’t reach out to shake his hand, he’s grateful. 

Derek’s voice comes next, right behind Spencer with a flirtatious grin as he eyes you carefully, “And I’m Derek Morgan, I’ll say it’s most certainly a pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the team creeps in just like that, slipping around Spencers’ desk with ease as they ask you questions. What did you study? How old are you? How did you get your eyeliner so perfect? They learn you’re twenty-three, that you’re a small-time genius with three degrees, a PhD in Cultural studies, a masters in Anthropology, and finally you’ve got a bachelors in sociology. Well rounded, you’re certainly not a secretary, not that Spencer would think you were from the moment you stepped inside. 

You’re beautiful and dolled up but you don’t seek the attention that secretaries usually do. They’re fun, flirtatious, they often help balance out the somber atmosphere of the BAU and how it usually exists. You aren’t any of that though, and it’s clear you’re likely going to be joining the team. Like blood in the water they are sharks attracted to the scent of it, hellbent on finding out everything before getting to the source first. You give perfect answers, borderline clinical if not for the note of warmth in your tone. 

The answers are expected, you’re not here to give an autobiography, you’re here to work. Work you will do, especially once Rossi and Hotch arrive, making their way over to the small crowd that is your desk with Spencer’ as collateral. You stand once they arrive, and this time you do shake hands, they speak your name and you confirm it, which makes things official. You and them, you and the BAU, you and your place amongst the FBI hallways despite the larger than life lashes that brush against your cheeks when you look down.

Between the hours of nine and twelve you spend them by becoming acquainted with the team, with the paperwork and the flow of the bullpen. You’re new so you don’t know how it fully works yet, but you’re smart, you can figure out the culture of the workplace faster than most do. You take stock of the mugs, how each person has one and it’s held close, not shared, because it’s the one thing of possession they have. Possession. It seems, in your opinion, that the BAU is possessive of its members, and inside the members are possessive over the few personal things that help tie their identity in. 

That is what those first few hours have taught you, and you are no fool to think you will be exempt from that unspoken rule. There is also a clear divide between the co-workers, the team that goes out versus the team that stays inside. The ones able to make the cut, efficient and valuable enough to be sent out to the midst of the chaos and gore. Then there’s those that aren’t eligible, smart enough to be there amongst them, but not good enough to stand with them. It almost reminds you of high-school cliques. 

The popular kids, the average kids, and the ones that are tucked quietly away in a corner so nobody will see them. You’re now the unknown variable to the carefully constructed equation that the BAU follows in order to function, the kind where if one variable is removed the equation becomes unsolvable. Either it falls apart completely, or it remains but it becomes an unsteady, gaping, mystery. 

That is how the BAU functions, and you’ve just become a part of it. 

_____________

For a month they see your outfits and makeup, they make small talk with you by the coffee machine, they make space for your mug and when asked how you make your coffee you say you prefer tea. The next day there’s an electric kettle beside the coffee pot, and there’s also an assortment of teas. You’re pleasantly surprised by that, and you take full advantage of it. 

The next Monday however, there’s a case. It’s your first time at the round table, the door closed behind you and JJ up at the board. She clicks her remote so you all can be immediately greeted by the grotesque picture of a womans’ remains. She’s badly decomposed, but her clothes are intact despite how bloody and torn they are. There’s even pearl earrings in her ears, dirty from being buried. 

“She was identified as Miranda Cook, she was found alongside seven other women in a mass grave located in Greenwood County, Kansas. It is noted that none of the county residents were amongst the women in the grave, and in fact, they are scattered from all parts of the United States. There’s one town, Eureka, if you take the population of the town and the rest of the county you’re looking at 4,837 residents in total.”

Spencer leaned forward, just a bit, “How were the bodies discovered?”

“A farmer, Mark Whinston, just bought a new piece of land and was tilling it when he came across the bodies. The oldest is predicted to have been there for at least a year, the most recent is six weeks.”

Hotch set his jaw, nodded, then stood up, “Wheels up in forty.”

You all scattered after that, reaching for go-bags, refills on coffee and tea, files, books, all sorts of things. Spencer finds you making tea just as he’s going to make coffee. Some part of him is still nervous to be around you, but being your deskmate has certainly eased him as well. You work hard, you wrinkle your nose at every new stack of paperwork, you use your finger to guide you while you read. Most notably, perhaps, is how you listen to every word he has to offer, every tangent and rant you hang onto, never bored, never telling him to quit. 

On the plane you watch them settle into their respective, unspoken seats. Culture, you take into account of where everyone sits, what it says about them, and the dynamics put on display. It’s intimate on the plane, not in the sexy way but it’s a showcase to the depth of connection between the team. They’re all comfortable, settling into their spots on the plane like they settle into their living room. You find a seat in the back, one of the single occupancy seats and it is there that you set up shop in researching the county and town. Absorbing every piece of it that you can get your hands on, you let yourself fall into the pull of research. 

Spencer watches from his spot on the couch, half researching, half staring. Your finger retraces lines every now and then, your brow furrowing when you do. Simultaneously you look out of place in that seat and yet you belong there too. You fit right in with the papers and books around you. After the first hour Morgan finally breaks the silence, turning around in his seat to look at you, “So what do you have so far?”

He hasn’t settled on a nickname for you yet, although Spencer knows there’s a collection of them brewing in the other man's head already. Afterall it hadn’t taken long for Morgan to settle on “pretty boy” when it came to him. You look up, as if you’re a little surprised to see that he’s talking to you, “Oh, well, from what I’ve gathered Eureka is small, republican, and white. It’s listed as a sundown town in some areas and according to various sources. According to at least three sources there were sundown signs on either side of town that got removed in the 60s.”

Morgan sighed, “Looks like we’re in for a treat then.”

You grinned despite the way your eyes rolled, “Oh I know we’re about to be treated like royalty when we get in there.”

He laughed, “At least there’s someone to share it with now.”

“Amen.”

“Anything else besides barren and racist though?”

You nodded, “Mhm, long history of agriculture, there used to be a Native tribe on the land, the Kaw, or known as Kansas hence where the state gets the name. They were forced out and moved to Oklahoma in 1873, they spoke Siouan, but they weren’t the only tribe in the area either. By the time Kansas was made a territory the Shawnee, Delaware, and Osage tribe had also been moved into Eastern Kansas. The Osage were the ones who occupied most of where Greenwood County is now, and there are no reservations, meaning they were forced to walk.”

“Are there any native people left in the county?”

“Barely, they make up less than a percentage of the population, 94.2 percent of which is white, 3.2 is Hispanic, the rest is either Native, Black, Asian, two or more races, or other.”

“What’s the racial demographics of our victims?”

“Two or more races, white fathers, ethnic mothers with no trend towards a certain race. We could be looking at a white supremacist with the ideology that they are “tainted” by their mothers race. You know the whole shtick these White people have when it comes to mixed kids.”

“Oh don’t I know.”

“You’re mixed too?”

“White mom, Black dad. You?”

“Brown mother, white father.”

Hotch cleared his throat, “Revisit the white supremacist, what makes you think that?”

You tap at your book, “If we’re assuming the unsub is local, which they very well could be due to knowledge of the area, and we take into account of the victims racial identity combined with the town history. Well, it’s easy to draw that sort of conclusion, mixed girls with one white parent. It’s common rhetoric for white supremacists to preach about the importance of keeping a bloodline pure. For them mixing white blood with anything else makes the blood dirty, polluting their society, so therefore they view mixed kids as nothing more than vermin with a need to be culled. However, based on the demographics it’s going to be hard to pinpoint a singular white supremacist when more than half the population is one.”

“But why girls? Why discriminate against that?”

Spencer spoke up this time, “It could be because the unsub is attracted to these girls and feels intensely guilty over it. Did any of the corpses show signs of sexual abuse?”

JJ nods, “Yes, all of them were indicated to have been raped.”

“So the unsub is raised to be a white supremacist but has a fetish for mixed girls. We need to find out if he had sex with them before or after they were killed.”

All of this just from a plane ride and a perspective. 

______________

Eureka, Kansas, is boring. That’s the only way to put it, plain, boring, there’s row upon row of freshly planted vegetables and soil turned up. Every other mile there’s a home, white with a nice porch, isolated amongst the expansive flatness of the state. You think you’d go mad if this is the life you lived. Just you and the nothingness that is Kansas. 

The town itself is small, just a handful of buildings neatly laid out in a few streets looking like they stepped out of the 1920s at the earliest. They drive through all of it without fanfare, already you and Morgan are on edge, the energy in the air isn’t welcoming, not to you two. Spencer will never know what it feels like to be in your skin or Morgan’s, but at the very least he’s glad the other man has someone who can relate on the team.

He’d watched your exchange with Morgan, the easy grin when you and him had discussed white people with that tone as if you were talking about rowdy kids. Eureka does not welcome you two easily, that’s made apparent even by the police department upon arrival. There’s a few wary glances from a few people, some scoff, a few turn away completely. You and Morgan don’t give into the scorn though, instead you two keep walking with the same amount of confidence you two had walking in. Although it is a relief when you all get to the room given to the team to work in. There’s boxes already set up on the table, pictures and a map put up already. There in red ink is the site of the mass grave. 

The Sheriff, Jake Brown, sighs when they enter the room, “Old Mark made the call three days ago, said he’d felt an odd bump when he was out tilling his new land and went to investigate. Found the girl, and immediately stopped what he was doing to come get us. We dug around and found the other six, shallow grave no deeper than a foot. They were lined up all neat and perfect. I knew it was beyond us, so we called in for help.”

Hotch nods, “It was the right call to do. Have any more graves been discovered?”

“You think there might be more?”

“Potentially. If this is the sole grave that would be best but it’s likely that there might be more. Have your men search the land, if the graves were all shallow then it shouldn’t be too much digging, or take the tiller again. We also need to look at any other non-purchased or unused farm land.”

“Right, I’ll gather the people and see what we can find.”

Emily clears her throat, “I’d actually refrain from telling the community that you’re searching for other mass graves. If the unsub is from your town he might go and try to move the other bodies.”

“Someone from here? You think one of us did it?”

Her face softens, just a little bit, “I understand that it is a difficult concept to wrap your head around. These are your people, and in a small town like this I’m sure everyone knows everybody. But it is also crucial that you don’t exclude possibilities because of belief.”

“I-I see, I’ll let my men know.”

“Thank you.”

He takes his leave, which is relieving in a way. In the privacy of their makeshift office they have no scrutinizing eyes that don’t fully grasp what they might be doing in here. You all begin to set up shop, Spencer with his map, you with your town records and everyone else with their files to go over. They mull over your words from earlier, a white supremacist, a man with a fetish he feels immensely guilty for. 

After a few hours of researching Spencer finally glances at you, “Hey, what are the religious demographics here?”

You look up at him, mind already starting to piece together his implications with religion, “There’s only churches here, ten of them. Highly christian, a lot of people hold their faith close to their hearts over here. It’s prominent in speeches, addresses, even facebook bios, there’s plenty of bible quotes, and it is notable that a good majority of these churches are historically conservative. If there’s any that’s not explicitly conservative they’re borderline there.”

“So our unsub probably goes to church, and if he’s feeling guilty he might go to one to repent.”

“So an avid church goer, and if he’s guilty enough to kill he’s likely attended the most conservative of the churches in the area.”

“What would that be?”

“If I had to guess it would be between Sacred Heart Catholic Church and Jefferson Street Baptist Church, a strong contender though would be Christ Lutheran Church.”

Your nose wrinkles just a tad, “If we’re sending people to investigate the churches I politely decline.”

Morgan hums in agreement with you, not even bothering to look up. So you and Morgan are ruled out for the church hunt, which leaves the rest of them to try and investigate. Although it’s probably for the best that you and him don’t go to the churches, if they’re as conservative as you think they are it’s likely that you and him won’t get anything out of them. 

With the lead though Morgan does send them out to talk to the preachers, to try and see who might be overzealous in church participation if that’s a thing for a population like this. Someone who comes often at odd hours, someone with easy access to the church. You and Morgan stay behind to keep looking through the files white they’re gone, and it’s when they’re gone that your words which served as a hidden warning come true. 

You’re staring at the pictures of the corpses, the cause of death was a slit throat, all of the causes were, but there’s other wounds too. Not just the rape or the slit neck, but there’s bruises, broken bones, some were determined to be older than others, “Morgan I think whoever our unsub is he kidnaps the girls and keeps them for a little while.”

He looks up, then he joins you at the board, “Yeah?”

“The coroner's report said that the girls had multiple broken bones, but some had enough time to heal. There’s also various wounds on them, bruises, cuts, I think they were likely raped multiple times before the final.”

“Why hold them and beat them down like that though only to kill them in the end?”

“Boredom, maybe the girls got too broken for him to enjoy anymore. Or, maybe, he doesn’t have a fetish with the girls. Maybe he just enjoys seeing them suffer, a sadist.”

“And he’s confident enough to not get caught that he’s dug a shallow grave for multiple girls.”

“Narcissist.”

“So a narcissistic sexual sadist with a penchant for mixed girls that he feels are dirty. Maybe in his mind he’s purifying them somehow.”

“He slits their throats like animals in a slaughter. Lambs are important to christianity, maybe he views them as lambs.”

The knock at the door breaks you both out of discussion, and in pops a new officer's head. He’s a redhead, a little greasy on the skin, a soft belly and soft arms too. He frowns when he sees it’s you two in the room, no other in sight, “Where’s your bossman?”

Morgan tilts his head a little, “He went out with the rest of the team to talk to a few people.”

“Who?”

“Preachers. You need something?”

The man retreats, just a little, “Nothing for you two.”

Morgan frowns, “Does it have something to do with the case? If so then officer you need to inform us, what Hotch knows we know and vice versa.”

“No, no, you two go back to what you’re doing, I’ll wait for him.”

You give him a look, one that tells him he’s going to land himself in hot water if he doesn’t start talking soon, “Officer, does the information you’re currently withholding from two federal agents working the case have to do with the case? If so then we will have to conduct a review on you, withholding information like that could implicate you and involve you in the case in a way that sees you in a rather unfortunate predicament. So tell us, what information on the case do you have?”

The man doesn’t bother to hide his disgust anymore as he steps out of the room, “Are you threatening me?”

Morgan glares, straightening himself up, “We aren’t threatening anything. We’re just giving it to you straight. Now do you want us to call Hotch, tell him that you won’t give us information on the case that we need to know for reasons you haven’t yet given. Why do you need to tell him? Why can’t you tell us? If it was top secret information it would’ve come from the Sheriff, not you. Go on, tell us why.”

His lip curls, hand reaching for the door, “Because we don’t deal with the likes of you two. Neither of you should be in this room, leave the job for people actually capable of working it.”

You fold your arms over your chest, “Now why wouldn’t we be qualified to work this job? We have the credentials, we’ve proven ourselves able to succeed where many others have failed.”

There’s a scene being caused, others coming up to the door, some curious, some in agreement. Sundown town. That’s what you had called Eureka, Kansas. Morgan glances at the clock, it’s 4:49 PM, the sun is setting faster. Their team is out conducting interviews, they won’t be back before sunset. That makes you more nervous that you care to admit. You trade a look with Morgan, who nods once, just a subtle thing but it tells you that you need to trust your gut. Be on guard. 

“Officer, do you really want to take it up with the government why you’re withholding information from two federal agents fully qualified to work this case? I’m sure you’ll do well to explain why you weren’t conspiring on the case.”

His face reddens, “I’m doing no such thing!”

You raise a brow, “Then what evidence are you keeping from us? We’ll relay the message to Hotch. Or we can call him and tell him what’s going on, I’m sure he would be thrilled to be told that two of his agents are being denied case information on no given basis for why.”

At least the man can recognize defeat when it looks him in the face. He shuffles, embarrassed, face turning a similar shade to his hair when he spits out that they found two more bodies buried half a mile away from the original grave, there might be more. Neither of you bother to thank him for the information. 

The interviews take a long time though, well into the night. By the time they do come back the sun has long set, the officers mostly gone except for the suspicious few who make sure you two only step out for the bathroom and nothing more. The day has been long and exhausting and the rest can be discussed later. Except it’s far too late to go to a restaurant so the only option for dinner is to cook something, which means trying to decide on one meal, and getting groceries. This proves to be an ordeal. 

Morgan argues something like ribs, Spencer says that’ll take too long, and Emily suggests pizza, which devolves into an argument. It is only until Hotch clears his throat does the squabbling stop, and on the plus side gets their attention. Rossi turns back with a grin, “Well I think it’s only fair if the newbie cooks for us, what do you guys think?”

You blink once, twice, and then the words register. Your cheeks warm, “Oh, uh, I would but I don’t think any of you would like what I usually cook.”

JJ raises a brow at you, “Are you like Spencer where you make water catch aflame?”

He jolts, cheeks reddening as he pouts, “That was once! And even I don’t know how that happened, it was an accident.”

“Still, it happened, there’s video footage of it.”

“I thought I told Garcia to delete that.”

“Anyways. Can you or can’t you cook?”

You gnaw a little bit at your lip before you sigh, “Fine, are there any allergies to anything?”

Spencer tilts his head at you, “JJ’s allergic to bees, but it’s minor, and I’m mildly allergic to grapes.”

“Well there’s no grapes for this, we should be fine.”

They stop by the grocery store where you drag Rossi in with you because you most certainly aren’t going in by yourself. He’s grinning when he comes out, and then it’s off to the house. Which is a good thirty minutes away, and not even five minutes into the drive you and Spencer are passed out in the back. Of course there are photos taken, because why wouldn’t there be?

Upon getting to the house Hotch and Rossi find their bedrooms first, leaving the rest of you to your own devices. Morgan and Spencer get thrown into a room together while Emily and JJ pair up, leaving you to the small bedroom in the corner of the house. It’s agreed that there are showers to be had before dinner, and part of you didn’t expect this but it’s fine, you didn’t need to wash your hair which you’re thankful for. 

The shower has water pressure like pellets, it’s not nearly hot enough for your tastes either but it’s not lukewarm or colder so you can’t ask for much else. Your wardrobe for the night doesn’t get any less theatrical either. Lace topped socks and a nightgown that brushes the floor, a large ruffle starting at your knee. The top is long sleeved, covering your entire neck with small buttons going all the way down to where the fabric meets. Edwardian style again, your favorite. But your hair gets let down for once, usually pinned up with various sticks now brushed and loose. 

Your hair goes well past your hips. It’s a tradition you inherited from your mother, whose hair exceeds your own, but she had taught you to only cut what was necessary, and to never make it short. You’re aware you can cut it as you have your free will, but you don’t because it connects you to her. It’s not just you who sticks to the tradition either, but your sisters as well. You had grown up oiling each other's hair, braiding, twisting into elaborate styles. 

You grab a hair tie as you make your way down, sectioning your hair into three parts as you walk into the kitchen. For you it’s a fast process to braid your hair, for most people it would not be, but your hands have learned to card through the thick sections and work through the strands that could tangle easily. Morgan stares at you for a second, they all do, “No fucking way you actually wear that to bed.”

That makes you shoot a glare at him, “I’ll spit in your food, I swear to god I will.”

“You look like a vampire.”

“I look like me.”

“What century did you step out of? Be honest, who are you? Dracula?”

“I am not Dracula, now do you want to eat or not?”

“Whatever you say Dracula.”

There it is, there’s the nickname. Dracula. You just sigh and roll your eyes before getting to work (of course you wash your hands first). There’s vegetables and cans, a large pot and a package of clear noodles. How you found coconut milk in Eureka, Kansas is beyond them, but somehow you have and you’re using it. Before long they can smell the spices, the coconut, all of it. The one thing that separates your otherworldly look being the ipod clipped to your sleeve and the earbuds that connect to it. You don’t speak during the entire process. 

In the end they’re given a reddish curry noodle dish, the oil red and rising to the surface, green leaves from cilantro to balance the color out, and of course, there are fried crunchy noodles to top it all off. Although you’ve got an extra bowl of them, and you’ve hidden the rest away. It’s clear you won’t be sharing those any more than you have to. 

As soon as you’re done cooking and plating everything you’re taking your hair down, shaking it free of its constraints earlier and perhaps they didn’t truly grasp the length of your hair but when you walk out from the kitchen to the table they do. You murmur your small prayer before you begin to eat, the food comforting as it is aromatic. You squeeze lime into your soup and they follow suit, bodies warmed by the broth and stomachs filled by the solids you’ve added to it. 

“So, how many siblings do you have?”

Emily knows a sister when she sees one, just like how she knows Morgan has no brothers besides Spencer. You meet Morgan’s banter easily, you even threatened to spit in his food for making fun of the way you dressed. She knows from the short time she’s been by you, observing you, that you would make good on your word too. It’s also clear that you learned these recipes from someone teaching you because she can taste the differences in food learned by a recipe book and recipes learned through a guiding hand. You cook like you’ve grown up cooking with adults who were taught by other adults during their childhood. 

You glance at her, “Six, how’s your younger sister?”

She snorts, “You got me there.”

Still, you flash an easy smile at her, but Morgan isn’t one to let a subject go, and not if he gets a chance to poke fun at your clothes, “So do they also dress like they’re about to haunt the halls of a castle?”

“They do.”

That’s also true, your family is full of goths. Your mother’s brightest color is red, your father wears a pinstripe suit every single day, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. Your brothers wear similar clothes, although they mix it with casual wear too. Your sisters aren’t as Edwardian as you, but they certainly cover themselves in lace and tighten their waists with corsets. You wear one too, but you wear it under your clothes. 

The house you grew up in is painted black on the exterior and interior, there’s a corpse flower in the center of the conservatory. Your mother genetically engineered a giant breed of venus fly traps and if nobody is careful they’re capable of eating small dogs (an unfortunate incident where your annoyingly cheerful aunt’s annoying crusty white dog wandered in before feeding time). Your mother puts dead flowers up and holds seances in the family room every Wednesday night so the departed members of your family can join for a night of dance, food, and music. 

There’s an amputated arm of a dead ancestor above the fireplace holding his wife’s taxidermied heart. It was how they wanted to go, and it’s going to remain that way. You grew up with arsenic in your morning teas, booby traps as alarms for school, an encouraging hand to sense out danger. Your parents showed you how to draw blood from your veins safely for when you wanted to perform blood rituals, they gave you a ceremonial knife when you turned sixteen as they did for each member. They showed you their ways, and you wouldn’t ever part with it. 

____________

You’re grateful for the porch outside because it’s 2:48 in the morning and you can’t sleep. Kansas is flat, one of the flattest places you’ve ever seen and you know there are areas where it isn’t. Here though, this old farmhouse with the flickering yellow porch light, it is. You’re clutching a cup of tea between your hands as if that’ll stave off the cold creeping into your bones. It’s silent out there, too silent for your tastes. You miss the hustle and bustle of the city you now reside in, the cars and the people, laughter echoing down from a place you can’t pinpoint. 

The creek of the screen door is what breaks the silence, prompting you to look up and find none other than Spencer Reid in all of his soft cardigan glory standing there, “Aren’t you cold?”

His voice isn’t at it’s normal volume, instead he’s dropped it down to just a notch above a whisper, as if the silence cannot be fully interrupted. You shrug, bringing the mug to your lips as you take a tentative first sip, “Are you?”

Spencer lets the door close as he fully steps out onto the porch, gesturing to the couch you’re currently perched on, “May I?”

“Of course.”

He sits beside you easily, pulling his cardigan around him tighter. For a minute or two you both sit there to watch the fields. You imagine things in the night emerging into the light, their frothy mouths and sharp teeth, glowing eyes and a thirst for blood drying their throats. You hold your mug of tea out for him, a silent offer of some warmth. He hesitates, but then his hands come up to take the mug, the heat something he savors when he brings the edge you didn’t use to his lips. Your tea is sweet, creamy, but strong despite it all too, “Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

“Why are you out here so late?”

Your mouth sharpens into a small smile, “Couldn’t stop thinking, but what about you?”

He glances at you, the way your hair shines in this particular lighting, the white of your dress and the way you look like history come to life. You aren’t wearing any of your usual makeup, and as he’s found out your eyebrows are just like that. Sure you fill them in, darken them, but the shape is yours. Your skin is glowy, soft in a way that reminds him of silk, giving you a look he can only describe as ethereal to anybody who would listen. 

You don’t like it here, that’s obvious to him, but you haven’t complained, you’ve only warned. Yet when you sit on a porch like this, looking like that, nothing but the wind to create a noise in the field, you look like you belong. As if there’s something about you that demands an eerie uncanniness, like those endless fields with who knows what in them are your domain despite the way you’ve barely touched it. You are, in every sense of the word: Beautiful. 

Spencer looks back at the field, “I couldn’t stop thinking either.”

“Do you ever stop thinking?”

“No. Do you?”

“I don’t.”

In this hour, the witching hour, there is no need for long sentences or explanations because it is spoken between the lines of what is said out loud. He is comfortable in the silence you have cocooned yourself in, something he has not felt in a long time. For a time he didn’t speak because he was too angry to speak, and then when he found his voice he couldn’t stop it from pouring out because then it felt like if he didn’t say everything then nobody would hear him. 

Sitting here with you there’s no need to fill the silence with facts or knowledge, random tidbits of things you might not be interested in. It is comforting in a way to be so still for a pocket in time, he feels like a thief for having this moment with you. As if the universe is not watching him just this once, like you’ve warded away his restlessness. He doesn’t know you well, not yet, but he thinks that knowing you might not be such a bad thing, not if being around you is like being in the eye of a hurricane. Still, unmoving, a slice of calm that whiplashes his emotions so hard he’s forced to process them. 

The mug gets passed back to him wordlessly, warming his slightly shaky hands. It’s getting cold in Kansas now, and as a Vegas native the cold isn’t exactly his forte. Sure it gets cold in the desert, but this is different. So very different. He thinks about asking if you and Morgan found out anything in the case, he knows more bodies were found. Now isn’t the time to ask about bodies though, not when some of them looked like you. 

“How are you holding up? The first case is usually rougher than most.”

You look at him, his sharp and soft features, the way he holds himself. He joined the BAU at twenty-two, a resident and certified genius with multiple degrees and PhDs under his belt. You don’t doubt that he’d seen some shit. 

“The officers are annoying.”

He snorts, “Oh yeah, you’ll get used to it. They don’t like FBI agents much, they always act like we’ve encroached on their territory even after they called us in for the case. Usually the only ones that are welcoming are the ones that made the call.”

You hum, running a hand through your hair as you turn towards him, just enough to let him know you’re comfortable, “The officer who told us they found two bodies refused to tell Morgan and I what was going on at first.”

Spencer turns his head sharply, eyes already narrowed, “What reason did he give for doing that? And why didn’t either of you tell Hotch?”

“Because he’s not a part of the case, not like that, but he’s not sin-free from racism. He didn’t want to tell Morgan and I because we’re brown, that’s why he withheld the information. He insisted on telling it to Hotch directly, so we had to pull  the FBI card on him.”

You had told the team that the place was riddled with racism and homophobia, conservative through and through. He remembers the preachers, the way they turned their noses up at the mention of mixed girls being killed. None of them said a blessing for the girls, and it became apparent then that if anybody knew anything they weren’t going to give it up. It had horrified him for a moment to come to the conclusion that these people would rather defend a murderer simply for his victim of choice rather than save an innocent life. To think they’re preachers too. 

“I’m sorry that happened.”

“It’ll happen again, and besides, Morgan and I grew up with this kind of treatment, we’ve learned to almost expect it.”

“Nobody should have that though.”

“An unfortunate thing then that it does. It’ll keep happening too, it’ll happen to me, to him, to our kids, to our grandchildren, it’ll hopefully get better as time goes on. But when things like racism emerge they shape the culture forever, there will always be traces of it even if people finally open their eyes up to how harmful it is. In a town like this? The people are borderline bred for it.”

“We talked to the preachers today, they didn’t care about the girls. They cared about the unsub, it…startled me.”

You fall silent for a second, brows furrowing, “What did you tell them about the unsub?”

“That he’s likely a white male in his thirties to forties, that he comes to the church at odd or unusual hours of the night, that he might be almost too involved with church activities for the average member.”

“Did you tell them he’s a narcissistic sexual sadist too?”

“He is?”

“Morgan and I came to that conclusion earlier. He’s keeping the girls for long periods of time, long enough to break bones and for them to heal.”

“So he tortures them in every aspect.”

“And in a place like this, he can be holding them anywhere.”

Spencer straightens up, “The bodies are being dumped in cornfields, they’re mass graves. Who's to say the girls aren’t being kept in the cornfields?”

You look at him, eyes shining, “Underground bunkers, because Kansas has tornadoes, lots of tornadoes.”

“Which means the unsub lives in a remote place with a tornado shelter, or he’s using a tornado shelter from a house that’s been demolished since.”

“I can get a read on the geographical profile first thing in the morning, two dumpsites, demolished homesteads, we need a list of households that lost their homes to tornadoes.”

“We’ll get this guy by tomorrow night.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re really smart, did you know that?”

He smiles, really smiles, you’re hiding your own grin behind the tea mug, a small giggle in the back of your throat. It’s three something in the morning, you’re in the middle of absolute nowhere, and there’s a high chance the case will be finished up by tomorrow evening. You know he’s a genius, his IQ has been mentioned once or twice already, but it’s fun to tease him anyway. To act like he’s not for a change. 

“I might’ve gotten a hint.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You snort as you pass the mug back to him, it’s more than halfway done now, and growing cold, but you share it still, and Spencer accepts every time you do. 

______________

The unsub is James Pardon, 36 years old who was taken into police custody after he drunkenly killed a girl in an accident. She wasn’t one of the towns own so they petitioned for him to be let out, and he was. He’s a father of three, his wife’s name is Mary, and she was the one to report him to the FBI. Not because she felt sorry for the girls, but because she was disgusted that her husband found them attractive. JJ had to bite her tongue throughout the womans’ confession. 

They had found the bunker though, it was in James' parents’ home that had been destroyed by a tornado, his father had died in the tornado and his mother passed away a mere seven months after. There was a girl in there, her throat not slit but her injuries too severe for her to survive. She was identified as Maria Apple, the seventeen year old daughter of a couple from New Mexico who were desperate to find her. They’d get her back but not in the way they wanted her most. 

You think of her on the plane ride back, you’d held her hand while she stuttered out her name and a thank you, and then you’d held her ever so gently when she finally stopped breathing. She looked like your little sister, and had even sounded like her a little bit too. You hummed your prayers above her body, using your freehand to shut her eyes. That’s how they had come in five minutes later, her corpse against your body as you hummed and held her hand. 

For a moment they had been frozen by the sight, how odd and yet perfect it looked. The bunker had been turned into a torture chamber, filled with various tools for torture, blood all over the floor, a book filled with details of the victims and locations to their bodies. No confession needed, he was never going to get out from behind the bars again. You let the girl go easily though, and then you stood, brushed your pants off, and moved on. You think of her now though, the life she could’ve had. 

Hotch is the one to slip into the seat across from you, his face still pinched into a sternness that you’ve grown accustomed to. He doesn’t say a word for a minute, and neither do you, instead you wait while he lets you settle into his unannounced presence, “She was alive when you found her, wasn’t she?”

You tilt your head, shifting for a second, “She was coherent enough to give me her name, and then she said thank you.”

“Then you held her while she passed away.”

“She’s someone’s little sister, I just filled the shoes when I needed to.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, instead he just looks at you while you look out the window. It’s sunset above the clouds and the lighting looks absolutely brilliant in a way you can’t describe. Just because you prefer the macabre doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy things like a sunset, “She looked like mine.”

You draw your knees up to your chest, hugging them in an effort to self soothe yourself, “How many times have you seen your brother die in this field?”

“Enough to appreciate that he’s still breathing and hold him as close as he’ll let me.”

“Mm.”

“You did good work, not many people new to the team could figure it out that quickly.”

His words of praise loosen you a little bit, just enough for your cheeks to pinken a little, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Hotch leaves after that, allowing Spencer to slide into the seat instead, a complicated looking crossword puzzle in one hand and two pens in the other. He tosses you one as you raise a brow, “Confident are we?”

He clicks his tongue at you in response, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You take the ones across.”

You sigh but you pick up a pen anyway, black, whereas his is purple, and yet when your ink hits the paper it comes out sparkly pink. 

______________

Garcia’s halloween party is your first social outing with the team. You aren’t sure what it all entails, but you just know it’s a big deal. Especially to Spencer, whose favorite holiday happens to be Halloween. Everyone’s costumes are kept secret, only Garcia knows who’s going as what, mainly to make sure nobody goes as the same thing. You had spent the evening getting ready, ensuring you had everything together before you headed out.

You lived in the heart of DC up on top of a tall building with a view that cost a pretty penny, but for you was seen as an investment. Besides, it wasn’t hurting your bank account too badly to buy this particular 8.7 million dollar unfurnished penthouse. Your father had encouraged you to buy it, your mother had told you to start designing the interior and going to auctions to outfit your home with the pieces you wanted to put inside. Or talk to the museums about them loaning you some pieces, even selling. 

That’s something you’ve been meaning to do as well, but you hadn’t found it in yourself to go shopping quite yet. Meaning everything was bare boned for the moment, not even a couch to sit upon. You have a bed, but you don’t have a collection of sheets, there’s pillows but no pillowcases. Next weekend you’ll go shopping, you just know that you need to get it over with even though you really, really don’t want to. You like shopping, you do, but you also know that you treat shopping like a sport and it will take time. 

You think of this when you apply fake blood to your chin, letting it dribble down, dripping off your chin to your chest where it runs down. Sexy, you think, especially with the outfit you’re wearing. Verona from Dracula by Van Helsing a few years back, you fell in love with the aesthetics of the film and what better time to pull out a sexy but semi-decent coverage outfit for a party? Besides, it’s a night to make your tits look absolutely fantastic, and you don’t always get that opportunity. 

After a few spritzes of some of your favorite perfume you deem yourself ready enough and head out. Tattoos strategically concealed, hair perfected and your makeup not a hair out of place, you have all the confidence in the world when you step from your apartment and into the rolls-royce that will take you to Garcia’s and back. Your chauffeur, Mr. Grady, smiles when he sees you, “Lovely as always Miss.”

You give him a small smile back, “Thank you Mr. Grady, you have the address?”

“Indeed, and should you need a quick escape I shall be right around the corner.”

“Thank you.”

After that you send Garcia a text telling her that you’ll be there shortly, she replies that just about everyone is here already so just come in. Fifteen minutes later you do, finding her place decked out in decoration after decoration, the scent of something warm and something alcoholic in the air. She’s got music playing, and for a moment you’re frozen by the amount of people in the apartment. For some reason you’d thought it would be a small gathering, but then you remember: It’s Garcia. 

She knows everything and everyone. You wade into the crowd anyway, determined not to disappoint your team with a reluctance to be there. If Hotch can survive Garcia’s Halloween party then you can too. Somehow you make it to the kitchen where JJ’s pouring some sort of drink for herself. She’s dressed as a butterfly, which you think might’ve been a last minute decision, nonetheless she looks great. She nearly spits when she sees you though, and then she lights up. 

“You made it!”

You grin at her, “I did.”

“Here, here, you take this, try not to gag from how alcoholic it is, you’ll get used to it, I’ll take you to everyone else.”

“Thanks.”

The drink is more alcohol than it is punch but you drink it anyway because Halloween isn’t about sobriety, it’s about getting drunk and looking hot. You’ve certainly got one aspect of it down. She leads you to a corner where you find Hotch and Rossi in a corner sipping something that you doubt is punch, one’s a zombie and the other the guy who shot John F. Kennedy, you aren’t saying who’s who. Penelope’s a nightshade flower in the process of rotting, which looks phenomenal, and Morgan is a sexy gardener. Spencer, lastly, has chosen to be Mothman (but fancy), with Emily rounding the group out as a pirate. 

Spencer, when he sees you emerge on JJ’s arm with your outfit, the combination of silk and lace, the jewels you’ve glued to your skin, the way your hair falls around you. Pointed ears and teeth, he knows exactly who you are, to think he could’ve gone as a vampire and declared himself Dracula. But you’re Dracula, at least according to Morgan you are. Morgan who whistles when he sees you, grinning ear to ear as Penelope gasps sharply. 

For good reason too, you look absolutely unreal. Out of all the supernatural beings tonight, you look the most otherworldly. You smile, showing off the bloody teeth and vampire fangs that suit you so well, “Nice party Garcia.”

She beams, immediately sweeping you into a hug before she takes the fabric of your sleeve, eyes wide, “My god this feels luxurious, where did you get this? The original set? It’s perfect.”

You shrug, “I had a few connections, I have a friend in the fashion industry, he made me a copycat version in my size.”

“And this friend just so casually manages to make this?”

You flutter your lashes at her, lips curling like you’re divulging a secret, “I’ll tell you what Garcia, you never know who you might run into when you’re six or nine shots deep, give or take. On top of that it’s three am in the House of Yes when you’re sixteen and left to your own devices while your parents bribe the president.”

Garcia pauses, they all do, but you said all of it so sweetly, had batted your lashes and smiled like sugar, “Are you….serious?”

That makes you laugh softly as you swish the drink in your hand, “If I am you’ll never know.”

“You do realize that I can look you up more extensively than anybody else can, right?”

You hum, tilting your head, “And the only things you’ll find are the things I want you to find, I’m sure you’ll do with that information what you will.”

A challenge, a warning, all rolled into red wine smoothness from your tongue, it’s enough to excite Garcia, and to assert your stance that just because you’re younger, that you wear heavy makeup and wear heels to bed you aren’t to be trifled with. They had learned that particular lesson with Spencer when outpacing him proved to be a futile effort, forget trying to talk science with him. They hadn’t thought of him as scary though, not until that intellect of his dissected a case so well he could’ve been the unsub confessing. 

You though? There’s an undercurrent of danger to you, present in the way you walk, setting every instinct in the animal part of them to be alert. As if there is a predator amongst them, and that predator being you. There’s no way of telling if it’s a conscious effort on your end either because you seem to be just like that. Like you’ve been this way since you were in the womb, something dangerous, something wrapped up in a neat ribbon that was begging to be unwrapped. 

It set Spencer on edge just as much as it set his belly ablaze. You and he were used to being the smartest person in the room, and due to the difference in strengths you and he could be evenly matched to some extent.  You, sharp and cutting, perfectly placed smiles that were just as sharp as your nails. Him with his unshakable knowledge, his mind, his very foundation, the way he was starting to come into his confidence. You demanded the confidence from him, like being in your orbit forced him to stand up straighter, to speak a little clearer. He couldn’t even pinpoint where it was coming from. 

If anything he thought he’d revert to how he was before, stumbling and flushing (which he still did plenty of). Yet he didn’t, he found your questions well placed, forcing him to think for a second before he started again. You intrigue him more than he wants to admit, and you’ve essentially just dangled a pastry before his nose and snatched it away. You have secrets, plenty of them, secrets guarded so well that the FBI’s best hacker wouldn’t be able to get into them. They’d be liars if they said they were doubtful, and that they’d like to see that come true. 

But for now, for now they drink. 

_______________

Spencer doesn’t know how he got this drunk, and you’re in the exact same boat as him. It’s later now, closer to two than one, and that’s when you stumble out of Garcia’s apartment. He comes after you, giggling madly as you tug him along the steps. You’ve got your phone open, Mr. Grady on dial and he picks up on the first ring, “Hello Miss, have you decided that you’ve had enough for tonight?”

You giggle, “Mr. G! Spence and I, we-we are in need of some Korean food, could youuuu pretty please take us?”

He sighs, but the sound is fond, “Of course Miss, are you and Mr. Reid walking to me?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Come safely.”

Spencer keeps you close to him so you don’t wander into the street, helping you with your dress as you lean into his side, eyes tilted up at the stars. Then you pause, just for a moment as you peer up to the sky, the moons come out and it’s the brightest thing in the sky. But by god, you in your vampire attire under the moonlight is a sight to see. He fumbles with his camera, thankful you’re too drunk to see what he’s doing before he takes a picture of you. 

It captures you, the white dress with light green accents, the gold against your skin, the way your dark hair falls, the column of your neck, the blood dripping down your chest. Then when you’re done, when you turn back to him, hand reaching for his outstretched arm, the both of you fail to see JJ taking a picture of you two. Caught in the moment of his arm outstretched towards you while you reach for him. 

She had clocked it from Spencer the moment you walked through the door, but this is the moment where she realizes that the feeling is reciprocal. When you grin at him with your dress flowing as you step towards him, the pointed ears, the sharp teeth, his wings and antennas, the fur collar he wears. She’ll keep the photo to herself for a moment, just to let it sink in that you and Spencer are falling in love. 

Not that you two know it yet, not even when you and him clamber in the back seat and you two all but collapse against each other, too drunk not to. Mr. Grady grins to himself when he sees the two of you, the way you’re both all but curled up on each other. The Korean restaurant you favour is far away enough that you can order for you and Spencer, although you certainly aren’t the one making the call, that’s left to Grady. Who is also the one to come and get it before ushering you and Spencer to your apartment. 

Your spectacularly empty apartment. Couchless, tableless, chairless, lifeless. It’s your apartment, you just, you haven’t decorated it yet. Spencer nearly chokes himself from laughing when you let him in, your face flushing under the scrutinization, “Don’t-Don’t laugh!”

But he is, and that’s making you giggle too. It is a little absurd, and maybe not a little, maybe it’s very absurd, you aren’t sure anymore. Being drunk makes it hilarious, it’s all this blank space, so barren it looks like a control room except even control rooms are more cozy than this. They at last have something. You on the other hand do not, “You don’t even have a chair, where do you even eat?”

“I, well, I either stand, or I sit on the island.”

He laughs again, following you to your barren bedroom, the few personal things, but then the sheetless bed, the pillows with no cases. There’s no blanket, no nothing, and he stops because all of a sudden it becomes increasingly obvious that there’s something off about you. Because why are you living like this? You breeze past it though, sighing in frustration when you see your bedroom for how bare it is. 

“Do you know how frustrating shopping is?”

That pulls Spencer out of his attempts to categorize what mental illness you’ve got going on, “What?”

You pout, gesturing to your room, “I know I need to shop and get my designs finalized but god it’s so hard sometimes. Like does this shade of purple go with this green? At the very least I got the walls in the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room finished, after that then I’ll be able to decide on furniture. Which is going to be absurd but not as crazy as the artwork.”

Ah. The perfectionism in how your home looks. That’s the illness here. Then something else clicks, “You aren’t renting this apartment?”

That makes you raise a brow, “It’s an investment on my part.”

He looks around the place, the tall and wide windows, the stairs, the fact that it’s a penthouse with a pool on the outside. He figured you were rich from the moment he stepped into your apartment, but now he’s trying to construe what he thought initially, “So you can buy a penthouse, but you can’t shop?”

You’ve got your go-bag slung over your shoulders now, rejoining his side as you usher him out of the apartment, “You don’t get it though, shopping isn’t just looking at something and saying you like it, shopping is an extension of oneself. From material to shape to size, all of it says something about someone. Take you for example. It’s clear you grew up and revolved yourself around academia because you took note of how the figures of authority dressed around you hence why you look like you should be teaching literature in Oxford. Not slinging a gun around in a bulletproof vest.”

Spencer grins, leaning to your side as you lock the door on your home, “You know there’s a rule for profilers? It’s not to profile other profilers.”

Your lips curl as you look at him, eyes a little lidded, a little hazy still, “You think I was using my profiling skills to learn that about you? Oh hun, anybody passing you on the street could make that deduction.”

“So you don’t like the way I dress?”

That pulls a dramatic sigh from you as you reach up to adjust the antennas on his head that have gone a little crooked, “Now I didn’t say all that now did I? I like the dark brown corduroy pants you wear, the ones with the gold buttons and the embroidery on the seams.”

“You noticed the embroidery?”

“I notice a lot of things.”

“About me?”

You hum, in the heels you’re wearing you’re closer to Spencer’s height but not truly there yet. Still, it doesn’t make you crane your head to look at him, truly look at him. Your hallway lighting is warm, the window outside brilliant in the way it shows the city in a different view. He’s got smudged eyeliner all around his eyes, tightlined eyeliner done by another hand that isn’t yours and certainly isn’t his. His hair is messier than usual, but not bad, not bad at all. He had red contacts earlier but he took them out hours ago because they were bothering him too badly. 

“Who else?”

Spencer’s breath hitches at your words, there’s something there on the tip of his tongue waiting, quiet but building in intensity. You feel it too, that lazy string suddenly pulled taut between the two of you, shortening ever so rapidly and you look at him. Those hazel eyes boring into your own set, quiet, knowing, because Spencer Reid is no fool, and neither are you. His lips part, as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t get to when the elevator dings and the doors part for you both. It breaks this strange spell you two have found yourselves in, sobered for a moment by the intensity of it. 

“Let’s not keep Mr. Grady waiting.”

“Of course.”

He follows you into the elevator with a thick swallow, he still feels the tension, that lingering draw that demands him to be close to you. For once in his life he gets the urge to touch someone, to take their hand and to hold it tight even with all the germs that might be there. It’s a moment of drunken clarity to him, when he realizes that he wants to hold your hand. The drunkenness also allows excuses, and confidence, his fingers find yours. 

The coolness of your skin, your long fingernails and the weight of your rings against his skin, digging in ever so slightly but not enough to cause discomfort. Your fingers slot into his easily, the tips of your nails pressing into his skin, hard enough for him to feel that warning pressure but not enough to leave marks. He kind of wants you to leave a mark. Instead he squeezes your hand and you squeeze back because while you might be adverse to touching on a good day you accept him with ease. It baffles you just as much as it excites you. 

You’re both still hand in hand when you pile into the car, the drunken giddiness from earlier having dissipated into something softer, something not so wild and untameable. Maybe this is also just as wild and untameable, maybe even more so, but you feel like you’re more in control over yourself now than you have been any other time when you were this drunk before. His weight and warmth is a comforting thing to have pressed against you, the fabric of his costume brushing the bare pieces of skin on you, his hair ticking the top of your head. 

It takes ten minutes to get from your penthouse to his apartment, and it is there that you bid your driver a goodnight before following Spencer up to the unit he lives in. His place is smaller than yours but not cheap by any means, it suits him too. Well organized with warm colors in shades of brown and red, his books spilling from their shelves and onto every surface you can spot. There’s no television set in the room, nothing but a record player in the corner. His place is the kind where you fall in love with it instantly from how cozy and lived in it. 

“Sorry it’s kind of a mess.”

You shake your head, leaving his side to skim your finger across broken in spines and drinking in the titles of the ones he clearly favors, “No, no, I love it.”

“Yeah?”

You turn back to him, you aren’t grinning or smirking, just dead serious as you stare back at him, “Yeah.”

The sight of you in his apartment wearing an outfit like that, taking everything in as if it is a sacred shrine to be worshipped, well, he’s into it. Really into it. You look perfect standing there amongst his books, in his living room, being with him. Only a month he’s known you, and yet he wants you for the rest of the months he’ll be allowed to enjoy. He’ll enjoy them if you’re there too. 

“Let’s go get these costumes off, then we can sit on the couch for a while.”

“And get drunk again?”

“We’re still drunk.”

“No we aren’t, we’re coherent.”

He lets you take the first shower which kills him a little bit to know that you’re naked with just one wall between you and him. The sound of water running is enough to make him vacate the room before anything unfortunate happens. You take twenty minutes to shower, go through your skincare routine, put on pajamas, and rejoin him. Once again you look ethereal, and now you look even more in place than you did earlier. No, he tells himself, you look domestic, and he didn’t even know just how badly he wanted a version of you to associate with home. 

Spencer takes a shorter amount of time than you, but he takes his cold because if he takes his hot then he won’t come out for a much longer time. When he rejoins you he finds you on the couch with a book in hand, it’s one of the Jane Austen’s he keeps on hand -Emma-, and you look fond while your finger traces the letters for you, “You look comfy.”

That prompts you to look up at him, Spencer and his oversized Star Wars shirt and the pair of black sweats he’s chosen to wear for the moment. You’ve got the food reheating on the stove and the oven because you refuse to microwave anything. Truth be told he’s not proficient enough in the kitchen to decide if he wants to use the microwave or not. He joins you on the couch, glancing at the page you’re on. You haven’t had much time to read but you’re further along than he expected. 

You pass the book to him easily, “Read it for me? I’m gonna set up the food.”

“Of course. They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell Road. He was on foot….”

Spencer read to you as you moved around his kitchen, his voice soft even when he drunkenly tripped over a few words, the quiet presence of your moving around having influenced his cadence. He didn’t bother looking up to see what you were doing, trusting you to not break anything as you plated things together. You had picked the food, your driver had ordered it, and ten minutes after Spencer had begun to read you set two plates down on the coffee table, followed by water, four shots of alcohol, and a little tray of side dishes for you both. 

Emma was set down to the side, the bookmark moved to where he had finished the sentence. He slipped down to sit across from you, warily eyeing the white dress you wore, “Are you not worried about getting stains in your dress?”

You shrug, “I’ll get them out if there are any.”

“If you insist.”

He takes a shot in hand, you following suit, chopsticks ready in the other as you and him prepare to get drunk again. The time between leaving Penelope’s apartment to now had sobered you both up to a functional extent, but neither of you wanted to be thinking too hard at the moment. Like why were you in his apartment with the intention to stay the night? You honestly didn’t even know how that came about, and if you didn’t know then neither did he. Yet you two let it happen anyway because in truth neither of you wanted to be apart from each other, not yet at least. 

The shot goes down, so does the second one. It’s enough for you both to grimace and immediately attempt to wash it down, but it’s good in the way that you both feel it instantly. You giggle again once it starts to fully set in, fingers a little clumsier than normal as you wrangle a piece of tteokbokki in your mouth. He snorts at the display, reaching for a sweet potato side while you swallow. It’s easy to be here with Spencer like this, to eat dinner with him at three something in the morning, drunk with a copy of Emma sitting on the couch. There’ll be dishes later but it’s not a job for tonight, for the moment is simply about being together. 

He tells you about his books when you ask, the oldest ones he has and the one’s he’d absolutely die to get his hands on one day. You tell him of the records you have in your room back home, the people you’d buy tickets to see one day. Then when it’s closer to sunrise you both shuffle into his bathroom to brush teeth, both of you sharing a sink and it’s crowded but it makes you both laugh like madmen. He grabs Emma off the couch while you make yourself comfortable in his bed because there’s this odd, unspoken agreement that it’s acceptable to share a bed. 

Spencer comes back to you settled into your side of the bed, or at least sitting in it, you’re braiding half of your hair, the rest split down the middle and waiting to be done. He settles into his side, flipping the page open to where he left off, voice filling the air as you braid. There’s an urge to run his fingers through your hair, to feel each individual lock between his fingers, he doesn’t, but he cards through each psge carefully, fingers tracing down the pages as if it might be your arm. 

You aren’t in any rush this night/morning when you braid, there’s no rush to get it done as fast as you can, you savor it instead. There’s something nice about sitting in Spencer’s bed with his blankets pooled around your waist, his steady presence a dip in the mattress beside you, his person so close it nearly overlaps with yours. For the moment it is just you and he, the bed and the book, his voice worming its’ way through every fold of your brain, soothing all the sore spots you have there. He turns the pages when he knows he’s finished the end of one but he recites from memory, too fixated on your figure to properly read the pages. 

The twin braids are each finished off with a black hair-tie and a ruby red ribbon, long and beautiful, by some sorcery they’ll stay in your hair all night. You settle into the bed once you’re finished, truly settle. The pillow indents under your head as you shift to be more comfortable. There’s still space between you two, space that neither of you dare cross yet, not in this moment, not during the sobering moments of consciousness. 

He reads until your eyes slip shut, and it’s only after your breathing fully relaxes does he put a bookmark in, setting the book aside so he can turn off the light. The room isn’t fully enconsed in darkness though, not with the city outside seeping through the curtains faintly. His eyes adjust quick enough to see you, that subtle city light giving a sharper view of your sleeping features. You’re much softer in your sleep, mouth parted slightly with your brows relaxed, not furrowed down in a light pinch that usually marks your resting face. 

Spencer still doesn’t reach out, because right now you two are just friends. Friends who happen to gravitate towards each other with meteor level speeds, and with the risk of just as much damage should they collide. Yet it excites him more than any scientific breakthrough ever has. You’re weird, you’re dangerous, you wear your secrets on your sleeves but your arms are never shown. He finds solace in your oddity, how well it meshes with his own brand of uniqueness in a way he wouldn’t have assumed. Rivals, maybe, but not like this. 

Not with you in his bed, your presence already carving itself a place in his life that he thought would remain empty for the rest of time. He had never truly entertained the idea of falling for somebody hard, at least enough to want with a sort of reverence he thinks could be religious despite his scientific standpoint. It’s been only a month of knowing you, of falling for you and as you lay in his bed, supposedly platonic, he knows that what he feels isn’t a fleeting bout of lust mistaken for love. He knows that this is different, this is something real, something so tangible he can almost taste it on his tongue, sharp like success and sweet as pie. 

______________

Spencer thinks it might be a one time thing. The kind that comes from a spectacular night of drunken bravery but would never be done sober. Except it isn’t, because half of his weekends are spent with you in his home, the pots and pans pulled out after you’ve dragged him to the farmers market for ingredients. You claim a spot in his living room and you read his books, adding trinkets of your own for bookmarks whenever you finish with one thing. 

You bring records over, making him listen to album after album and it is there that you have a softspot for acoustic guitar despite all the metal and soft gothic sounds. He asks if you play, and the next time you bring your guitar over, and it is the cold Sunday afternoons of Winter in Washington D.C. he hears the way your fingers move. You have song after song stored up in your brain, their melodies on a constant move, stitching itself to your train of thought like helixes in DNA. Music, you think, might just be part of yours. 

It is in those afternoons whe you play, you don’t sing and he reads, with the tea he’s made sitting between you both. He’ll sometimes read aloud to you and you’ll speak the dialogue to him when you know it’s a two person conversation. Sometimes he’ll play the girl, sometimes you’ll play the guy, and sometimes you’ll both do accents. Then, if he’s really trying to flirt with you, he’ll read in a different language hoping that you understand. Each time, you respond to him right back in the language he’s reading. You make him laugh when you do things like that. 

He takes you ice skating the weekend before Christmas. It’s quieter, more kids than couples because it’s the morning. It’s the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden one, where the weather is felt and the lights are gawked at. He forces you into one of his scarves and you let him do it. Then there’s the actual ice skating aspect of it. He’s done it twice, he has the feel for it, and you’re a quick learner, so after a few trials and errors where you each got more bruised than you’ll care to admit you both get the hang of it. 

This time it’s easier to take your hand despite the way the gloves make it a little difficult to fit around because they’re so thick. Yet he feels your hand, that steady grip that returns his with no hesitation because for Spencer you do not hesitate, for him you are with him, always. Even though your feet hurt from the skates you keep going at it with Spencer, lap after endless lap of unspoken words and the pretty lights. There’s so many people on the rink but you and Spencer are in your own private world, it’s impenetrable from the outside, only you and he reside in it. 

Time feels suspended like this, like tomorrow will never come, that the ice stretches for an eternity. You and he keep skating despite the way it hurts. It’s maddening and perfect at the same time, what you and Spencer have. There’s no way to explain how you wind up in his bed every weekend, how you two never touch, never quite cross that line, but it grows blurrier by the weekend. No easy way to say that you and him prefer to “hang out” with just the two of you, but hanging out means encroaching on each others space. Space that is so deeply valued you both reject skin on skin, or even cloth as a barrier, is ignored in favor of keeping close. As if after all those years of fending people off you’ve both somehow managed to find the one person who won’t be warded off. You and him, him and you. 

Eventually neither of you can take it anymore though. It’s time to step off the ice, but it isn’t over yet, not for you and Spencer. Your hands don’t leave each other, never for long when you and him walk down the stree together. You both walk pressed together, tired from the morning activities but momentarily warmed by being of the ice as he asks you where you want to eat because you’ll be paying anyways. He never minds that you pay for everything, he’s seen your penthouse after all. Your stupidly beautiful penthouse that’s apparently coming along but he hasn’t stepped foot back in since you retrieved your go-bag that one time. 

There’s three places Spencer guesses that you’ll want to go to, because if you’re tired like this from movement and in want of something comforting due to the weather you’ll be picking very specific spots. The Hitchings Post Spot, Cheesecake Factory, or your favorite dim sum spot. His best is on dim sum for lunch and Cheesecake Factory for dessert that you’ll take home. He’s right, and he tells you of course when you shyly tack the last bit of it on. Your hand squeezes his in delight, and if it made you grin at him like that then of course he’d say yes. 

The dim sum restaurant is in Chinatown, which is right around the corner, and located in one of the places where you walk down the stairs on the street instead of walking up or into a building. You eat here often, the chefs know you by name, the people working incline their head towards you when you come in. Spencer doesn’t know why, he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t pry, he just knows your name holds weight in ways you don’t let anybody understand. Inside is much warmer than the outside, although the layers on you both linger for a minute longer as your bodies adjust to the new temperature. 

It’s barely noon and you two are drooping, too tired to make decent conversation, but content with the way the morning went. The laughter between you both as you talked about anything and everything, the aching soles of your feet and the way you both looked at each other under the lights. The line is growing dangerously thin, yet you and him stand at its’ edge anyway, unable to take a step back from one another. Not you and him. 

You’re brought jasmine tea and sugar, right along with a bowl of edamame and gyoza. Spencer prepares the tea while you start to create the dumpling dipping sauce mix. There’s shredded gringer, chili oil, a dash of fish and sesame oil, vinegar, and finall soy sauce with mirin. He eats it how you eat it so you make enough for you and him. By the time you’re done he is too, and so the feasting begins. 

Spencer has learned over the past few months with you that you don’t play when it comes to food. You have a penchant for flavor and you use that to your advantage, but not only that. It means you’re willing to drop cash for a good meal, especially one made to your liking. He’s just the lucky straggler who gets to wine and dine with you when you decide you want fine handmade pasta with ingredients imported from Italy that very day. Fresh as possible, that’s how you preferred your meals. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy a frozen something or fast food either. 

After lunch you and him perk up, agreeing on spending the rest of the day in his apartment. How you want to bake for the afternoon, something about Christmas cookie boxes for the team, Spencer just knows he’ll be roped into it somehow. There’s a stop at the grocery store for your baking, where he dutifully pushes the cart and watches you put things inside, wondering what the hell is going to go down in his apartment when, “Oh, Spence, can we go to my place?”

His head nearly spins at the question, “You have furniture?”

“I swear I’ll disinvite you.”

“No, no! Please don’t, please, I want to see it. Show me?”

“I’ll let you look around.”

“Do you know how long I have been dying to see your apartment? Or, excuse me, the penthouse. I forgot you live top floor of a building three-hundred and twenty-seven feet in the air.”

You huff, kicking his shoe a little, “I was thinking of doing a housewarming party, do people do those or is that an old person thing?”

“No, no, I think that would be a great idea, I know the team would love to do that.”

“Really?”

He softens, just a bit, “Of course they would, I know for a fact that if you ever mentioned the word housewarming around the bullpen you’d find yourself hosting a get-together.”

You grab a thing of flour, the most expensive one off the shelf, then you hesitate and grab a second bag too, “I’ve never had a housewarming party before, have you?”

“Sorta.”

“How do you kind of have a housewarming party?”

“Well I didn’t exactly know there’d be a party, they just showed up with food and presents and I just let them in.”

“Oh goody.”

“When do you want to have the party?”

“I was thinking next weekend, maybe Saturday night?”

“I can help you prepare things, whatever you need.”

“You would?”

“I will.”

That makes you blink, his declaration almost enough to startle you, but you don’t comment on it, instead you say thanks, and then you grab a jar of vanilla paste. You both keep moving, the car waiting outside for you two and the promise of something warm baked up good for the next afternoon. Then he’s on his way to your apartment, newly decorated and undoubtedly beautiful because as you said before, homes are extensions of oneself just like clothes are. 

Upon stepping through your frame his jaw does drop, something he didn’t expect, but your place has been transformed to something so entirely you that it boggles his mind a little bit. He has no idea how much money you’ve spent for the windows to be replaced by cathedral windows, stained glass at the tops between the intricate woodwork, green wallpaper over the walls with a variety of ferns and golden accents spread across it. 

Your furniture isn’t grand like everything else, but the luxury is seen in the stitch marks of the leather on the couch. There are plants absolutely everywhere, but most importantly to you is two of the giant venus fly traps your mother had made, it was a gift to you from her in congratulations for coming into your own in DC. There’s tiffany lamp lighting in the room, dangling from the ceiling in a series of different sized balls, some the size of a basketball and others a yoga ball. Row after row of bookshelf, not everything filled yet but there’s still plenty and he’s just itching to get his fingers on them. 

“What do you think?”

He remembers to breathe then, “It’s stunning.”

Your lips begin to curve, “I’d hope so, I spent months getting everything in order.”

“When you said shopping I didn’t think you meant you were installing cathedral windows the length of your living room walls.”

Not to mention that your living room is two stories tall, the rest of the apartment done up like an insanely fancy loft, “How much money do you have exactly? Because I don’t even think Rossi can afford all of this.”

He peers at the art you’ve put up, the brush strokes, the quality of the work, and then he looks at the bottom, Rembrandt. It’s the Old Man With A Gold Chain. Except this isn’t a print because he can see the brush strokes in the paint when he stares at it closer than he’s stared at many other paintings, “Is this original?”

Your cheeks warm, “The museum let me have it on loan, and to answer your question, I’ll let you guess.”

“This apartment has to be at least eight million, the installations at least another one million, to keep it running you probably pay around twenty-thousand a month. Which means you pay 240,000 dollars a year to keep it running, which is feasible for you. I’d say you have upwards of 800 million dollars in your bank account. Am I close?”

“Not yet.”

“More or less.”

“More.”

He pauses, coming over to you and the island where you’re setting up shop, you won’t look at him, the wealth you have almost a shameful thing in comparison to everything. Sometimes it makes you feel like a fool because you’ve grown up in a bubble, you know you have, you know that you’ll never have experiences that other people had because in reality, you aren’t one of them. Not in the sense that you are better or above, but because you have been fortunate enough to live your life with comforts and ease that too few could afford to have. 

“A billion.”

“More.”

Spencer stares at you, just for a second, the way you’re already measuring flour out for cookies that you’re baking for your co-workers. It’s clear you’ve grown up easier, in a life where you had money as bubble wrap for your aches and growing pains. Yet you don’t rub it in their faces, at least not obnoxiously. It shows in your tailored outfits and quality materials, the way you never object to paying or how you offer to pay each and every time. You don’t hide the wealth and better yet it pleases you to share it. 

“Four billion.”

You shake your head, “Take a guess Spencer.”

“Fifteen billion.”

“Seventeen.”

Seventeen billion dollars to your name. Rossi doesn’t even have a billion, but you do, you have seventeen of them. You aren’t even an only child, “How much wealth does your family have in a total sum?”

You sigh as you crack an egg into a separate bowl just in case it is faulty, “In total my family has a cumulative net worth of around 150 billion dollars. You won’t find us on a Forbes list, or any list really, because we value our privacy too much to put ourselves into a spotlight like that, although one day we might. Does this change your opinion of me?”

Is your wealth turning him off or away? You have grandeur written in your bones, quiet and unassuming but thrumming with life in ways he won’t ever truly understand, “I mean, it’s measly in comparison to you but I did win around eighty million when I turned twenty-one and hit the casinos. It’s why I’m banned from most of them in Vegas.”

For a moment you both stare at each other in silence, and then a rather undignified snort leaves you, but it doesn’t stop there. The giggle building in your mouth forces its way out and if you start laughing then he can’t help but start to laugh too. Soon you’re both wheezing because how absurd do the two of you need to be? A genius banned from his hometown casinos because he beat the ever living fuck out of the players. You, a rich girl who wouldn’t need to lift a finger if she didn’t want to working in the BAU as a profiler of all things. 

He comes around the corner, over to you where you’re still giggling, your handwritten recipe book out in the open, tea stained as it may be it is still yours and he recognizes the handwriting. This is messier, older, than the current way you write, which is more refined and careful. Your cookbook has clearly been in the making for some time, “What is….plum cookies?”

You grin at him, finger on the page already, “Two cookies, you scoop the middle of them out and put cherry jam in the middle, then you seal the cookies together and dip them in red wine before rolling them in sugar.”

“Who came up with that?”

“I found a blog called Cèilidh, long time ago and all of her stuff looked amazing, but I prefer cherries over blueberries so I changed the jam filling.”

“I see, let me help you?”

“If you insist.”

The afternoon is spent baking, you’re efficient, you’re fast, you put music on while you show him how to roll cookie dough and how to measure flour, you even get him in an apron and manage to snag a photo of it too. Closer to dinner time, after the dishes have been cleaned and you’re in the process of baking the cookies off or decorating them he changes the record to something softer, a little slower, certainly moodier than before. 

Somehow it’s easy for you and him to gravitate towards each other then. When you reach for him and he reaches back, hand settling on your waist, in your hand, you’re barefoot so you aren’t as tall as you usually are but that doesn’t matter, not to him. Not when it’s you and him and the music and the easy dancing in the kitchen. The sun is starting to set outside, casting the apartment in an array of colors from the stained glass windows, bathing you both in purples and oranges that make everything feel like a dream. 

Absent-mindedly he reaches for your hair, for the braids you’ve put in and it’s easy to unravel them, to finally let your hair down. Your hair curls with the shape of the braid, falling in soft waves down your body as he twirls you around. Then he tugs you back to him, reveling in the way you allow him to do so. It exhilarates him when he tugs and you give, when you let him nudge you towards something or when you let him hold doors open for you. He likes it when he gets to take care of you, at least a little bit, he likes it even more when you're pressed close to him when he sways in time with the music. 

“Did you know that the first evidence of dancing was discovered in India? Around 9,000 years ago now.”

You look up at him, lips twitching, “Oh really?”

“Mhm, it’s a set of cave paintings, and ballet originated in Italy, not Russia, a common mistake people make.”

“Have you ever gone to see the ballet?”

“Once, just to see what it might be like.”

“What did you see?”

“The Nutcracker, have you seen any ballets?”

“I was part of them, when I was seventeen and in high school I played the black swan.”

“How fitting, do you still dance?”

“I do.”

“Would you show me sometime?”

“Only for you Spence, only for you.”

Because you’re for him and him alone. 

_____________

Spencer arrives with Morgan and Garcia to your apartment building, Rossi, Hotch, JJ, and Emily will be coming together too at any given moment. He knows you’re upstairs fretting about every little thing that could possibly go wrong even though he’s assured you over and over again that it’ll be perfect. It’s an excuse to get fancy for a night, to have something to celebrate and revel in. Spencer, mostly, can’t wait to watch their jaws drop at the sheer beauty of your home. 

They come around the corner a few minutes later, they have bags of their own and bottles of wine, chattering excitedly as Penelope greets them. Then it’s go-time and thankfully Spencer’s face is recognized, although you would’ve come down to get them regardless. The elevator opens, he types the code in, and up they all go to your apartment. No, your penthouse. The elevator dings quietly for every floor, the button lighting up one by one, creeping up higher and higher, “Where the hell does she live? Top floor?”

Then finally, after two minutes of being in the elevator, the doors open to your receiving area. Spencer steps out first, the rest following his lead as they gape at the view surrounding them, twinkling city lights and a crescent moon peeking through the clouds. He raps his knuckles against the door twice, pauses three seconds, and repeats it. The door swings open, and there you are. Hair pulled back, half up and half down, two beautifully decorated wooden hair sticks keeping the bun upright. You’re wearing a long black dress, corseted at the top, big bell sleeves and a small train in the back of it. Gorgeous, because of course you are, then you step aside to let them in, welcoming them with a strained hello. 

“Feel free to look around! I’m just finishing up on my cooking.”

You return to the kitchen, Spencer lingering close to you while everyone takes in your home with a lovestruck sort of awe. He comes close, fingertips grazing your waist as he reaches for a glass while his voice drops low enough to where only you can hear him, “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Unbidden his fingers squeeze your hip, just once before releasing, before anybody can notice the proximity, “They aren’t going to judge you for anything.”

“They judged me for wearing heels to work.”

“Honey you work in the BAU, of course they’re going to judge you for wearing heels. You wore them into a shootout.”

“I think I might’ve tripped if I wasn’t wearing them.”

“Because your body is more used to and comfortable wearing heels than sneakers or flat bed shoes. It’s like driving a different car, you have to get used to it but there’s disconnect because it’s unfamiliar to you.”

“Having people in my home is certainly a disconnect too.”

He chuckles, low, just for your ears as he works on uncorking a wine bottle for the party, “Hotch wants to steal your record player I think.”

“I mean, it is a thing of beauty, not to mention it has The Beatles signatures carved into the sides, how much did that cost by the way?”

“Considering it’s one of a kind and in great condition, vintage, got four famous somebodies on it, it was about 650k. I got it at an auction.”

“Really, you found something like this at an auction?”

Your grin sharpens, almost imperceptible but not to him, “I can find a great deal of things at an auction.”

He laughs, a quiet thing as he pours you and him a glass of wine. You take it easily, murmuring a thanks before you tilt your chin towards the food and a plea for him to take some stuff to the dining room table which you’ve set up so beautifully. Garcia bounds over to you, to where you sip your wine as you carefully spoon vegetables into a pretty dish, her smile sugary sweet as she leans into your space. 

“Sooo my gorgeous gothic princess of darkness, when were you going to mention that you’re actually a princess?”

You chortle a little at her, “Oh Garcia, I’m flattered you think so. Maybe one of my children will be if they marry the right person.”

“Oh god you weren’t actually supposed to state a possibility of becoming connected to actual royalty. Have you met any royals?”

“I went clubbing with Prince William when I was twenty-one, he wound up introducing me to his brother, Henry.”

“Please tell me there are pictures, please.”

“Third bookshelf, second shelf, right side, it’s titled My Cambridge Year.”

“Oh my lord.”

She wanders off as Rossi becomes your third visitor, finding you just in time for the oven to open and a burst of the most delicious smells emerge. He hums appreciatively as he sniffs the wine you’ve chosen for yourself, wine Spencer had helped you pick out, “So I think it’s safe to say you’ll be paying from now on, hmm?”

You glance at him, “Only if you’ll let me.”

He laughs and you chortle along with him, pulling your thing of rolls out from the oven, they’re golden with butter and herbs baked into the top, then you brush one more layer of your butter mixture, just for good measure. Rossi doesn’t hesitate when he starts to bring things over to the table, which is long and beautiful, made from wenge colored oak, the sides carved to tell a story. You have long candles burning bright, the flowers spilling  between dishes and table settings pieced to magazine quality perfection. 

It’s clear you take hosting quite seriously, adult-like in the refinement of the craft despite being the youngest on the team. Twenty-three and hosting like you’d been born to do so. When you all sit, questions on their tongues for a billion different things, you don’t acknowledge it yet, instead you begin to reach for dishes, and that starts the passage of items going around the table. It’s when their plates are filled and chatter directs its attention to you that you straighten up fully. 

You look almost imposing, sitting in your chair at the head of your table, the high backed seat shadowing your back as your fingers, elegant and adorned with various rings, cuts into your food. For a second it doesn’t look like you’re in a penthouse of Washington D.C. For a second, just one or two, you look like something out of a fairytale. Not in the sense of a woman whose beauty is so pure that one must stop in their tracks. But a presence so sharp and dangerous that one cannot turn away, drawn in by cold charm and a silent promise of something that could pay off if the cards were played correctly. 

There is a cruel sort of tension that tugs at everyone, goading them into taking a risk, asking things that border on the edge of something they need to find out but cannot bear to. Where are you from? What is your history? Why are you here with them? Garcia thinks of how she couldn’t dig up a single juicy thing on you, not even where you went to school. You had told her she’d find only the things you wanted her to find, and it had been small things. An award for winning a writing competition, piano lessons, a card history for things like the movies. 

Rossi is the first one to speak, rich person to rich person and all that, “So I couldn’t help but notice the first folio Shakespeare that you have sitting oh so casually in your library.”

You raise your brow, “I thought someone might.”

Spencer stares at you, just for a second because he hadn’t exactly gotten the chance to see your full collection, and he hadn’t seen that particular one just yet. He did, however, see the original Jane Austen you had tucked away in there. It makes him wonder just what other borderline priceless things you have laying around your home. It didn’t even occur to him to ask what small treasures you held in the space, he’d been too focused on you and the feel of your waist pressed against his hand. 

“What’s the oldest book you have in here?”

His curiosity is too large to ever fully satiate, sure it can be curbed, but never fully rested. With you his curiosity knows no bounds, for every question answered there’s two more springing up, almost bursting to be spoken aloud, “Probably the Shakespeare, most of my older literature here is 19th century.”

“Who do you have?”

“Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, Emily Dickenson, those types of people. In my uhm, in my office, there’s framed poems from her.”

Spencer hadn’t gotten to see your office, he didn’t even know you had one, and now he desperately wants to see it. To see you in there. He thinks about it, of you sitting in a big black chair as if it’s a throne with priceless artifacts around you. For one fleeting, completely out of left field moment, he thinks of being at your feet, between your thighs, his head-

He banishes the thought as quick as he can, you’re friends, sorta, not even he’s sure of that anymore. You and him keep creeping towards a goal but you’re both doing it blind and the path is certainly not a straight one. There’s twists and turns, no map to guide either of you towards a destination he’s desperate to arrive at. Even if he’s not sure what that destination is. At least he knows that he wants you. However, dinner with the co-workers is not the place to come to the realization that he wants you in every which way, whatever that way may be. Maybe it was hearing about your literature collection that truly did him in. 

Over dinner you talk about where you got some of your furniture, the paintings you’ve put up on your walls, the display of wealth so opulent yet quiet that it boggles their minds. Rossi knows what you are though, that your money goes hand in hand with your lineage, that the wealth right beneath your fingertips is wealth accumulated from generation after generation. Your furniture, your choices of decoration, he knows it’s close to a billion dollars worth of things in the space and yet you likely haven’t paid more than half a billion for the decorations. 

After dinner comes wine and dessert in your living room, discussing cases or things that you all want to do to your homes because it is a housewarming party after all. Slowly the team starts to be picked off until it’s you and Spencer again. You and him bask in the comfortable stretch of silence from a party well executed and then complete, just enough to muster up the strength to do dishes. Spencer insists on doing most of it so you settle for packing away leftovers while he washes things off or puts them in the dishwasher. 

He sends you off to the shower when you finish and he still has a few things left to do, insisting for you to unwind, he’ll join you later. You, half-dead on your feet from the hours of preparation, nod in agreement, you take your leave too, but not before pressing a kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, natural, he doesn’t blink twice when you do it because it felt like something you two had always done. Except that isn’t true, because you had never kissed his cheek, he would remember if you did. That doesn’t hit him until you’re going up the stairs, your dress draped over the stairs as you head up. He turns, intent on saying something, calling you back so he can kiss you properly, but the words die in his throat just as quickly. 

Cheeks burning he whirls around to return to his dishes, to the soapy water and the scent of citrus soap. He begs his mind to rest the idea of putting his mouth on you, whether it be your lips or the space between your thighs, he just knows he wants his lips on your skin, his teeth in your flesh. The dishes get finished. He creeps up the stairs then, stepping into your room. He stayed here last weekend, had slept in your nice bed with the black blankets and the blood red curtains around him, and put his things on the nightstand on his designated side of the bed. 

You step out of the bathroom in the next moment, draped in your vintage hollywood style robe with your hair all pinned up in your version of a messy bun. No makeup, nothing but the most natural, raw state of you, it’s something he craves in the middle of a workday, when he’s picking out groceries for the week, consuming each and every thought he might have when he doesn’t focus on anything in particular. You move around the room, completely oblivious (he hopes) to his train of thought as you step into your dressing room. 

It’s his turn in the bathroom, to where he has sets of his own things because at some point you’d put a set of your own products in his bathroom. The thought is nearly dizzying and part of him considers taking a cold shower to stave off the way his pants are beginning to tighten. Shame curls low in his belly when it occurs to him how stupidly horny he is for you. The crisp lines of your makeup, the way your hair falls around your face, your hand coiled around a thick cooking utensil from earlier. He needs to be quick, he needs to be fast, because realistically if he doesn’t get it out of his system he’s going to sport a boner throughout the night. 

He undresses quickly, water turning on in the same breath as he spits into his hand and wraps it around his rapidly filling cock. Sensitive already, mostly because he doesn’t do this. Spencer doesn’t touch himself at any given day mostly because he doesn’t have the urge or want to do so. Yet three months into knowing you, into falling for you, he’s jacking off in your shower. The hot water makes things worse and better, his lip caught between his teeth as his hand works himself to the edge as fast as it can go, 

Thoughts of you invade the process, of your shape underneath your clothes, your voice which sounds like red wine to him calling out his name. He has to clamp his hand over his mouth in order to keep the sounds fully contained, wrist twisting as his hand moves over the head, thumb swiping there fast and hard, forcing a sharp gasp out of him. He imagines it’s your hand, maybe you’d touch him with your rings on, the bite of the cold metal on the most heated part of him, Then he thinks of your mouth on him, those red painted lips stretched over him and your nose pressed to his naval. 

What gets him though is the fantasy of fucking you. Of feeling your body tremble underneath his hands, his dick sheathed inside of your soft walls that would grip onto him for dear life. He imagines how you’ll take it, if that carefully blank face you wear a good nine out of ten interactions will change as you can do nothing but take him. His thumb will find your clit, circling and pressing and someday he’ll kiss it like the way you’ll kiss his dick. He cums when his fantasy version of you cums too, walls pulsing and back arching as a low noise spills out of you. He doesn’t imagine you to be too loud, he doubts your personality would allow it. That is what gets him to cum in under five minutes in your shower. 

He would be embarrassed by how quickly he’s finished, but it’s him and his hand and your shower, so it’s alright. The goal was to finish as quickly as he could and he managed to within his allotted time frame. He goes through with his routine after that, the incessant urge to fuck something having eased to a managable level now that he’s officially tainted his perception of you. Part of him is ashamed, guilty that he’s defiled your space in such a way and the other part wants to do it again. He just doesn’t know which part is winning. 

You join him for skincare, having changed out of your robe but your hair still up, there’s nothing but comfortable silence between you both when you wash your face and he pats it dry. He puts the toothpaste on your toothbrush, both of you going in time with one another. You’ve already got water set up on the nightstands, a standard for you both. It’s too domestic and yet it’s everything you both want. This unlabeled thing between you two glaringly obvious, the line etched deeper than ever and yet it has never been so thin. 

Spencer slips into bed with you and you slip into bed with him. The stillness lets you both know that things are changing, that this unspoken thing cannot go much longer in its silence. It demands to be acknowledged and yet neither of you do. Instead you turn your light out and face him in your spot while he does the same. Neither of you sleep yet, but neither of you speak. It’s just you and him facing each other in your bed, less than a foot apart from each other yet you two are closer than that, not physically at least. 

It scares him how easily you’ve fit yourself into his life. You know his preferred books and how he takes his tea, what dinner is on his weekly dinner rotation and the places he favors for food because Spencer can make a grand total of three things: Instant ramen, oatmeal (occasionally) and box mac n cheese. There is also never a guarantee that these dishes will turn out good either. One morning he tried and that was the morning you made him promise to let you do the cooking, or to just go out with your card. He wasn’t offended, mostly because his oatmeal (that he did add water to) turned into a round brick instead of something edible. 

Now though? Now it’s different, it’s the silent understanding that you two are changing, evolving, no not even that. You two are hurtling towards a collision that neither of you have the power to stop. Like a black hole that takes and consumes, latching on and never letting go. Except neither of you want to even remotely try to resist. Not this, not each other.

______________

Death row, it’s something that fascinates you to an extent, the people who deserve it? Not so much. Yet when Hotch assigns you and Spencer to interview a man on death row for possible involvement in a string of murders previously unconnected to him in Georgia, you get to see it up close. You’ve read his profile, the misogynistic views, the penchant for hispanic/latina women. How he treated them like maids due to the lens of racism he looked through. 

You know why Hotch sent you, knew it would provoke the guy -Mike Stevens- to possibly reveal a few things. Spencer for the way he could connect dots faster than a heartbeat, not because he looked like a past target. Mike comes from Ellijay, a small mountain town with a barely there population, plenty of space to run and hide if he wanted to. Apple capital of Georgia, this guy’s certainly no peach. 

“Are you alright?”

Spencer had insisted on driving again, he always does. You don’t drive much as it is, the wheel something that you’ve felt no interest in controlling for a long while. Maybe it’s your upbringing, the way your parents would rather kiss each other in the backseat then look at a road. You like driving with Spencer though, he lets you pick the CDs and the passenger seat is set exactly how you prefer it. There’s car freshener dangling from the middle mirror that you picked out, and he predicts he has maybe three more months before a picture of you makes its way to his instrument panel. 

The drive is two hours long and the case is expected to take a while so you’ll both be staying the night with each other in a hotel in Jacksonville. Penelope had been almost giddy when she texted you that the hotel was booked out and there was only a room with one bed available. You didn’t mind in the slightest. Not when the weekends had you and Spencer in each other’s beds despite the way you both fell asleep with space between you two. Neither of you spoke about the mornings where you and he woke up tangled together in a mess of limbs and clinging fingers. 

“What are you thinking about?”

He asks it casually because he can expect an honest answer back, but he knows when you’re thinking. It’s true your natural expression is resting bitch face which is your default face, but when you think it gets just a smidgen more severe. Sometimes you get called Mini Hotch when neither of you are there to hear it simply because if you and him stand by side during a case it looks the same. Frankly, it’s terrifying because when you’re both in concentration and someone dares interrupt you both tend to look at the same time, scowls firmly in place. 

“Mike. I’ll have to bite my tongue with him.”

Spencer’s jaw flexes, just for a second, “Because of his bias towards women like you. He’ll take the challenge as flirting.”

“He’s going to look at me and assume it’s a challenge for him to conquer.”

“We’ll end it as soon as he says something to you.”

You shake your head, brow dipping further down, “No, we have to keep going, he’ll take it as reluctant curiosity on my part, then he’ll use it as a reason about why I’m in the BAU. Girl like me needs her fix of violence, but because of who I am I’m not fit for the job, but I want it anyway. He’s going to assume I’m the BAU whore, better yet, your whore.”

Spencer swallows thickly at your words, there’s venom there that he hasn’t heard from you in a long while. It’s April now, late April, the beginning of Spring. Seven months since you’ve stepped foot into the bullpen and rocked his world. With it starting to warm you’re forced out of your heavy coats and turtlenecks much to your dismay, but also reluctant joy. He thinks of snakes in the Spring. How the crop from last year are big now, they’re maturing well and they know how to use the venom in their mouth. He remembers the glimpse of a snake tattoo on your arm from the other day because your sleeve rode up a bit. 

Georgia is warmer than DC in this time of year too, even Spencer’s forgone his jacket and rolled his sleeves up a little bit over here. You though? You continue to wear your high collars and long sleeves, ankle length pants and skirts, never truly showing skin outside of your face. He wonders what you’ll wear in the Summer, or if you’ll continue to dress as if showing ankle could be sin. Not that he dislikes your style, oh no he adores it, truly he does, but you must certainly be hot in all those layers and cuts. 

Needless to say, the heat doesn’t help Spencer when he flushes from your crude words. But if he’s flustered by you saying it, the unsub will fluster him too. He’ll expect it now, and get it out of his system after a few moments, “I might deck him if he says that.”

That’s true too. It’s not just the implication that has him reddening, he likes the idea of you being his, but not his whore. Because you most certainly are not. He respects you too much to ever think of you that way, the thought of treating you so lowly doesn’t sit right with him. It reminds him of the prostitutes from Vegas, some starting out far, far too young, girls he had gone to elementary school with at some point. He had seen how they were treated, what was expected of them. To put you in that position, real or not, makes him sour in ways he hasn’t in a long while. 

“I mean it, he has no right to say any of that.”

Your lips twitch, brows unfurrowing the littlest bit as you reach over to take his hands, your fingers squeezing his for a second while he breathes over the sound of his blood rushing, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, if I could have a choice I’d let you punch the ever loving daylights out of him, as it is we’re just federal agents trying to get a confession out of him.”

“It’s just, this guy disgusts me. His M.O, his stereotyping, the racism, the sexism, it’s astonishing really.”

“He’s a man who was slighted, to some there can be no greater insult than a woman rejecting their affection.”

“Those men deserve to be castrated.”

“I could get this guy castrated.”

Spencer pauses, glancing at you for a second, “You can?”

You glance back at him, your relaxed face back as your thumb strokes his hand, “Of course I can, I’m rich.”

“How do you-were you planning this guy's castration? When did you have time to think of how to make that possible?”

“I started planning as soon as I found out what he had done to all those other girls, and it’s not the first time I’ve gotten someone castrated before.”

“So you’re telling me you have a hit-castrator who can get into jail for death row jail.”

Sometimes he’s not sure whether to be concerned about what you get up to in your freetime, like why you know the things you do or the people you have connections to. You seem perfectly ordinary sometimes, in the sense that you aren’t borderline mythical, as if you were just the girl he’s fallen in love with a rich ass background. Forgetting that the rich part definitely came with some insane side quests or consequences, he wasn’t sure which one it happened to be. Then there was just the bit that made you you. 

Macabre quips and unsettling stares, a face permanently locked in a scowl or at least disgust if you were feeling particularly animated. You hosted a wealth of secrets and when you chose to reveal them it always made them pause, as if to ensure that you in fact were not lying, and telling the truth indeed. So you smiled and chortled, as for Spencer he got to see you wheeze from laughter or giggle at something stupid. You refused to touch a light color unless it was Halloween or time to sleep, and you never, ever, wore silver, or left without ten-thousand in your purse. 

“Well when you put it like that it sounds terrible.”

“You have a hit-castrator with a prison specialty, how many people do you know who casually have one of those?”

That earns him a look as you huff, “Alright fine perhaps not everyone has someone who can do such a feat. In my defense the castration is just a bonus.”

If Spencer didn’t want to keep holding your hand as badly as he does he would let go and run his hand down his face. Alas the urge to feel your hand in his is too much, even if they are covered in lace. 

“A bonus, “He echoes, incredulous, “A bonus she says.”

“Do you want the guy castrated or not?”

That makes Spencer pause for a second. No doubt that it’ll be painful, that it’ll be all over the news, but there’s no way to link it back to him or you. Then he thinks about it, the guy killed, raped, and abused these women. Young ones that looked like you, whose bodies were ravaged and their memory kept alive in a scrapbook they were forced to make. He’d kill them once the scrapbook was complete. 

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He supposes that if he’s going to be in a relationship with you then he needs to match you in certain regards, or at least get used to them. The line is still there, still uncrossed, but it crumbles even further the longer this conversation goes on. You and him inch closer, nearly touching the line that’s been there from the beginning, “You were going to castrate him whether or not I said yes weren’t you?”

“Of course I was, don’t be foolish, I’d never let a man like that keep his dick.”

_____________

They’re both fortunate and unfortunate to land a case in the Florida Keys, fortunate because it’s the Keys, unfortunate because it’s late-July and the weather is borderline miserable. At least it’s predicted to be like that. You seem to perk up though, as does Spencer. It’s no secret he can handle hot weather, having grown up in Vegas he’d become accustomed to long days baking in heat so dry it made turkey on Thanksgiving look juicy. You on the other hand, well, they have no clue where you were even born. 

Hotch resigns himself to a long unknown number of days in heat so humid he knows that even he will have to shed the suit jacket. He’ll also have to make sure everyone gets sunscreen because god knows that someone’s going to be badly burnt in the sun. His bet is on Emily or Rossi, he knows Spencer is too meticulous to do something like not believe in sunscreen. A few minutes before landing he distributes the sunscreen, although you and Morgan are trading a brown bottle that he’s pretty sure says has sunscreen but is mostly tanning oil. 

Once outside Emily groans because she knows this heat is going to make her hair a frizzy mess, JJ just sighs because she’ll burn way too easily under the sun like this. Even Spencer, Vegas native that he is, cringes a little under the intensity of the sun. He’s lived in DC for a while now, he isn’t as acclimated as he once was. You seem to soak it in though, although nobody knows how you’re still covered up because Hotch himself is fairly sure if tank tops can be allowed in a situation this is one of them. There’s no time to dwell on it though, not when they need to get to the police station in Key West. 

By the time they get there jackets have been shed, hair pinned up, collars unbuttoned. Hotch thinks of all the miserable places that they have been sent to, the places that make him question humanity and their antics. This place is one of them, sure it’s beautiful and the water is nice but the heat is overwhelming. Sitting pretty at ninety-three degrees, it feels closer to a hundred-ten in his opinion, and most people’s as well. For Spencer the heat is fine, but it’s the humidity that eats at him. The sticky dampness that Vegas lacks is certainly present here. 

There’s been a string of bodies hung up on giant hooks used to hold large fish, decidedly skewered post-mortem, five bodies have turned up in the past seven weeks. The first day slips by easily, they think the guy isn’t a local, but frequents the island, which makes things harder. Dinner is spent on a pier, it’s delicious, of course it is. Then it’s time to go back to the house you’ve rented because for you it’s absolutely nothing. 

It also just feels nice to be able to treat the team to something nice. You find a beach house, one right in front of it, there’s a pool, the hot tub on the porch, and enough bedrooms for everyone. Except you know that while Spencer might shower in his bedroom he’ll be coming over to yours every night as soon as everyone’s asleep. It’s why he claimed the one that has a connecting door to your room. That makes you feel giddy, knowing you have him with you every day, every night, for at least two or three days. 

It’s a little past seven when you slip out from your room with your bag, a little dress, a bathing suit, and a plan. Except you weren’t the only one with that plan, Morgan blinks at you from down the hall, and then a grin spreads over his face. You know in that exact moment that you will not be escaping this house without him. 

“Well, well, looks like I’m not the only one sneaking out.”

You sigh, “I’m renting this house, I can leave if I want.”

“Then why were you being so suspicious?”

“I was not being suspicious.”

“You were literally looking to see if the coast was clear and I watched you tip toe towards the door. Which means you’re sneaking out, and yeah you rent this place but it’s not going to save you from the fathers.”

“And you are going to wake the fathers up if you keep talking so loudly, let’s go already.”

He chuckles but does as told, following you out the door and to the porch. There’s still daylight out, although the sun will set within the next few hours. But you need the warmth, you do. The beach is private which means you two can be anywhere and it won’t matter because nobody is coming over. A little piece of paradise, you set your towel out, then your skin products, and then your coverup is coming off. It leaves you in your most plain bathing suit, simple cut black with a Brazilian bikini style top, although your bottoms have more coverage than that. 

“When were you gonna tell us you’re tatted the fuck up?”

You glance at him, then yourself. In nothing but a few pieces of medium sized cloth and your hair all pinned up there’s no denying the ink on your skin. It crawls up your neck, over your shoulders and down your arms, all the way to your palms. Creeping down your chest, over your sternum, around your waist, vanishing into the fabric of your top, and then sparcing out over your hips. Leaving your legs mostly tattooed free except for a few areas. 

“I didn’t feel the need to announce it, besides, we work in the FBI, I can’t go around flaunting all these tattoos.”

“They look cultural though, at least to an extent.”

“They are cultural. It’s a combination of my mother, she’s from the islands in Southeast Asia, and my father, he’s Native.”

“Then you shouldn’t have to cover them up, is that why you’re always so concealed?”

“Mhm, don’t want an HR violation or get told to cover up. Even better get told I’m unprofessional.”

You’ve settled onto your back, your front facing forward with your eyes shut as you let your body sit in the sand, a timer on your phone, a little cooler beside you, an ipod quietly playing your music in your ear. 

“Listen, I think you should show them publicly. Fuck HR or whatever, it’s your culture, they don’t get to make you hide something like that.”

“The tattoos are a distraction, I know they’re a distraction. They’re-”

“Beautiful. That’s what they fucking are. Who cares if you have tattoos? You’re a profiler for the FBI, they look sick as hell, and it’s something sacred to you. If they give you hell then I’ll speak up, I promise you.”

He reminds you of your older brother -Oliver-, the way he grinned and slung an arm around you. Protective in ways you struggled to keep up with and nonchalant or vindictive in others that made you want to tear your hair out. You always did love your tattoos, ranging from the tiger in the center of your shoulder blades to the bands of intricate work, perfectly symmetrical for each arm. Still, the idea of showing tattoos on the job scares you a little bit, but it is getting too hot to wear all your layers, even you know that. 

“I’m serious, don’t cover them up.”

“I’ll think about it.”

For the next hour you alternate between being on your stomach or your back, letting the sun soak into your skin and let the melanin return. Winter in DC has left you paler than you ever liked to be, washed out and almost gaunt, the sun brings life back to your face and body. The sunset is beautiful too, the glow of red and orange mixing into blurred lines until it’s turned pink. Once it starts turning purple you and Morgan head back, him just as bare as he had been before, but you don’t take your chances and you slip your cover-up back on. You’re both greeted by Emily who raises a brow at the both of you, “Do I even want to know?”

Morgan shakes his head, nudging her a little bit, “Get those thoughts out of your mind, you know I’ve only got eyes for one girl in my life.”

“I’ll be sure to let Garcia know her lover is a faithful one.”

“She deserves only the best, we all know that.”

JJ steps out and as does Spencer, who looks between you and Morgan, trying to figure out what’s going on, “Where did you two disappear to?”

You roll your eyes at the question, “I was going to go to the beach to catch what remained of the sun and Morgan here decided to join me.”

Morgan grins, “Dracula evidently does like the sun, I at least got in the water, she insisted on staying on land the entire time. Popped her headphones in, and then bam, not a single word more was spoken.”

Spencer relaxes, just a bit, but you think it’s cute that he even thought there’d be something going on between the both of you. You all migrate towards the living room where Morgan finds the ingredients for a pina colada, and Emily finds a board game. An hour and a half later Hotch and Rossi come down to find you all playing a very competitive round of Monopoly, with Garcia on Skype and having teamed up with Morgan. There is also a half empty bottle of rum, a quarter of tequila having gone down the hatch too. You’re all warm cheeked, you and Morgan a few significant shades tanner than you were three hours earlier. There are words of discouragement, cursing, and money being slammed down on the table with gusto. 

“What in the world is happening here?”

All of you freeze instantly under the weight of Rossi’s voice. Then you all take in how it looks. The drinks, the games, the wildness that you all had reached for. Hotch and Rossi had heard the laughter and came to investigate, not realizing that there was a little party going on just the floor below. Emily bats her eyes at them, hoping that it’ll get you all out of a scolding, “Team bonding? Want to join?”

Rossi and Hotch glance at each other, a silent conversation being held right before all of your eyes, “One round, and no more drinks, you all have had your fair share for the night. You can have more when we finish this case.”

Hotch settles beside you, observing the rest of the round silently while you all discuss who can be paired with who so the older men can join the next round. There’s six pieces, Morgan and Garcia have already paired up, leaving five pieces. Emily and JJ pair up too, leaving four, which means that Rossi and Hotch each get their own piece, as do you and Spencer. It speaks for a round of such intensity that monopoly might have to be banned in the future. Of course Spencer is the banker. 

Ten minutes into the new round that becomes apparent because Hotch is trying to buy properties like it’s nobody's business while you and Spencer go toe to toe for railroads. There’s no logic to it, no rhyme or reason but it just so happens that for profilers when given a board game they must take it to a new personal level that would have most people sobbing. Because when it’s game time all hands are off for the rules of not-profiling team members, it’s used as ammo instead. Insults traded back and forth off things observed over months and months of knowing each other and getting fed tidbits of information. 

This is where Spencer slips up, just a tiny bit, giving an indication that maybe he’s been spending more time with you than either of you care to let on. You, tragically, don’t miss a beat when he scoffs and says ‘you stole that railroad from me just like how you stole those books from your family library because if you asked they would’ve said no’. Then you hit him with ‘not everyone had their mom read Canterbury Tales to them for bedtime Spence’. 

Something odd settles into JJ’s stomach at the exchange. It’s casual, like these are well known facts about one another, as if you two have taken the time to learn one another’s secrets. When did Spencer get access to your secrets? Better yet, when did you get access to his? She doesn’t understand the odd feeling in her, Spencer isn’t hers, she isn’t his, but they’re close. Close in the way that she knows his brain and she can afford to say things without him getting too offended by her words. When did you get close to him too?

The game ends in Hotch’s victory, which everyone can tell he’s extremely pleased by. Rossi is the one to shepard you all off to bed after that, citing that it can be cleaned at a later date, but now it’s time for them to rest their heads and settle into bed. You all go easily, the exhaustion of the day catching up quickly as the rooms shut and the locks quietly click shut. For you though? Your door between your room and Spencer’s opens as soon as the doors shut to the main hallway. 

He comes in quietly, face still a little flushed from the alcohol, but he’s already showered and changed into his sleep clothes. You on the other hand still have sand clinging to your skin, the bikini you’re in digging into your skin after wearing it dry for too long. You think of what Morgan said, the tattoos you’re so careful to hide away and how he said they’re beautiful. That you shouldn’t have to hide your culture away like that. 

“Want to go down to the beach with me tomorrow?”

Spencer glances up at you, the invitation, the idea, he thinks of the sand and how much he hates it under his skin. But you want him at the beach with you, even if it’s just for a few minutes of his time. He can always wear socks, “After we get back?”

“Mhm, I want to sunbathe again, it’s so rare nowadays that I get to be on the beach.”

“You grew up beside it, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

He thinks of your family, gothic and dark, wrapped in lace and leather, luxury down to your nails. He thinks of a small vampiric army labeled as a family suntanning on the beach. It’s a hard thing to picture, but strangely, it suits you. He didn’t expect the beach to suit you. 

“Where?”

You hum, head tilting a bit as you begin to pull a set of clothes out for you to wear in the night. It’s different tonight, there’s a slip dress and a lace robe to go over the dress, but it’s more fifties than twenties, “I spent half my time in Malibu, in my mothers’ favorite house. As a wedding gift my father spent sixty-million dollars to buy private land, a portion of the beach hidden in an alcove, and for her house to be designed exactly how she wanted it to be.”

“Must be a nice home.”

“She’d live there full time if she could, but she’s too in love with my Father to ever do that.”

You leave him there to shower, emerging twenty minutes later with your skin-care done and the day's activities wearing you down a little bit. But he sees your tattoos, he sees the way they crawl up your neck, marking every spare inch of skin exposed to him. Never before has he wanted to lick somebody, but you have a way of bringing out the most animal desires that evolution had watered down over the span of thousands of generations in him. 

His fingers twitch to reach out for you, to feel the ink etched into your flesh, tracing the designs that represent who you are. God you’re beautiful. The curve of your hip and the tilt of your head, the way your fingers twitch when something excites you. He doesn’t do that though, he restrains himself even though he aches to do something like that, just for the chance of having you. Spencer, as he’s come to know like he knows his literature, wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything else in his entire life. 

“Your parents still love each other?”

That makes you sigh as you settle into your side of the bed, “They do, they’re soulmates of the highest calibre. One cannot walk this land without the other. Sometimes they get so caught up in one another that they forget there’s an entire world outside of the one they lock themselves up in.”

Rich, in love, but with a taste of neglect, “How many other siblings do you have?’

Your lips twitch, “There’s seven of us. I’m smack dab in the middle.”

Forgotten child. You’re the middle marker for old and young, the one nobody really focuses on because you’re fourth oldest, fourth youngest, you’re always just there on the back burner. No wonder you’re in the BAU. Spencer doesn’t know how anybody could forget you though, not with your beauty or your mind, the dry wit and the way you speak. It’s all too impossible for him to ignore, for anybody to ignore. Apparently in a family full of people like you it can be easy to be overlooked. 

You look smaller in this bed, with your tattoos exposed like they haven’t been before, your hair braided back and voice softer than it ever has been. For you secrets like this are meant to be hunted out of you, not given freely, but for Spencer you find your voice and mouth moving before your brain can decide to hesitate. You don’t hesitate for Spencer, never for him. 

“What’s your family like?”

He shuffles closer, just an inch, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by you, yet you don’t move away, you remain right there in your spot, as if you’re daring him to come closer. He doesn’t move again in the next breath, he simply waits for your reluctant confession. 

“Tight-knit, but distant. I’m…not what they expected for me to be. They thought I’d go on to be a socialite, a woman who fades into the background but throws money at the causes she believes in. Trust me I still do that, but joining the BAU wasn’t something they had ever envisioned me doing.”

“They wanted you to stay home, didn’t they?”

“They did, and I wanted out.”

“Your siblings wanted you to stay too?”

That makes you snort, you aren’t amused by any means, it sounds bitter, “My siblings get along with each other but they tend to avoid me. I’m not sure why they do that, but they do. However, I do get along well with my grandmother, her name’s Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?”

“Oh yes, Wednesday Addams, she refused to change her maiden name for her husband, who wound up taking her name instead. She certainly wasn’t going to take the last name Glicker over Addams.”

“Would you change your name? Or would you make your husband change his to match yours?”

“I think I'd either hyphenate our names or take his. It’s not that I dislike my last name, I just think I’d like to separate myself from them a little bit. Would you change your name for your wife?”

“If she wished it I would.”

“Good husband you’ll be then.”

“What makes you say that?”

You sigh, eyes slipping shut for a moment, “Anybody would be lucky to be loved by you Spencer. They’d be a fool to take it for granted.”

He’s stuck speechless for a second too long, just enough for you to slip into the realm of sleep as he thinks over your words. Your casual words that turn everything upside down all over again, he had heard the resignation in your tone, as if you believed it couldn’t be you on the receiving end of his love. Not truly, but considering the environment you were raised in he supposes that it’s a normal reaction or conclusion to this particular equation for you. 

The next morning is spent hurriedly cleaning, which between multiple people went faster than even three. Then it’s go-go-go as you all head to the police station, reviewing evidence, visiting the sites where the bodies were found. There’s no new body, thankfully, but also no new evidence which isn’t ideal. A non-local murderer in the keys, if the unsub knows that you all are there then he could just very well not come back to the site. 

“I think we need to start blending in, we look severely out of place here.”

You all look at Rossi, the way he seems to have sullenly accepted his fate of Hawaiian print shirts and khaki pants. Emily stares at him for a second before being the group voice, “Excuse me what?”

Rossi sighs, gesturing to all of you, “Look at this, we have HR on the runway, a professor, two bodyguards, tan Lucy Liu, and me, the mafia. We’re getting weird looks from the locals, of course the unsub is going to notice us too. So we’re going to do a little shopping, and we’re going to wear colors.”

Your nose on instinct scrunches up, “You have the option of red or purple for me but do not force me into heavens forbid yellow.”

Emily and JJ look at you, the high collars and the long sleeves, the way you absolutely detest anything bright unless it’s Halloween. There’s no chance for you though, not when they each grab one of your arms to drag you off to Duval Street where most of the shopping stores are. The others follow you three, but they vanish to pick up their own things while Emily and JJ drag you into various stores to try on certain things. 

The first store is an immediate assault on your senses, bright colors and loud prints, there’s a pop song playing in the overhead speakers and you want to leave. Shopping like this is something you absolutely detest, and if there’s one thing where you’ll gladly flaunt wealth it’s in clothes. You pride yourself on your appearance, the quality of your clothes, how well everything meshes together. This is decidedly everything you dislike in a set of clothes. 

That doesn’t deter them though, sandwiched in between the two older women you have no choice but to be subjected to their stylistic choices. Since you’re too unwilling of a participant to pick for yourself apparently. Of course they pick things out for themselves too, knowing damn well that you’ll pay for it, and if not then Rossi will handle it. There’s an unspoken time allotment of an hour and a half to get the affairs in order, and on the dot you all emerge from the shops to meet at the original point. Spencer’s been forced into a pair of oversized jorts and a t-shirt much too big for him, but certainly on trend. 

You on the other hand, well there’s no chance of not showing the tattoos, a crocheted top and a wrap skirt that sits right above your navel with thick platform sandals. The skirt is printed with hibiscus flowers and the top is shaped like a flower, the top petal resting over your sternum with a string to wrap around your neck. But your back is almost completely exposed, so all those tattoos and the detail is on full display. Rossi blinks when you appear, peering at the ink all over your skin, “Now when did you have time to get those?”

Spencer’s trying very hard not to pop a boner in public but lord that is a test of his strength because you look stunning. You always do, but this is something new and he likes this look too. He sees the curve of your hip and the dip of your waist, the strength in your arms and the length of your neck. You haven’t forgone the jewelry, which still compliments the outfit they’ve put you in. 

“Well, considering that my family started tattooing me at sixteen, I’d say I had a few years to get used to it.”

“It’s done with the hand tapping method, right?”

“Indeed. Now pray tell, how are we going to continue blending in? Are we playing tourist, what’s going on?”

“We do touristy things, ask around for certain things like we’re just trying to figure out local secrets. They’re always more willing to give them to tourists than the FBI.”

Hotch nods, arms crossed over his chest and despite the fact that his shirt is an almost ungodly orange shade he still manages to look intimidating, “Morgan, Rossi, and me will go to the marinas and ask the local fishermen about the best spots to fish or if there’s anybody who’s willing to guide for lower prices. JJ and Emily, you two head off to salons or nail spots to see if the women know anything there. As for you two, I want you both to pretend to be a couple looking for a wedding venue. Quiet, private, someplace that’s hidden from most of the public.”

Rossi hands Emily his card, “Get something nice, I’ll text you the pin.”

“Thanks.”

Morgan dips his head towards you and Spencer, “Better get cozy together, madly in love and all that.”

You purse your lips, “Anybody got a diamond ring on them? If we’re engaged then I better be wearing a damn ring.”

Spencer, of all people, perks up, “Oh, I do actually.”

He reaches up over his neck, unclipping the thin necklace that he wears. His mothers’ engagement ring is there, it’s a beautiful thing, large, expensive, and most importantly, there’s a gold band on there too. Cut in a marquise shape set on a plate of gold that frames the diamond, which…isn’t small by any means. It’s minimum 2.5 carats, and while you’d seen it on his neck before you hadn’t gotten the chance to see it up close. The ring is beautiful, the gold plate is studded with small peridots, framing the diamond beautifully as it is. 

You pull the rings off of the finger needed before Spencer slips his mothers ring onto your own finger. It fits, perfectly, too perfectly almost. Rossi stares at it, brows raised as he glances at Hotch, “Well would you look at that, a perfect fit.”

Spencer’s red, but it isn’t from the heat, you try not to blush too badly either as you look at him, “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hotch clears his throat, “We’ll meet back at the house for dinner at six.”

You all split after that, the men heading off as JJ and Emily walk off, leaving you and Spencer alone together again. His mother’s ring is a comfortable fit on your finger, the gem sparkling bright in the sun as you both try not to stare. It makes you wonder how a man could commission a ring filled with such love and intent only for him to turn his back on it all years later. Of course things change, circumstances rise, but it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around. 

It makes you think of your parents, how deeply infatuated they were, oblivious to the things happening around them more often than not. According to your grandmother her parents were quite similar to yours. Morticia and Gomez had passed away when you were young, but you remember their soft hands and gentle croons, lullabies sung in Spanish, the scent of sage burning in the air. You had told her when you were six you never wanted to fall in love because you had seen how it captivated your parents, rendering them blind to the issues running amok within their very own home. 

Wednesday, who never was a fan of physical touch, had reached for you then, drawing you close to her side as she whispered that one day you could fall in love, that if you let yourself it would be okay. She told you that she had been the same as you, determined to never let anybody closer than arm's length in, that she’d never even entertain the idea of marriage. Then she had met your grandfather, Joel Glicker, and at first she had rejected him (since he proposed at twelve years old) but later he actually proposed, and she said yes. 

You miss him, the easy way he laughed and went around with Wednesday, often speaking for the both of them because otherwise Wednesday would simply glower. He died last year, four months before you joined the BAU, and some of his last words to you had been him encouraging you to take the job. Then he died, and you applied, and you got in. You told your parents you were leaving a month before you did, had said it casually, half-expecting them to go ‘that’s great darling’ and move on. Except they hadn’t, they had snapped up as if you told them that Wednesday had died too. Then they had argued and fought you on it, threatened to freeze your accounts and pull some strings to ensure you never stepped foot in Quantico. Wednesday had put her foot down hard when she heard what was happening. 

You’d spoken to your parents once since then, and it had been awkward, strained in ways you didn’t know to ease. Your siblings, whom you knew everything about and didn’t know at all simultaneously, carried on as usual when it came to ignoring you or simply glancing past your presence. It made you wonder if they missed you at all. What would they say if you called them randomly, told them you were getting married, that they weren’t invited to the wedding. You could. Maybe.

Part of you wants to send a picture to your family, the ring on your finger and the man who put it on your finger in the background. You decide against it though, you’d tell Wednesday, mostly because your grandmother knows how to keep a secret or two. 

“So wedding venues, what kind of couple are we?”

His question makes you look at him, what kind of couple are you and Spencer? The lovestruck kind where all you two want to do is act like each others’ teenage dreams? The kind where people toss a coin on whether it’s a good or bad day for you two? Or maybe it’s the kind where you and him know each other like the bones in your bodies, where everything fits together and encased in a thick layer of protection, but soft enough to bend to each other. 

“I think we’re the kind that just wants to love each other without regret, the kind that elopes because they’re too impatient and because nobody else would show up to the ceremony.”

Spencer falls silent for a second before he holds his arm out for you, “Then let’s not regret a thing today.”

You take his arm, pressing yourself to his side as you scan the surrounding area, “I think I can agree with that.”

He takes off, you in tow, and for just a second you allow yourself to think that you and Spencer really are a couple looking for wedding venue spots. You and him stop for drinks at some point, slipping into boutiques where you ask the girls behind the counter if they know any private spots around the islands. You are, afterall, searching for a place to host a ceremony for two. The girls giggle, oohing and aahing at the ring, examining it with a sparkle in their eyes that makes your chest warm. 

They’re too young to be married but the hope is there, making them wait for a whirlwind romance that winds up in something like true love. Around two you and Spencer find a little restaurant by the beach, taking a small break from the questions with a little list of favorite local spots to explore later. It’s a restaurant recommended by the local people, a small hidden gem that tourists are lucky to stumble upon. You’re both seated at the edge of the restaurant, and it’s there that Spencer takes your digital camera from your bag to snap a few shots of you. 

Sometimes he forgets that you like to take pictures, small and quick, you aren’t flashy with it by any means, but you do take the camera with you more often than not. He takes his photo when you look out to the water, the ring on display as you watch the waves lap at the shore. You want to be there on the beach, lounging in the sun and watching, waiting, but more importantly you’re soaking up the sun. He wants to see you on the beach enjoying yourself so thoroughly too, just a chance to see you well and truly relax. 

“How are you holding up?”

You look at him, eyes brightening for a moment, “On which aspect? Us pretending to be engaged or the fact that there are five dead bodies and in order to catch the culprit I’m wearing pink.”

“It looks good on you.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Your skin is tanned, which makes brighter colors pop against your complexion, but this particular shade of pink, not pastel, but not too dark, suits you even though you feel discomfort in it. But I think the white top is my favorite, it makes you look, well, like a fiancé.”

“Like a fiancé, or your fiancé?”

He swallows, thick with want and danger. This is territory that’s been at your fingertips but never dared to traverse. Maybe it’s because his mothers’ ring is on your finger, or the fact that today is a day of no regrets, but you’re feeling bold. Ten months you and him have danced around each other, ten months you and him have skirted and danced around the thing laying between your feet. It’s spoken in the way he has permanent items on your nightstand, at least ten of his books have migrated to your bookshelf. 

Since April you’ve found yourself in his apartment or he’s found himself in yours. The nights spent apart fewer and far between, your cookbook has notes written in the margin like ‘Spencer really likes this one’ or ‘a little too spicy for Spence to handle’. He has a set of bookmarks specifically for your books, for whenever he reads aloud to you and whenever he finds something he knows you’ll like. He buys you trinkets and you stock his favorite coffee in your cabinet. 

With the ring on your finger you’re both forced to see it for what it is, what you two have been doing. He thought he was hurtling towards a collision but you and him have already met in the middle. There’s no denying it anymore, not when your ring is on his finger, not when your question is answered by his silence. He wants it there tonight, tomorrow, next week. The realization that the ring was no longer his from the moment he slid it onto your finger hits him like a hammer in that moment. It’s your ring, yours. Because he’s allowed himself to want you, but now he knows he wants you as his wife too. 

“Like you’re mine.”

You take a sip of your drink, mouth going dry at the simple confession. Your heart races far too fast in your ribs and you are definitely giving Wednesday a call sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow, certainly not tonight. Tonight you don’t know what will happen, if things will change or nothing at all, either way things cannot go back to how they were even this morning. Not when there’s audible evidence that you and him are stepping over that damn line, dipping your toes in each other's side of the sand.

Somehow you and him manage to make it through lunch, through more questions with more spots to explore. You and him return to the house around five, intent on searching for these spots before dinner. You remain in the top but you do change the bottoms out for a long black skirt made mostly of lace and linen. If the team senses that there’s something up with you and Spencer they don’t comment. 

You all discuss the findings, you and Spencer with a list of spots to check out and see if there’s any possible sign of disturbance around the area, or if it’s a perfect spot to take someone and murder them without anybody hearing. Absentmindedly you think that the spot also has to be quiet enough where if a pair were having sex nobody would hear, secluded to where nobody would randomly stumble upon it. It’d have to be intentional. You glance at Spencer, who seems to have come to the same conclusion as you judging by the pink in his cheeks. Or maybe it’s the sun. 

JJ herself is looking a little burned on her part, no amount of sunscreen being able to save her poor skin from reddening. Hotch, unfortunately, is much the same unlike Rossi who preens about his Italian lineage saving him from turning into a lobster. You and Morgan simply high five each other in front of the team because as the only melanated people around this is something you both are entitled to flex on. Spencer isn’t too bad, a little pink around the edges but not red, not burnt. 

As soon as dinner is over you’re off to your room, changing into a different bathing suit before heading out. Spencer knows where to find you. You’re proven right ten minutes later when you hear the sounds of shuffling feet, prompting you to look up. There’s Spencer in nothing but a pair of swimming shorts and socks of all things, a floppy hat, and a white sun-shirt. He’s also got sunscreen still on his face and knuckles. You on the other hand have everything out, not an umbrella in sight and your skin turning browner by the second. You love it, truly. 

“Do you even get in the water?”

You hum, sitting up as you do, “Sometimes, but I mostly prefer being on the sand.”

“You looked, uhm, comfortable.”

“I like being underneath the sun, it makes me feel like my bones aren’t nailed together.”

He lays a towel out beside yours, “The rest of them went off to see the different locations we listed, JJ suggested that they go check out the different spots, see what it looks like at night. Ask around the local people to see if there’s anybody odd who comes around at night.”

“Good call, they’re not making us go out?”

“No, Hotch said we’ll probably go out tomorrow too, and you seemed tired, are you?”

“Not too bad, just, you know, I can’t stop thinking about everything.”

About us. Those are the unspoken words, they don’t get acknowledged yet but it’s a close thing, it’s the closest you two have come to discussing whatever this thing is all day. You want him to kiss you, press you into the sand, hold you close, cross the distance. You want all of it, you really, really do. 

“Me too.”

You look at him but he’s already looking at you. Time is, once again, suspended. It’s you and him and the beach, it’s burning hot but it warms you so nicely and your stomach is full from food, drawing you into a lazy lull. He looks so pretty like this, the tropical background and the sun beginning to dip lower, casting everything in a golden glow, including him. You’re here to find an unsub, not bask on the beach and think about kissing your co-worker, but here you are anyway. 

“How long have we been doing this?”

He thinks, just for a second, “Nine months, two days, thirteen hours, 27 minutes. I won’t give you the seconds though.”

“But what if I want all of it?”

“Then you should know it’s nine months, two days, thirteen hours,  twenty-nine minutes, and seventeen seconds.”

“That’s a lot of time to be doing everything and nothing at the same time.”

“Maybe it’s time to change that.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“You.”

He makes you pause, because with Spencer you never hesitate and yet he gives you pause. The broadness of his answer consumes you completely. It can be a number of things, but you can only give him one answer. 

“Don’t you know you already have me?”

In the next breath he’s kissing you. Lip on lip, his body stretched and hands yanking you closer. You let him tug you, let his hand come up behind your head to tangle a little in your hair as his other hand settles on your waist. When you part it isn’t for long, mostly to reposition you both so it’s more comfortable when you tug him down again, raking your own fingers through his hair and over his back, feeling the veiled muscle flex under your touch. 

He groans, feeling your mouth open for him and then it turns into a mess of limbs and spit until you’re both forced to part from each other. You look at him, pupils wide despite the sun as your hand comes to his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone delicately, “Spencer.”

The utterance of his name makes him groan a little bit, mouth coming to kiss the edge of yours, “Finally. I’ve been waiting to kiss you for forever it feels like.”

“When did you realize?”

“That night in Kansas, your first case with us.”

“When we were sitting on the porch.”

“Exactly.”

He kisses you again because he can, he knows you’ll let him and he wants to keep kissing you for forever and ever if he can. You think of your parents, the way they always touched, kissed, lost to their own world and you didn’t understand as a child but when you kiss Spencer you understand them now. You get why they couldn’t bear to stay apart from each other, you get, all of a sudden, why there are seven of you. 

“How long until they come back?”

“At least two hours, they’ll be back after dark.”

“Good.”

“Why? Wait-”

It’s easy to flip you both over so you can straddle him, you aren’t gentle, you aren’t soft, you just go right back to kissing him, seating yourself directly over his lap. Spencer, poor Spencer Reid who has desperately jerked off the thought of you multiple times, doesn’t stand a chance when you wiggle your hips to get more comfortable. Not when there’s two (thin) layers of fabric between you two and he can see the outline of your nipple poking through your top. 

The kisses are faster, messier, his hands dip lower, firm against your bare flesh until you take his wrist and drag it up to your chest, letting him squeeze your tit before rubbing your nipple over the cloth. You shudder into his touch, hips grinding down on instinct. He whines into your mouth, the hand on your hip gripping you a little more frantically than before. You part from him, chest heaving while he pushes the fabric aside, letting your flesh get fully exposed to him. He doesn’t wait, he just leans forward to take your nipple in his mouth. 

All so that your hips keep moving against his own, which they do, grounding down in tight little circles like you’re squirming. His free hand comes up to your other tit, freeing that one as well while you cry out. You’re sensitive, so stupidly sensitive and reactive to his touch that it’s embarrassing you to an extent. You haven’t been touched in so long, not so lovingly, not like you’re something sacred. He hardens underneath you, mouth finally leaving your breast so he can nip at your neck, although he’s thoughtful enough not to leave a mark. 

“Spe-Spence.”

“Hi honey.”

You shudder again, despite not having touched the ocean, even a dip of your toe, you’re absolutely soaked. The pet-name absolutely does not help in the slightest, in fact it makes it worse. He grins at you like he knows exactly what he’s done, which is absolutely unfair in your opinion, the only consolation you have being that he cannot hide his raging hard on that presses up against you. 

“What do you need?”

“Touch me, please.”

“Touch you where? I think I’m touching you an awful lot.”

His finger, the one on your hip slips down, to your thigh, “Do you want me to touch you here? Or here?”

The hand slides up further, his thumb inching closer to where you need him to be. His other hand stays with your tit, squeezing and circling, you stare at the hand on your thigh, so close to where you want those fingers. Because you love his fingers, you really do. They’re long and thin, not thin, sturdy, the veins visible through the skin and the nails are always manicured. You aren’t sure why you’re so attracted to his fingers, but you are. You are. 

“Further.”

“Further? Alright.”

The hand slides up another inch, leaving less than one between his thumb and that piece of you that’s all covered up, “C’mere, I’ve got you.”

He drags you into another kiss just as his fingers slip underneath your bottoms, his long pointer finger dragging your slick up and to your clit which he starts to stroke softly. You moan, cunt clenching around nothing as your thighs automatically begin to quiver a little. Spencer speeds his movements up, delighting in the pretty pink that shows up however faintly against your skin. He drinks up the way you moan and whine, so much more vocal than he ever expected you to be. 

You brace your hands on his knees, trying not to lose your mind when his fingers find the perfect angle against your clit. There’s nothing you can do but take it because you’ve asked for him, for his fingers on your clit and he gave it. Except you’re close and it’s been six minutes of his fingers on you, faster than your usual time, but for Spencer it’s no wonder that you’re cumming so quickly. There’s no time to warn him either, it hits you from out of nowhere as all that heat snaps in your stomach with no warning. You whimper his name out, hole spasming around nothing as your cunt gets slicker from the orgasm. His finger slows but doesn’t fully stop until you manage to pull yourself away so you can catch your breath. 

Another kiss to distract you from the way he unties your bikini bottoms, tossing them to the side while you reach for his aching cock, finally drawing him out of his shorts. He grins stupidly up at you, pleased with himself for pulling such a reaction out of you. He presses a kiss to the space between your chest, eyes never breaking contact with you, “Look at you, so pretty for me. Lay down okay?”

You do as told, legs easily parting while he takes himself in hand, the sun is dipping lower and lower but you don’t care, not when Spencer’s using your slick to coat his dick before aligning the tip with your waiting hole, “Breathe.”

He pushes in when you exhale, all the way until he’s pressed hip to hip with you. For a solid five seconds your vision whites out as the stretch overtakes your mind, you can feel nothing but the weight of him inside of you. He reaches places nobody else ever has, the girth of him pressing into all those pleasure spots inside of you that nobody ever managed to properly find before. You open your mouth except the only sound made sounds like a choked off moan as your back arches. For a second you think you might cum again just because you’ve been stuffed full of him. Your body withers, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. 

His thumb strokes your hip, the other keeping your leg back as he leans over you, kissing your jaw and then your cheek before lifting his head to capture you in a proper kiss. Your eyes screw shut as you force yourself to breathe despite the way your stomach flutters and your breathing stutters. It’s too much and yet it’s perfect all at the same time, you nod frantically against him to answer his silent question, letting his hips drag out of you slowly before coming right back in. 

You can feel the drag of him, every inch with every vein that so much as rises above the smooth skin. It’s in that exact moment that you know you’ve been ruined for anybody else, not that you could ever want anybody else, but it’s the thought that counts. With every thrust that begins to build in speed and strength as his confidence builds your noises start to grow more unrestrained. What a sight you must be underneath him, tits bouncing and your hair a mess, your face slack from being fucked out already. 

Spencer straights up, hooking his arms under your legs before holding them open as his hips snap into yours. The angle change has you seeing stars, a sharp cry forcing its way out of you, letting a little smirk cross over Spencer’s face. A sweet spot from the sound of it, and a good one too, “There?”

“Oh fuck, Spencer, it-you-I-”

You can’t think, you can’t speak. All you can do is swallow and nod, your fingers tracing down his chest and stomach as he keeps going. He bends his body down to kiss your knee, soft and loving because at the end of the day, even when he’s fucking you so good that your brains are getting scrambled, he’s still Spencer. Who decidedly does not have a big and useless dick. Because it most certainly is being put to good use. 

“I know, I know, you’re okay, I promise you are.”

A whine this time when his thumb finds your clit again, circling and stroking and making you shake apart because it’s still sensitive. You’re too out of it to notice him grabbing your camera, you definitely don’t hear the sound of the camera going off over the sound of skin slapping against skin. There’s also the fact that you two are out in the open, literally fucking on the beach. Your co-workers could come back early, they could be listening to you two at this very moment, but you don’t care, and Spencer doesn’t either. 

Well, that’s a lie, but neither of you care in the heat of it all. Too caught up in chasing that burst of pleasure, he can no longer contain his own set of noises anymore. He murmures to you about how good you’re doing for him, how good you feel, how he’s waited so long to fuck your pretty cunt like this. With sweet words and a nasty rhythm that has you keening and leaving thin red lines down his torso and back. He sets your legs down in favor of leaning over you so your fingernails, so sharp and long, dig into his flesh almost hard enough to draw blood. 

Your orgasm does give you warning this time, a steady buildup of pleasure and heat that has you fluttering around his length, sucking him in deeper and harder. He groans, hoping he can last just a second longer than you as his thumb strokes your clit faster, “Oh god, oh god, honey I-”

“Spencer!”

The tension snaps in you, soft whimpers and moans spilling from you as you drag Spencer right over the edge with you. His body stills, a high-pitched noise punched out of him as he begins to spill inside of you. The warmth only makes things more pleasurable to you, especially when you feel him twitching. Slowly your body eases, allowing him to pull out slowly while one pearly white bead dribbles from your used hole. A pearl that he pushes right back in with his thumb. 

You sit up slowly, a fleeting thought of where did my bottoms go flashing away just as quickly. He helps you up, tucking his dick away in the next moment before leaning forward to give you a kiss, “Thank you.”

He means it too. You let him in, literally, and he’s not going to take it for granted. He finds your bottoms quickly, he didn’t toss them too far. You get to your knees to put them back on, Spencer tying one side while you do the other. The sky is pink now, pink and gold with streaks of purple. He peels his socks away, which somehow stayed on and when did he take his shirt off? You don’t know, but you certainly appreciate the view. He leads you to the water then, the warm salt water lapping at your ankles, then your knees, and then by instinct you’re going under. The water is a balm to you in ways you cannot describe. It has been far too long since you have been in the water, felt her gentle hands on your skin guiding you to where you need to go. 

It doesn’t matter that your hair is getting wet, it needs to be washed anyway. You emerge to Spencer a few meters away, he’s a little above hip level in the water, his eyes never leaving you. You come over easily, emerging less than a foot away from him but your hands and arms instinctively circle around to him, drawing him close because you just can’t stop kissing him. It’s like you’re possessed, but if you’re possessed he must be too because he responds just as eagerly. This time it isn’t frantic with want or driven by hormones, it’s just a greeting, an affirmation. 

“You love me.”

“With every fiber of my being.”

“Good.”

“You love me too.”

“For as long as my soul exists it shall never forget.”

You definitely need to call Wednesday. 

_____________

“Wednesday Addams speaking.”

Her voice might be a little wavery with age but her bluntness has always remained, the cool cadence of it something soothing to you, “Granddaughter, do you know how long it has been since you last reached out for me?”

“Apologies, work has kept me busy.”

She tuts on the other end but you know you’re forgiven, you are, afterall, her favorite grandchild, “Something has changed, but what I cannot determine.”

Of course she would sense it from hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, that your heart has changed for the better, “I’ve fallen in love.”

“Have you now?”

“Mm.”

“What is the name?”

“Doctor Spencer Walter Reid, he works in the BAU with me. He’s the smartest man I know and he wears funny ties.”

“He loves you too?”

“He treats me as if I’m moon water.”

“Mm.”

She’s silent for a moment, knowing her she’s determining what the next course of action will be as the family matriarch. The general rule of thumb is that if Wednesday Addams says something will happen, then by god it will happen. If she says bring him for the Day of Mourning then yes, Spencer will be there for the Day of Mourning. That also means seeing your family, facing them again after almost a year since you’ve left. 

Not to mention you never really took the ring off, “I’m getting married too.”

“Oh by the raven you leave and you don’t call and when you do it’s to tell me you’re engaged to a man we’ve never met.”

“Grandmother this all happened in the span of a week.”

“That is worse, decidedly.”

“Grandmother. If you are truly so worried with this match you should know he has an extensive fascination in figuring out how people died and why they died.”

She pauses, just for a second, “What else about him?”

“He has five degrees, three of which are PhDs, he has an IQ of 187, he graduated high school at twelve years old, he cares not for social intricacies or what people can say about him. He knows the language of the tattoos, he drives for me too, and lets me pick the CDs. He remembers everything he’s ever read, he remembers everything he’s seen, mostly. If you ask him a question 9.8 times out of ten he has an answer for you.”

“Smart, he cares for you well.”

“He’s taken care of me from the beginning.”

“Then I can excuse this absurd timeline you’ve made, however, I want you both up for the weekend in two weeks time. It is the anniversary of your great-grandparents death and it is only right that we dance with them to welcome him into the fold.”

“We can make that work.”

“If you cannot then remember I will.”

Threats are a love language in your family, where it came from you don’t know but it’s true. Prevalent in your grandmother most of all, your grandfather had lavished her with death threats as a way of flirting. It certainly worked. Spencer flirts with you by leaving the most morbid of poems and excerpts of death on your desk in hopes you’ll come talk to him about them. He brings you trinkets like a crow, loving on you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

In the week since you and him have fallen into place together as one you’ve found out that sex can actually feel incredible. You are going to marry Spencer someday in the not so far off future. He’s not going to renew his lease because he already half-way lives in your apartment and you have room on your bookshelves for him. There is a future to look forward to with him. 

“I get it now, why your parents were so besotted with each other, why our family let ourselves fall so deeply.”

“I’m pleased that you can experience it for yourself. This ring, what is it like?”

“It belonged to his mother, hence why I have no objection. Gold, peridots on a gold plate, marquise cut diamond that you can see from a good distance.”

“Family heirlooms are important, as long as there is taste then I have no objection to it.”

“I can’t say you’ll love the ring, I do though.”

“Then that is what matters.”

She pauses, and for a second you wonder if she’s telling you what she wanted to be told herself when she was still young and in shoes like yours, “If you are content then I wish for nothing more. My son made a mistake trying to keep you close when my parents passed when he knew fully well that they are just beyond the veil.”

“Why did they put up such a fight for me leaving? There is nothing from me that they have shown interest in, they have never given me a reason to stay.”

Wednesday sighs on the other end, which is a new thing considering the woman rarely gave away what she was actually feeling, “Because sometimes parents are stupid. They didn’t know how to let their raven fly just yet, not when my parents had just taken off. They do miss you, although they refuse to say it.”

Age has mellowed her, not by much, but enough to where she knows the right words at any given time. She’s your favorite woman in the world, her stern expression and intolerance for nonsense unless there was purpose in it. She taught you how to set traps and how to hold your arsenic. The best ways to wash blood out of your floor or dress, how to butcher something and how to degut that thing too. It was her version of gardening you supposed. 

“I guess I’ll be seeing them in two weeks.”

“I’ll let them know I’ve asked you to come, but you’re going to tell them about Spencer yourself.”

“I’ll introduce him to my great-grandparents first.”

“Mm, that’ll entertain my father, although mother I’m sure would laugh too. They were always front row to whatever family drama was occurring.”

“I’m glad they’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Oh don’t be humble you will too, as will Joel. He would like this Spencer of yours.”

“I hope he does.”

“Your grandfather’s criteria is that you be treated the best you can be, that he makes you happy and holds the car door for you. The kind of guy who will break bones for you if you wished him too. All your grandfather wanted was to ensure his grandchildren picked the right person to suffer through life with.”

“He said that?”

“Your grandfather, some of his last living words to me was to make sure you all married good and well, that you found someone who’d force a smile out of you all. Especially you.”

“Why me?”

“Because out of all your siblings you deserve to be loved the way my father loved my mother. I hope for both of your sakes that he can compete.”

“He hates to lose.”

“Good, maybe he has a chance of being with you then.”

“Grandmother.”

Wednesday doesn’t laugh but the fond exhale of breath tells you she’s amused. You look up through when you hear the door open, Spencer stands in the doorway, an easy smile on his face as he motions for you to keep talking to Wednesday, “Have I ever been incorrect?’

You sigh, shutting your eyes for a second, “No?”

“Correct, now go, I sense his presence nearby. We will see you shortly.”

“Of course Grandmother, we’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Mm, go collect some dust grandchild of mine.”

You hang up, Spencer already having made his way over to you, “We’re going up to the wolves?”

“Grandmother has decreed that we will be there so therefore we will absolutely be there. She will pull rank with the US government to see our asses sat in her twenty-thousand dollar chairs.”

“In what world do you need twenty-thousand dollar chairs of all things?”

“Grandmother’s.”

You pat his cheek, that little smirk of yours tugging at your lips already, “And one day it’ll be your world too, just wait until the first gala.”

“Gala? We have to go to galas?”

“We’re rich Spencer, of course we’re going to a gala.”

“Can one oh, I don’t know, unpropose?”

“You never proposed, so I don’t know.”

“You still wear my mothers ring though.”

That makes you groan, slipping it off your finger as you put it in his hand, eyebrows raised at him, “There’s the ring, now you can actually propose.”

“I am not proposing in your office.”

“Then where, the kitchen?”

“Remind me why I’m going to propose to you sometime this week?”

Your smirk bleeds into a grin as you tug him a little closer, “Because you love me, and this apartment, and this pussy, and because you want to walk to the edges of the universe with me whenever we pass on.”

He groans, but he’s smiling still as his hands find your waist, “Unfortunately I think you might be correct.”

“Am I ever wrong?”

“Mm, that remains to be seen.”

The kiss is soft, sweet, a promise that a proper proposal is coming your way and that despite it all he does love you more than anything in the world. You do too, the reciprocity felt in the way your hand cradles the back of his head, eyes shutting when he touches you. The proposal might not come tonight, or tomorrow, but it will come and it is something to look forward to. Dinner with the Addams family in two weeks, you dread it and simultaneously you can’t wait. Spencer will openly be yours there, unlike in the BAU where you’ve both chosen to keep quiet about it for the moment. Because in the moment it is you and Spencer and nobody else, because somehow in the midst of all that resentment towards your parents for encasing themselves in their love, you’ve found your own bubble to live in. 

And you couldn’t be happier to be a girl in a bubble for once.

[sc3ptre]

Don’t know if you’re interested, but can we get a beau x reader x dean work?

The wood experiment ²

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader x Beau Maxwell

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

Summary: After years of disappointing experiences with toys that never quite satisfied you, you take a bold risk with two friendly strangers during a camping trip to finally test whether the problem was you or simply the wrong dildos.

Classification: Smut +18 | Threesome (MFM), first-time vaginal penetration, dry humping, fingering, double genital stimulation, creampie, cum play, spanking, edging, orgasm control, dirty talk, praise kink, mild dominance, no-strings-attached sex, light impact play, crude humor and mention of sex toys.

Word count: 4,8k

Divider by me ;)

You didn’t know where you stood on the spectrum of sexuality and sensuality. You had never felt the touch of a man, yet you were no saint. You owned toys, you read erotica and watched porn when the mood struck. Most of all, you liked the part of yourself that refused to wait for a man to drop out of the sky before you could feel pleasure.

Your friends had plenty of experience with men and you were happy for them but you simply preferred to stay in control of your own.

For a long time that had been more than enough. You could take care of your own needs in under five minutes with the cheapest vibrator on the market or with your fingers in ten if you were worked up enough. Dildos had never done it for you, no matter the material, the shape, the length or the width, they left you feeling little and never brought you to orgasm. That fact had left you uneasy about the idea of sex with a man. You hoped that when it finally happened, penetration would feel good, you'd make sure of it, but a quiet fear lingered. Were you numb?

Still, you felt no rush to enter a relationship just to test the theory. You had watched enough friends tumble into messy entanglements and then ignore every piece of advice you gave them. 

Why would they listen to you, right? But after all, coaches never played…until tonight.

You sat around the crackling fire, thoughts drifting. You had come camping for a few nights to get some distance from your usual life and step down from your unpaid role as couple’s therapist to your friends. The first evening, Dean and Beau had set up camp near yours. They were university students like you, barely a year older, friendly and easy to talk to. 

You had fallen into hiking and kayaking together with surprising comfort and now the three of you sat around their fire, the night air cool against your skin while the flames threw warm light across your faces. Since this whole trip was an experiment and a chance to push your own limits…why stop at flirting?

“Are you two…?” Your question trailed off as you gestured between them. You sat in the middle, each of you in your own camp chair.

Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Best friends…Not that he isn’t a good-looking guy.” He motioned toward Beau. “Look at him.”

Your gaze slid to Beau. He smiled, a little shy and sweet, clearly less bold than Dean. Still, the firelight traced the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders.

“He’s right,” you said quietly.

Beau nodded, cheeks warming. “Uh, thank you.” He took a sip from his soda can. “Only one of us is Six Flags, though.” He grinned and Dean laughed.

You looked between them, lips curving despite yourself. “Six Flags? What does that mean?”

“He’s a ladies’ man,” Beau explained. “They come for the ride and then leave.”

“And I’m okay with that,” Dean added, raising a finger as if to make the statement sound more sincere.

You nodded slowly, eyes returning to Beau. You lifted your half-empty soda can in his direction. “And what kind of ride do you offer, handsome?”

Both of them turned their full attention to you, lips parting.

“Offer?” Beau repeated, voice low.

You hummed in confirmation, letting the moment stretch. The fire popped softly as crickets filled the silence between your words. “Just seeing if I could get two-for-one access tonight.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose as a slow, interested smirk tugged at his mouth. Beau’s gaze darkened as he set his can down on the ground beside his chair. The easy conversation from earlier fell away, replaced by something heavier and charged.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, firelight dancing in his eyes. “That’s a bold ask, sweetheart.”

You held his stare, pulse quickening. “Think of it as an experiment…I figured the woods were a good place for it.”

Beau glanced at Dean and immediately caught the eager look on his face. Dean looked about two seconds away from saying yes on the spot. Before he could, Beau cleared his throat.

“Hey, man. Can we… talk for a minute?” He asked, the last part tilting up as he motioned away with his head.

Dean blinked, then shrugged as he stood. “Sure.” Before he took a step, he turned and flashed you a quick smile.

Beau stood next and walked a short distance away from the fire as Dean followed, far enough for a private conversation but still in your line of sight. You kept your eyes on them, heart beating faster. You did not know what you were thinking, but you wanted this to happen. You wanted the overwhelming feeling of several hands on your body at once. The idea of sex without commitments felt like the perfect answer to your questions tonight. You wanted to try the real thing and the mere thought of being greedy enough to take both of them was making you awfully wet.

Beau crossed his arms. “Did I understand her right? She actually wants both of us? Like…at the same time?”

Dean grinned, nodding eagerly with his hands on his hips. “Sounded pretty clear to me.”

“What if she asks us to kiss?” Beau pressed, voice low but urgent.

Dean turned his head and looked straight at you. Your eyes were locked on them, curious and steady. Beau followed his gaze, then dropped his eyes lower. Dean was already visibly hard, the outline clear against his pants. Spending the past few days with you had been fun, and you were undeniably pretty.

Beau smacked him right on the cock with the back of his hand.

Dean doubled over with a groan, hands flying to cover himself. “Fuck, dude! The fuck was that for?”

“Can you focus for a second?” Beau hissed, eyes returning to Dean’s folded-over posture.

Dean straightened up slowly, still wincing but laughing under his breath. “One of us clearly is. Come on, isn’t this what we came here for? You wanted spontaneity. This is as spontaneous as it gets out in the woods.”

Beau rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back toward you. “We take this to the grave, right? No matter what happens. And if it gets too weird, we can always take turns instead of… everything at once. It’ll be her choice. I’m big on communication.”

“So am I,” Dean said easily. “But I’m not worried about ‘weird’. I have no issue seeing your dick, man. I’m a hockey player. I shower in rooms full of them and I can tell you that eventually your eyes start to wander.” He reached over and gave Beau a firm pat on the shoulder. “It’s not ‘if,’ it’s ‘when’… and that time comes pretty soon.” He nodded, eyes tracing Beau’s worried face.

Beau looked down at himself. He was getting hard too, though it was not nearly as obvious as Dean’s situation. Still, a flicker of doubt crossed his face as he wondered if size would be an issue once things got started.

Dean caught the look instantly. “Comparison is the thief of joy, my friend.”

Beau let out a short laugh despite himself, the tension easing a little. Dean’s grin returned, cocky and sure.

“I can show you a nude right now so there’s no surprises,” Dean added, his grin spreading wider.

Beau groaned. “Size isn’t all there is. It’s how you use it.”

Dean chuckled, nodding. “That’s my boy.”

During the conversation they had not noticed you stand and walk closer. When their eyes finally left each other and found you, you were only a couple of steps away.

“Don’t worry, guys. I don’t think we’ll hit max capacity of my tent tonight.” You smiled as you walked toward your tent without looking back. Both of their gazes followed your steps, matching smiles spreading across their faces.

“I think I just came in my pants,” Dean sighed.

“I’ll go first then,” Beau said, patting Dean’s chest. “You should start getting used to coming second…or even third.” He started walking after you. A second later, Dean followed.

The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of nylon and the musk of three bodies humming with anticipation. You sat there, trembling slightly, heart hammering against your ribs. 

You hadn't told Beau or Dean that this was your first time, that the dildos you’d tried in private had left you feeling cold and empty, leaving you with a nagging, terrifying fear that you were somehow broken. You didn't know if you could actually feel pleasure but as you looked at them, the desperation to find out outweighed the fear.

The clothes had been discarded in a frantic heap, leaving you all in just your underwear. The space was cramped, which only added to the intensity, forcing your skin to brush against theirs at every turn.

Beau, always the sweeter of the two, had laid back first. He looked up at you with soft, wanting eyes as you climbed over him. You straddled his hips, settling your weight down so your core pressed firmly against the hard line of his cock, separated only by the thin fabric of his boxers and your own underwear. When you started grinding against him, you gasped, eyes widening slightly. He was warm and pulsing beneath you, the thick ridge of his erection rubbing right against your clit with every roll of your hips. 

You began to rock yourself on him, moving in a slow, experimental rhythm. The friction of his clothed cock sliding against you sent sparks through your nerves, a sensation so vivid it almost made you cry out.

Dean was right behind you, kneeling and straddling Beau’s thighs to get closer. He was a wall of heat against your back, his confidence radiating off him in waves. His large hands reached around, sliding up to capture your clothed breasts. He squeezed and massaged them firmly, his fingers kneading your flesh while he leaned in to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped at your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Your hands rested on Beau’s chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms as you moved while his hands locked onto your hips, fingers digging in to help guide them, pushing you down harder onto him with every roll. 

Whenever Dean got close enough, pressing his front to your back eagerly, you could feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing firmly against your ass, a promise of what was coming.

The feeling of being sandwiched between two men, the weight of them and the heat of their breath created an overwhelming sensation. You weren't close to coming yet but the tension was already building, in a new coil of heat tightening in your lower belly that you had never experienced before.

Dean’s hands moved, fingers hooking into the strap of your bra. With a swift, confident motion, he flicked the clasp and peeled the fabric away, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the tent.

Beau let out a low groan at the sight of your breasts spilling free, hips bucking upward instinctively. He looked up at your chest, eyes glazed with lust and breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fuck," Beau choked out, his voice strained. "You're so beautiful...It’s gonna make me cum."

He tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you closer as you ground down against him. He held back, fighting the urge to come in his underwear while the two of you moved in a desperate, sweaty rhythm.

Dean stayed pressed behind you, mouth hot on your neck and shoulder, kissing and biting softly as his hand slipped around your waist and slid slowly beneath the waistband of your panties. 

His fingers found your slick folds and immediately began drawing slow but firm circles over your clit, the sudden direct touch making you moan loudly into the space. 

Meanwhile, his other hand stayed cupped around your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple in time with the movement of his fingers, forcing pleasure to surge through you from both angles. 

Your hips lifted on instinct. Breathing hard, you reached down between your bodies, slipped your hand into the waistband of his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his thick, heated length. You pulled him free, stroking him once from base to tip as his breath hitched sharply.

You then hooked a finger into the side of your soaked panties and tugged them roughly aside, exposing your dripping pussy completely to him. 

Dean chuckled low against your neck. "Taking initiative, I love that…Beau here likes spontaneity."

Holding Beau’s cock steady, you lined him up at your entrance and slowly sank down onto him. 

The stretch was immediate and intense. A broken moan and gasp escaped your lips as his warm, bare cock pushed inside you, filling you inch by inch. It truly was nothing like your toys, he felt alive, hot and so much fuller than you had imagined. You kept sinking until you were fully seated in his lap, walls fluttering and clenching around him then releasing in ways no toy had ever made them do. "Holy fuck," you breathed.

"Nothing holy about this," Beau answered, voice rough. "Get to riding."

You laughed shakily as Dean’s laugh vibrated against your skin. "And here she thought you were the sweeter one."

"Please," Beau added, smiling up at you and the word made your lips part around another curse.

Dean’s hand left your breast and slid up to the back of your neck, pressing you forward firmly until your chest was flush against Beau’s, nipples brushing his warm skin with every breath. The new angle pushed you deeper onto Beau’s cock, drawing a shared moan from both of you.

Behind you, Dean rolled his hips, grinding the hard, clothed length of his cock between your ass cheeks. The thick ridge of his erection, still trapped in his boxers, dragged slowly, applying steady pressure against your most sensitive area. He matched every roll and lift of your hips as you rode Beau, thrusting in perfect sync so that every time you sank down onto Beau’s cock, Dean’s pressed firmly against your ass.

His fingers never stopped their steady circles over your swollen clit, slick and fast now, pushing you higher with every stroke. The sensation of being filled by Beau while Dean ground against you from behind left you trembling between them, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily more desperate.

"Tell her again," Dean said, grinning. "I’m pretty sure her pussy will thank you for your manners."

Beau’s hands settled on your waist, guiding your drags up and down his length. "Ride me, sweetheart. Nice and slow so you can feel every inch."

You kept moving and each time you rose, Dean’s dry thrusts pushed you forward again, the fabric of his boxers catching and dragging against sensitive, wet skin. The tent felt smaller with every breath and shift of bodies while your knees slid over your sleeping bag as you found a rhythm, Beau’s cock stretching you as Dean’s fingers kept your clit puffy and throbbing.

Beau’s grip tightened as he grabbed handfuls of ass. "Fuck, you feel so good…so tight around me."

"She’s dripping down your cock already. Keep talking to her, Beau…she likes it." Dean grinned.

Beau’s voice stayed soft even as his hips failed to lift to meet you halfway. "You’re doing so well…taking me so deep. That’s it, let Dean play with that pretty clit while you fuck yourself on me."

Dean’s fingers pressed firmer, faster and your moans broke into something higher. The combined sensation from Beau filling you and Dean’s cock grinding against your ass while his fingers worked your clit, made your thighs shake. You rocked harder, chasing the feeling you’d never found with silicone.

"That’s right," Dean murmured. "Use us. Show us how you want it."

Beau’s hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "You can go faster if you need to, it’s all yours to take."

You did. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him fully grew louder inside the small tent. Dean’s dry thrusts grew more insistent, the head of his cock catching on the thin fabric of your panties with every roll of his hips as your clit pulsed under his fingers, every circle sending sparks up your spine.

Beau’s breathing turned ragged, eyes fluttering shut. "You’re squeezing me so tight…Fuck, don’t stop."

Dean’s hand pressed firmly on the delicious curve of your spine…Fuck, he wanted to lick along it. "She won’t…not until she comes all over your cock. Right, beautiful?"

The words hit you harder than you expected. Your hips stuttered for a moment, then resumed their frantic rhythm, chasing the edge that had always stayed just out of reach with your toys. 

Beau’s hands gripped your waist, steadying you as you rode him and Dean’s fingers never faltered on your clit, circling with relentless pressure. The three of you moved together in the cramped tent, bodies sliding against each other, hot breaths mingling in the thick air while the quiet night outside faded completely.

Beau pulled you into a deep, searing kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he met every desperate roll of your hips, which you were greedy for. You rode him harder, walls clamping down tightly around his thick shaft with every downward plunge. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting filled the small space as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core, centered beneath Dean’s skilled fingers.

Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, violent and overwhelming. Your back arched sharply, pressing your chest harder against Beau’s as your hardened nipples dragged across his heated skin. The kiss broke with a wet gasp as a loud, broken moan tore from your throat. 

Your pussy spasmed hard around Beau’s cock, milking him in powerful, rhythmic pulses while pleasure tore through every nerve in your body.

You were so drenched that your juices coated his length and dripped down onto his balls, the slickness becoming too much. With one final, shaking shudder, Beau’s cock slipped out of you with a loud and obscene wet pop. You slumped forward against his chest, gasping for air, your empty pussy visibly twitching and pulsing in the open air between your spread cheeks.

Dean, who had been watching the entire spectacle with dark, predatory hunger, let out a low hiss. Seeing your walls contract and flutter had pushed him past the point of restraint. He snatched his hand away from your clit, the sudden loss making you whimper in protest and in one fluid motion, he shoved the front of his boxers down, freeing his thick, rigid cock. 

He leaned forward, lined the swollen head against your soaked entrance and began pushing in.

You let out a loud, shocked moan against Beau’s lips, your eyes widening at the sudden heavy intrusion. Beau had been long and smooth, gliding easily along your walls, Dean was thicker and the wait had made him even harder. He was ridged and pressed firmly against every sensitive spot as he moved. He stretched you to your absolute limit, forcing your walls to open around his girth as he sank deeper.

Beau reached down with both hands and gripped your ass cheeks. He spread them wide, fully exposing your dripping pussy to Dean’s relentless push, the new position leaving you completely open between them.

Dean gave a few slow, careful thrusts at first, testing how your body responded while it was still vibrating from your orgasm. The waves hadn’t faded, instead, they continued pulsing around his cock with every shallow stroke, drawing a deep groan from his chest.

You whined, a high and needy sound escaping your throat. Dean rested his forehead against the back of your neck for a moment, breathing hard, before he straightened up again on his knees.

“Fucking glorious, right? So warm,” Beau murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through your spine. “She’s still cumming from your cock, dude.” He paused, his voice softening even as it stayed dominant. “I’m not hurting you, am I, sweetheart?”

You shook your head gently, breath coming in short, jagged gasps. A powerful wave of relief washed over you. You weren’t broken or numb, you could feel everything, every ridge, vein and throb of their cocks inside you. The sheer intensity proved you were more than capable of this kind of pleasure.

Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you upright, pulling you off Beau’s chest and holding you tight against him in a firm bear hug, your back flush to his front. Your skin burned where it pressed against his.

“Do me a favor and wrap that pretty hand around Beau’s cock,” he whispered hotly against your ear.

He began to thrust in earnest, each powerful stroke driving deep and pushing fresh wetness out around his thick shaft. You melted back into him, head falling against his shoulder as a full-body shudder ran through you.

“Come on, be a good girl,” Dean murmured, voice rough with passion.

He looked down at Beau’s cock lying hard and twitching against his stomach, shiny and dripping with your juices. The swollen head glistened under the low light while a thin string of your slick stretched from your pussy to Beau’s skin every time Dean pulled back and slammed in again.

Your hand reached down on instinct, fingers wrapping around Beau’s slick, hot length, feeling it pulse strongly in your palm. You stroked him slowly at first, spreading the wetness up and down his shaft while Dean fucked you steadily from behind, the three of you locked together in the cramped tent.

You guided the broad head of Beau’s cock firmly against your swollen clit and the drenched opening of your pussy. Every time Dean slammed his hips forward, driving his cock deep into you, the force pressed your pelvis down onto Beau’s shaft. The friction was electric, a constant, slippery grind that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves. You whimpered, head tossing back against Dean’s shoulder anew as pre-cum and your own slick lubricated the filthy contact.

Beau’s chest tensed beneath you, his muscles rippling as he fought for control. “Ugh, fuck,” he moaned, the sound vibrating through your thighs. You let out a breathless chuckle between your moans, fingers digging into his skin to keep his cock pressed tight against your throbbing clit.

“You guys…do this often?” you gasped, voice trembling as Dean’s thrusts grew more urgent, hitting your cervix with blunt, satisfying thuds.

“We can, if you call us,” Beau answered instantly.

Dean let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your back. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he said, teeth grazing the shell of your ear before he gripped your waist tighter and pulled you back harder onto his cock.

The pace changed, becoming a relentless, kinky assault on your senses. Dean began to rotate his hips, grinding his cock deep inside you while you continued sliding against Beau’s tip. The wet, slapping sound of skin meeting skin filled the tent, mixed with the heavy, intoxicating scent of sex and musk. You were drowning in it as pleasure built into a towering wave that stripped away your ability to speak. You could no longer form words, all that left your lips were high, needy moans and broken whimpers.

As you lost the ability to talk, the men took over. Their voices became low and praising as they talked about you like a prize, describing exactly how your tight walls squeezed Dean and how your clit pulsed against Beau.

“Look at her,” Dean groaned, his breath hot on your neck. “So fucking wet for us. I can feel her twitching around me, trying to suck me dry.”

“She’s perfect,” Beau rasped, his eyes locked on your blissed-out face.

Suddenly, Beau sat up, his movement fluid and hungry. He lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one of your stiff nipples, sucking hard while his tongue swirled around the sensitive peak. At the same time, his hand reached up to massage your other breast, kneading the soft flesh with a firm grip. The combination of Dean’s deep pounding from behind, the constant friction on your clit and Beau’s hungry mouth on your breasts pushed you right to the edge.

Your back arched sharply, toes curling. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum,” you wailed, your internal muscles clamping down violently around Dean.

“Hold it,” they both commanded in unison.

The sudden order snapped you out of your haze for a split second. They didn’t stop moving, if anything, Dean slowed to a torturous, shallow grind, teasing the entrance of your womb, while Beau kept his cock pressed firmly against your clit. They went right back to their seductive murmurs against your skin, praising how your body trembled and how desperately you were leaking for them. They kept you hovering right on the precipice, denying your release and stretching the tension until your entire body hummed like a live wire, trapped in agonizing, wet ecstasy.

The friction continued, a relentless, slippery torture. The sheer amount of lubrication, a hot cocktail of your soaking wetness and their pre-cum, made every movement smooth and loud. 

As you ground desperately against Beau, the slickness became so intense that his cock suddenly slid from your clit and glided effortlessly toward your entrance.

You gasped, eyes widening in shock as you felt the broad, blunt head of his cock press firmly against your opening, right beside where Dean’s thick shaft was sliding in and out. He didn’t push inside but the overwhelming pressure of two cocks fighting for the same tight space was too much and the dam broke. 

You screamed, body convulsing in a violent, crashing orgasm. Your walls clamped down hard on Dean in rhythmic, desperate pulses, milking him with every spasm. You whined and moaned, voice breaking as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.

The intensity of your climax triggered both men. Beau, feeling the frantic pulsing of your pussy against his sensitive head, let out a raspy moan into your nipple. His body stiffened as he erupted, thick ropes of hot cum shooting across your drenched pussy and mixing with the mess already coating your inner thighs.

At the same moment, the crushing grip of your orgasm pulled Dean over the edge. He let out a low, animalistic growl and buried himself as deep as possible, filling your womb with heavy, pulsing loads of cum. He kept thrusting slowly and heavily, pumping every last drop deep inside you while your body continued to shake between them.

Eventually, Dean slowed and pulled out with a wet, suctioning sound. The sudden emptiness left you feeling sensitive and open. 

You collapsed forward onto Beau’s chest as he lay back down, breathing hard against the crook of his neck. 

Your skin was warm and glistening with sweat and seed…And just as you started to relax, Beau reached down and delivered a sharp, loud smack to your ass.

You whined, the sting sending a fresh spark through your exhausted nerves while Dean groaned, voice thick with lingering lust as he stared at the sight of you. 

“How’s it looking?” Beau asked, glancing at Dean, who seemed completely mesmerized by your lower body.

Dean leaned in, eyes tracking the way their mixed cum and your wetness dripped from your swollen and still pulsing folds. “Like an overfilled twinkie,” he muttered.

The absurd comment shattered the tension and all three of you dissolved into tired, breathless laughter. You propped yourself up slightly, lifting just enough to capture Beau’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as you tasted the salt and heat of everything you had just done.

“You might not be Six Flags,” you whispered against his lips, a playful glint in your eyes, “but they should make you employee of the month.”

Beau grinned triumphantly and surged up to reclaim your mouth, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass firmly, kneading the flesh.

“Hey…how come I got no kiss?” Dean’s voice drifted from behind you, mock-offended.

You didn’t bother to look back, too focused on Beau’s tongue sliding against yours but you had to pull back. “You came inside me,” you murmured breathlessly. “Don’t be greedy.”

You sank back into the kiss, feeling Beau’s chest rumble with a chuckle.

“Few more minutes and I’ll come on it too,” Dean whispered, voice low and promising as you felt Beau grin against your lips.

You had never seen men as the answer to much of anything, least of all your pleasure. So maybe the next thing you would acquire wouldn’t be a boyfriend, but a nice, realistic, warming and throbbing dildo to add to your collection… and perhaps a couple of phone numbers to call on those nights when your toys needed charging.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[garrettgrahamswhore]

MOVIE NIGHT

pairing — beau maxwell x girlfriend!reader

summary — you only wanted beau to pay attention to you during movie night. unfortunately, once he realizes exactly what you’re doing, he has no intention of staying sweet about it.

warnings — 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, teasing, brat-taming, clothed grinding, thigh riding, fingering, oral sex both ways, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, dirty talk, hair pulling, spanking, light choking, rough but consensual sex, overstimulation & aftercare.

word count — 4,011.

author note — honestly, what did i just write?? i hope you like it, because i think i need holy water after this one. also, will i be seeing some of you at the Off Campus convention in Paris next year? 👀

(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ULTIMATE MASTERLIST)

The movie had lost you twenty minutes ago.

Technically, that wasn’t Beau’s fault.

He’d picked the movie because you said you wanted something easy, the kind neither of you had to think too hard about. Something that could play in the background while you curled up together on his couch and pretended every small touch didn’t feel like it might turn into something else.

Three months in, and it still didn’t take much for things to get out of hand.

It was his hand on your thigh, his mouth brushing your temple, the low warmth of his body behind yours as he pulled you closer under the blanket because you’d claimed you were cold.

You weren’t cold, not really.

But your sleep shorts were tiny, Beau’s apartment was dim, and the movie had been playing for almost forty minutes while Beau kissed your temple, held you close, and acted like being sweet all night was a reasonable thing to do.

Which was nice.

It was.

Beau was good at being nice, too good sometimes. He had a way of making you feel taken care of without making a whole thing out of it — quiet touches, easy patience, his thumb moving lazily over your hip while the television flickered across the room.

The problem was that his version of nice had started to feel like a challenge, so you shifted against him.

At first, it was subtle, just a small shift under the blanket as your hips settled back against his and your thigh slid over his. Beau gave you nothing, except for the way his arm tightened around your waist.

A few minutes later, you did it again, slower this time, a little less like an accident and a little more like a question.

His hand stilled on your hip, and you kept your eyes on the screen like you hadn’t done anything at all.

Behind you, Beau took a slow breath, his chest rising against your back.

“You good?” His voice was low.

“Mhm,” you hummed, still watching the movie.

“You sure?”

“You sure?”

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you said, still not looking at him.

His thumb started moving again, slower this time.

You hid your smile against the blanket.

For a little while, Beau let you pretend you were getting away with it.

That was the part that got under your skin.

Beau stayed quiet behind you, warm and solid, one hand resting low on your stomach while his breath brushed the back of your neck. He let you shift, let you press back, let your fingers trail along his forearm like you weren’t very obviously testing him.

One more shift of your hips, and you felt him getting hard behind you.

Beau’s hand tightened low on your stomach while the movie kept playing like either of you still cared.

Neither of you moved until the screen froze, and you blinked at it before realizing Beau had paused the movie.

The silence that followed was awful in a way that made your whole body go hot, especially when his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.

“You’re either going to sit still,” Beau murmured, his voice calm against your ear, “or you’re going to tell me why you keep pressing back against me.”

You kept your eyes on the frozen screen. “Maybe you’re just too close.”

“No?” His hand tightened low on your stomach. “You want me to move?”

“I told you,” you murmured. “I’m cold.”

Beau’s hand slipped from your stomach to your thigh, fingers spreading slowly over the bare skin your shorts didn’t cover.

“Funny.” His voice was low against your ear. “You keep saying cold, but you feel pretty warm to me.”

“What, I can’t cuddle with my boyfriend?”

“You can.” His hand moved higher. “But if you keep rubbing against me like that, I’m going to stop letting you act innocent.”

You swallowed hard.

The change in his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau noticed that too.

A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, before he pulled you fully into his lap. Not rough, not yet — just firm enough that your body went where he wanted it, your back against his chest and your legs tucked over one of his thighs beneath the blanket.

“There,” he said. “If you want to move so badly, use my thigh.”

Your breath caught around his name. “Beau.”

“No, don’t get shy now.” His mouth brushed the side of your neck. “You were brave enough when you thought I wasn’t going to do anything about it.”

The words went straight between your thighs.

You tried to turn your face away, but his hand came up to your jaw, gentle and firm at once, guiding you back just enough for him to watch what his words did to you.

“You wanted my attention.” His voice stayed low. “Now you have it.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

His thigh shifted beneath you, just enough to make the rest of your sentence disappear.

Beau’s hand left your jaw and trailed back down, over your stomach, until his fingers reached the waistband of your shorts.

“No?” His voice stayed low. “You didn’t want to feel me getting hard against you?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His fingers slipped just beneath the elastic, close enough to make your whole body tense, but still not where you needed him.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You hated how quickly those words undid you.

“Maybe,” you got out. “A little.”

“A little?” His voice stayed low. “Sweetheart, that didn’t feel like a little.”

You moved before you could stop yourself, grinding down against his thigh as Beau’s fingers flexed at your waist. The pressure hit immediately, dirty and unfairly good for how little Beau was actually doing. You could feel him behind you, hard against your ass, his breathing low and controlled at your ear, letting you use his thigh because you were the one who had started this.

“That’s it.” His voice was low against your ear. “You wanted to move so badly, sweetheart. Don’t stop now.”

The blanket was still pulled over both of you, the paused movie casting pale flashes across the room, and from the outside, it might have looked almost innocent.

It wasn’t. Not with your shorts riding up your thighs, Beau’s mouth against your neck, and his voice dropping lower every time your hips dragged over him.

“Good girl,” he said. “Look at you, acting innocent while you grind against my thigh.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

His hand slipped beneath your shorts, and every part of you went still.

Beau pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Still cold?”

“You’re mean,” you said.

“Not yet.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and pressed against you through your panties first.

You were already wet enough that there was no pretending otherwise, and the second he felt it, Beau’s breathing changed.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice went rough against your ear. “You were this wet the whole time?”

Your eyes fluttered, and the truth slipped out before you could make it smaller. “I wanted you to touch me.”

“I know.” His fingers dragged slowly over the damp fabric. “You just wanted me to notice first.”

“You were supposed to be watching the movie.”

“I was trying to.” His fingers moved again. “You made that difficult.”

You laughed, but it broke into a gasp when he pushed the fabric aside and slid his fingers through your wetness.

His other hand settled low on your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

“That’s it.” His voice had gone rough in your ear. “Don’t hide from me now.”

You weren’t sure you could, not with his fingers circling your clit beneath the blanket and your hips moving helplessly against his hand, the frozen movie still lighting the room like proof of how quickly he’d stopped caring about it.

“You like my fingers here?” His voice stayed rough in your ear. “Touching you under these little shorts?”

“Beau,” you breathed.

“No, answer me.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance. “You wanted me to feel what you were doing to yourself, didn’t you?”

Your breath came out shakily. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He pushed one finger inside you, then another, slow enough that you felt the stretch, deep enough that your head fell back against his shoulder. His mouth moved along your neck while his fingers curled inside you beneath the blanket, slow and deliberate, until your whole body jolted.

“There.” His voice stayed low in your ear. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”

Your fingers closed around his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.

Beau knew the difference.

“Next time, tell me you want my fingers.” His mouth pressed to the side of your neck. “Would’ve saved you all that pretending.”

You tried to answer, but his thumb circled your clit again, and the words disappeared.

He touched you until your legs trembled over his thigh, until the blanket was too warm, your breathing too loud, and the hand at your waist the only thing keeping you from squirming out of his lap.

Beau felt it the second you got close, and his fingers slowed.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you, and Beau’s laugh brushed against your skin.

“Needy girl.” His mouth stayed against your skin.

“Don’t stop.”

“Then say please, sweetheart.”

You turned your face into his neck, too embarrassed to look at him. “Please.”

“Please, what, sweetheart?”

“Please,” you breathed. “Make me come.”

Beau’s control slipped just enough for his hand to tighten at your waist.

His fingers moved faster, firmer, his thumb working your clit while he curled inside you, and you came with your face buried in his neck.

“Good girl,” Beau said, his hand tightening at your waist. “Just like that. Keep grinding against my hand. I want to feel you come.”

Your body shuddered against his, the orgasm hitting hard enough that your thighs clamped around his hand.

He slowed, but his hand stayed between your thighs.

You were still breathing hard when Beau moved beneath you and pulled the blanket away.

Cool air hit your skin as he turned you carefully, laying you back across the couch cushions as he’d finally decided to stop being soft.

Your shorts were crooked, your shirt had ridden up, and your hair was messy against the armrest.

Beau looked down at you, and something in his expression went dark.

“You wanted me to stop being nice,” Beau said, his hand pressing against your thigh. “Spread your legs.”

You did.

His gaze dropped, slow enough to make your skin heat, before lifting back to your face. “Pretty girl.”

The praise hit low, making your whole body go hot.

He pulled your shorts down your legs, your panties sliding down with them, and tossed both somewhere near the coffee table. You should’ve felt exposed, but Beau’s hands were on your thighs before the feeling could settle, pushing them apart as he lowered himself between them.

“You were acting like such a brat five minutes ago,” he said, kissing the inside of your knee. “Now you can’t even look at me.”

“Beau,” you breathed. “Please.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “What do you want?”

You hated that he was going to make you say it, and loved even more that he already knew.

“Your mouth.”

His mouth curved, slow and pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The moment Beau put his mouth on you, your head fell back against the couch.

Beau ate you out like he’d been waiting for the chance, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you spread while his other hand pressed your hips back down every time you tried to move. He stayed controlled at first, slow and deliberate, licking into you before dragging his tongue back to your clit until every wet stroke made your thighs shake.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Beau groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

“Oh my God,” you breathed.

You felt his mouth curve against you, right before he sucked your clit hard enough to make you cry out.

Somewhere above you, the movie started playing again.

Neither of you’d touched the remote, but the pause must have timed out, because the movie suddenly filled the room again with some dramatic line from a character you had completely forgotten existed.

Beau didn’t stop.

If anything, his grip tightened, holding you down harder.

“You wanted something easy to watch, right?” His mouth dragged over your inner thigh. “So watch it.”

You tried to cover your face, but Beau caught your wrist and pulled it gently back down.

“No hiding, sweetheart.”

His tongue pushed back into you, and your back arched off the couch.

“You wanted my attention.” His mouth moved against you. “Now come for it.”

The second one hit faster than the first, sharpened by how sensitive you still were from his fingers. You came on his mouth with your hands twisted in his hair, your thighs trembling around his shoulders while Beau held you there through every second of it.

He only eased off when you pushed weakly at his head.

He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.

His mouth was wet.

His eyes were worse.

You pulled him down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Beau groaned into your mouth, and it sounded like the last of his patience was finally snapping.

Your hands found the waistband of his sweatpants, and Beau let you push them down just enough before you slipped off the couch onto your knees between his legs.

Beau’s hand slid into your hair immediately, not forcing, just resting there.

His thumb brushed your cheek as your hand closed around him. He was hard and heavy in your hand, and the second his jaw tightened, you wanted to hear what it would take to make him lose control.

You looked up at him, your hand still wrapped around him. “Use your words.”

His gaze held yours. “Open your mouth.”

You did.

Beau’s hand tightened in your hair the second you took him, his head tipping back on a rough breath. For once, Beau looked less controlled, less patient, and when you hollowed your mouth around him, his thighs tensed on either side of you, his fingers flexing against your scalp.

“Fuck.” His voice broke roughly around the word. “Good girl. Just like that.”

The praise made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau’s attention dropped there immediately.

“You like this too?” The words came out rough. “Looking up at me with my cock in your mouth?”

You moaned around him, and Beau’s breath left him in a rough rush.

“Careful, needy girl. Keep making those sounds, and I’m not going to last.”

So you did it again.

He guided you a little more firmly, just enough to make heat spread through your whole body. He didn’t push too far or take more than you gave him, but you could feel his control thinning with every pass of your mouth.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, and Beau’s breath caught.

For a second, you thought he might let himself finish like that.

But Beau pulled you off him with a rough breath, kissed you hard, and dragged you back onto the couch.

“I need to fuck you.” The words dragged roughly against your mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Beau went still, forehead resting against yours. “I don’t have a condom out here.”

“I’m on birth control,” you rushed out. “I’m clean too. Tested last month.”

His breathing was rough, but his eyes stayed on yours. “Me too. Tested last month. All clear.”

His thumb brushed your jaw, careful even now. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t shake.

“Words.”

“I want you inside me.”

His control slipped for half a second. “Fuck.”

He laid you back across the cushions and pushed your thighs open again, settling between them. The couch was too narrow and too soft, leaving you tangled together with your leg hooked around his hip, one of his hands braced near your head and the other holding your thigh open.

When he pushed into you, both of you went quiet, and the stretch stole your breath.

Beau sank into you slowly, control pulled tight in every line of him, his eyes locked on your face like he wanted to watch every second of you taking him. You clung to his shoulders, your nails catching against warm skin beneath his shirt.

“You feel so good.” he got out. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You tried to move your hips, but Beau kept your thigh pinned open.

“Slow.”

“You’re the one who said you needed to fuck me,” you managed.

Beau’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re the one who started this.”

He pushed deeper, and whatever you were about to say disappeared.

He fucked you slowly at first, controlled and heavy, making you feel every inch of him. He kept you spread open across the couch, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your throat, fucking you slow enough to make every inch feel deliberate.

“You’re so wet,” he said against your skin. “Taking me so well.”

Your nails twisted in his shirt.

“So pretty when you stop pretending to be innocent,” he said against your throat. “This is what you wanted? Me fucking you because you couldn’t sit still?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“No.” His fingers found your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, and Beau’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady.

“There you go.” His thumb brushed once along your throat. “Take it.”

His rhythm turned harder, heavier.

The couch creaked beneath you, and the movie kept playing, voices and music meaningless in the background while Beau fucked you into the cushions.

One hand stayed warm at your throat. The other held your hip hard enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

You were close again too soon, and of course Beau felt it; he slowed just enough to make you whine.

“Already?”

“I’m still sensitive.”

“I know.” His mouth brushed over yours. “Come for me one more time.”

“Beau—”

“Turn over.” His hands found your hips. “I want you on your knees.”

Your knees sank into the couch cushion, your hands catching on the backrest. Beau stood behind you, one hand at your hip, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you bent over the couch.

The first spank landed hard enough to make you gasp, your body jolting forward into the couch.

Beau’s palm followed it, smoothing once over the sting.

“You okay?”

Your breath shook, but your answer was clear. “Yes.”

“Good.” His hand stayed there for one more second before he pushed back into you from behind.

The sound you made was almost embarrassing.

Beau’s hand settled at the back of your neck, firm enough to make your back arch. The angle was deeper this way, rougher, and when his hips snapped into yours, your fingers curled into the couch fabric.

“You were so confident when you were teasing me.” His hips drove into yours again. “What happened?”

You couldn’t answer, and another hard slap landed before you could even pretend to.

“Use your words.”

“I wanted this,” you said, getting out.

“What did you want?”

“I wanted you to be rough with me.”

The sound he made was rough, almost unsteady. “There’s my good girl.”

He fucked you harder after that, rough but controlled, each thrust pressing you deeper into the couch while every filthy word he gave you made your body clench around him.

“You like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes.”

“I know.” His rhythm turned sharper. “I can feel how tight you get when I talk to you like this.”

The orgasm built too fast, too sharp, your body still oversensitive from his mouth and fingers. You tried to push back into him, tried to meet every thrust, but by the end, Beau was the only thing keeping you upright, his arm locked around your waist as he fucked you through it.

“Come on, sweetheart.” His arm held you tight against him. “Give me another.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His arm held you steady. “I’ve got you.”

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers settling over your clit, and your knees nearly gave out.

“Beau,” you gasped.

His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Come for me.”

You did, hard enough that your whole body shook around him while Beau held you against the back of the couch and kept fucking you, rough praise pressed against your skin: how good you were, how pretty, how well you took him even when you were sensitive and shaking.

His rhythm broke after that, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you back into him.

“Inside?” he asked, his control hanging by a thread.

Your breath caught, and you nodded before the word caught up. “Yes.”

“Say it for me.”

“Come inside me,” you breathed.

Beau groaned, low and wrecked, and pushed in as deep as he could when he came, holding you there while his body shuddered behind yours. The heat of it made your knees go weak beneath you once more.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The movie kept playing in the background, someone on screen shouting dramatically about something neither of you had any chance of understanding anymore.

Beau exhaled first, his mouth pressing softly to your shoulder.

“You okay?”

You laughed weakly. “You’re asking that like you didn’t just fuck me on your couch.”

“I did.” He pressed another kiss to the side of your neck. “Still asking.”

Your chest went warm. “I’m okay.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

His arms tightened around you for one more second before he eased out carefully and helped you sit. Your legs felt useless. Beau’s mouth curved like he knew exactly why, but he disappeared into the bathroom before you could accuse him of looking smug.

When Beau came back, he had a damp washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Drink,” he said.

You took the glass from him, still boneless against the couch. “You’re bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Beau smiled like he was going to let you have that one and cleaned you up carefully, his touch gentle now in a way that made the roughness from minutes ago feel even hotter instead of less. When he was done, he found your shorts on the floor, looked at them for half a second, then apparently decided against it and handed you one of his shirts instead.

You pulled it on while he settled back onto the couch, and the second you were close enough, he drew you into his side like that was where you’d been meant to end up.

The movie was still going.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the scene playing out in front of you.

“Do you have any idea what’s happening?”

“No.”

“Great.”

Beau kissed the top of your head, his hand resting warm on your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. For a moment, the room went quiet except for the movie and the sound of both of you breathing your way back to normal.

A few seconds later, his thumb moved lazily over your skin.

“Next time you want attention,” he said, low and close, “just ask.”

Your face heated.

You turned your head to look at him. “Maybe I like teasing you.”

Something in his expression shifted, subtle but immediate, enough to make your stomach flip despite the soreness in your body.

“Careful,” he said.

You smiled.

The movie kept playing, but neither of you reached for the remote.

💌 lmk if you want to be added to the taglist

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[kirbydreamssss]

Too Many Cooks (Off Campus) || John Tucker x CulinaryStudent!reader (Part 4)

Part 1 Here! Pt. 2! Pt. 3!

WC: 4.6k (yeehaw :p)

Series Summary: On top of his spot on the hockey team, Tucker declared a double major in business and hospitality pretty soon after arriving to Briar U. Not five minutes into his first culinary class, he gained his campus rival. Now it’s Junior year, nearly three years later, and you're still the only person that's ever made "Sweet Tuck" genuinely contemplate murder.

Pt.4 Summary: Tucker swallows his pride and you shove it down his throat :)

Relationship(s): John Tucker x reader (slowburn)

Tags/Warnings: Slowwwwburn (well ofc), BANTER & BICKERING (my bread and butter at this point), Off Campus season 1 spoilers, f!reader, No "Y/N" use, No physical description of reader, reader's an in-state student for plot (...so pretend you're from Massachusetts), completely inaccurate classes for hospitality majors (I'm so sorry to my culinary baddies), Rivals to Lovers!, barely edited tbh, suggestive content/discussions about sex (it's Off Campus, y'all), light Angst! FLUFF!

Notes: Just an fyi guys, reader/Honey is such a hater in this part, even I got annoyed writing it loll...also...yeah I'm def writing smut for this series, buckle up

Just incase ppl don’t know: NARP= Non-Athlete Regular Person

Tucker was late. Something which hadn’t happened since that fateful week of freshman year. 

Your withering glare those first few classes, coupled with the snide little comments about “punctuality only being necessary for us NARPS,” was enough to kick his ass into gear. 

To you, it just seemed like he did so out of competitiveness alone. Spite and a childish grudge, just like you.

In reality, Tucker was trying to impress you—to make up for his colossal embarrassment of a first impression. Eventually, after only being met by more of your glares and even more snippy comments, it sure became a competition.

Now, however, the last thing he wanted was a fight. For the first time ever, he’d planned on catching you before class. Earlier than early, like you always had been, to hopefully smooth over the awkwardness this whole Fifth Line post had created.

After hours of tossing and turning, Tucker had finally dozed off—and then he had slept through his alarm. Not terribly late, but pushing it enough that he was rushing to the bathroom for a shower. But, of course, Dean was already in there. It was the whole reason he had that alarm in the first place, to get in the bathroom before Dean camped out there for a good hour.

“Dean!” Tucker bellowed, banging a fist on the wooden door. “Come on, man! I’ve got class in forty minutes!”

By the time Tucker had weaseled his way in there, thick steam still fogging up the mirror, he barely had time to wash his armpits before he was racing his way to the sink.

And then he forgot Logan had borrowed his truck, so he had to fucking wait for Garrett to give him a ride to campus andit was raining—

and now he was bolting through the doors of your culinary lab. Sweat and rain pooling down his back. 

He looked ridiculous. He knew he looked ridiculous, probably like a shaking wet rat, and because he was late everyone was staring at him. It wasn’t the largest class Tucker had—only a dozen duo stovetop stations with rolling stainless steel islands parked at each end—but it certainly wasn’t intimate enough to stop the embarrassment singing his cheeks. 

“Welcome in, Mr. Tucker,” Professor Bernard chuckled along with the class.

Tucker gave an awkward, pinched smile before shuffling over to his station—your station, technically. Ever since that fiasco of a first culinary lab freshman year, the whole department found a fun thrill out of lumping the two of you together. You were determined enough as students that they knew neither of you would let your bitterness affect your work. In fact, Prof. Bernard had been the one to say how it would only boost your performance. “Nice, friendlycompetition,” he’d called it.

Yet, the way you glared at him was anything but friendly. Somehow, today it was even more lancing.

“Hey,” Tucker whispered, attempting a slight lift to his cheeks. 

You barely glanced up from your recipe copy, looking through your brows like he was a piece of shit on your shoe.

Tucker tried brushing it off, chuckling airily, “Okay then.” 

Even when you rolled your eyes at his response, Tucker took a controlled breath in, focusing on shoving his backpack underneath the mobile island. Just as he finally turned to face you, an apology on the tip of his tongue that he’d been fully prepared to have thrown back in his face, the professor’s voice rang out.

Shit. Now he’d have to catch you after class. Literally racing to beat you because, like everything with you apparently, you took leaving class as competitively as the class itself.

“All right!” Bernard clapped everyone to attention. “A little change of plans, some of the burners had to be disconnected for maintenance yesterday, so we’ll be working in pairs. Station partners only, please!” Then the room descended into frenzied chatter.

Huh. Well, that made things a hell of a lot easier. Tuck even smiled reflexively, damn relieved he wouldn’t have to run again today.

But then he turned to face you, still grinning stupidly—and audibly gulped at your expression. 

Recently, he'd started to forget why exactly he had found you so intimidating from the start. But then he actually looked at you—heart in his hands—and the hate in your eyes squashed it like a bug.

Well, maybe this wouldn’t be that easy.

“Get your coat and apron on, dipshit.” Hands squared firmly on your hips.

His tongue felt dry and leaden, weighing his jaw down dumbly. “Uh-um—yes, ma’am.” Before scrambling to grab the Briar blue apron off the hook. 

Your eyes rolled again and Tucker felt a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Enough with the cowboy bullshit, Marina can’t hear you from across the room.”

That actually stilled his movements, heart rate calming enough that he could speak without a stutter. “What?”

Your laugh was bitter as you roughly snatched the steel prep bowls to the center. “The whole cowboy, southern charm bullshit you pull. Save it for when I'm out of ear shot next time, cause I nearly tossed up my lunch last Thursday when you oh so graciously grabbed that sack of flour for her.”

Genuinely, utterly confused, Tucker’s brows pinched. “Wha—I was just being nice.”

With another cackle, you harshly thwacked an egg flat on the counter, cracking it into a large bowl. “Oh sureee—so it’s safe to assume calling her sweetheart was just you being nice, too?”

This felt like a trap. It absolutely was a trap. Because if he answered honestly—that he called every girl sweetheart, even his five year old cousin—she’d never believe him. He could already hear you retort: well you sure as shit don’t call me sweetheart, and don’t start now, dipshit.

“Yes?”

Your movements paused. Hand hovering over the bowl as another cracked yolk plopped into the awaiting bowl. 

Tucker visibly cringed as you slowly swiveled your head to face him. 

“Oh yeah? Real convincing, cowboy.”

A light bulb blinked over Tucker’s head before he yelped, just a bit too loudly, “So that’s why you call me that?!”

For a split second, the conversations in the room halted. Everyone glanced over at your joint station as Tucker sheepishly smiled for an awkward moment, before they all turned back to their own stations.

When he looked back at you, Tucker’s face warmed as you bit your lip. The edges of an amused smile still peeking out around it.

“Smooth.”

“Oh shut it,” he huffed, harshly tying the apron with a tug.

You only met him with another teasing, amused grin. “Yeah, real sold on this southern hospitality thing.” Then pausing as you chucked the last shell in the scraps bowl. For a second, you scanned him over like he was stupid—a common occurrence, obviously. “Why the hell are you just standing there? Roll out the dough, moron.”

Tucker had to suck in his teeth before spouting something his momma would’ve slapped him for.

Breathe. All you’ve gotta do is apologize. Stop letting her distract you, or insult you, or cut you off, and just do the damn—

“Wait,” Tucker blurted out, “why’m I rolling out dough? We’re redoing the French omelette recipe.”

Again, you looked at him through your brows. Completely exasperated. “Did you even read Bernard’s email—never mind! How could I forget? You’re too busy for that.” Going back to the large steel bowl with a whisk, wielding it in a way Tucker just knew you could certainly figure out how to use as a weapon. “Unlike me, who has so much free time, right?” Ending with a mocking, bitter guffaw.

Tucker sputtered, “I didn’t—”

Breathe. Apologize. Don’t bite her head off.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.”

Suddenly your vicious whisking halted. Head rotating again like another horror film. The look on your face was equally as confused and horrified. “Huh?”

Tucker exhaled again, smoothing over his apron. “I didn’t read Bernard’s email. You’re right, I’m sorry. Okay?”

This time your eyes searched his face, drifting down to his figure wildly like the answer to a confounding puzzle might be hidden in the fabric of his jeans. “You dying or something?”

“What? No—can I not just say sorry?”

You still stared like he’d grown two heads and somehow that irritated him even more.

“Jesus—just tell me what we’re doing...Please?”

With a satisfied smirk, you slid the paper to his side, still maintaining eye contact. “Quiche Lorraine.” Still watching as Tucker verified the paper. “We’re supposed to look at Bernard’s notes from the last time and focus on modifications before we go off book next week.”

“Huh,” Tucker wondered out loud, flicking through the notes the professor had attached for both of your individual assessments last week. “But together, right?”

“That is how a joint project works, yes.”

Tucker sighed again, still staring at the paper to prevent glaring at you. “What’d he say about yours?”

As if you’d had it engrained since that morning, you repeated “Nice structure, perfect presentation, excellent crust...lacking seasoning and depth of flavor.”

Tucker couldn’t help chuckling, looking back up at you as he read his own feedback. “Nice structure, good crust but too rustic of a presentation...excellent seasoning and depth of flavor.”

Once again, you rolled your eyes. “Figures.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Tucker grinned boyishly. “Seems like I could teach you a thing or two.”

“Roll out the fucking dough, Einstein.”

Tucker chuckled, “Yes, ma’am.” 

As expected, you fought over every aspect except bake time and temp. Tucker almost cackled at your lack of seasoning, smugly grinning when he tossed in another tablespoon of black pepper and freshly chopped dill. “Adds some brightness,” he’d said—to which you’d childishly mimicked him behind his turned shoulder. 

Then it came to the crust—and you nearly stabbed him with a chef’s knife. The way he basically flopped the dough into the quiche pan was his first offense. When you’d insisted he needed to push the crust more delicately into the scalloped edge, he whined about it taking too long and his finger being too big to actually do it gently without creating cracks. Of course, you couldn’t care less about whining and actually forced him to slow his movements, one scalloped dip at a time. After blind baking the crust, you had poured the egg mixture and popped it into the oven for the final time.

So now, you both were standing there. Silently watching the seconds tick bye in the orange glow of the oven light.

Not often were the two of you that quiet, and Tucker savored it. Sneakily glancing over to watch your face. He hated to say it, but you looked tired. It probably was the only reason you hadn't insulted him in the last five minutes. Maybe he should’ve liked it more, made a joke about finally shutting you up.

It only made his stomach twist.

“Hey—um,” Tucker coughed, a bit startled when you looked over at him with a quiet softness to your expression. “Jules showed me those dm’s, all the photos and stuff.”

He almost cursed himself for bringing it up when your content expression grew a sharp edge, an invisible wall coming back up.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he continued before you could brush it off, “That wasn’t—I...you shouldn't have to deal with that.”

The sharpness dulled a bit, arms still crossed but eyes searching his face for sincerity. “Is all that normal for you?”

He just shrugged, looking back at the oven. “Comes with the territory.”

“Real fun stuff.” Voice bitter in a way that made his heart clench. 

“Seriously, let me talk to Jules again. I’ll handle it.”

You finally let Tucker hold your eye contact, but almost instantly, he could feel the way you reinforced your shields. Shoulders bristling. “I’m a big girl, Tucker. I can handle it myself.” Then turned back around to start cleaning your station.

Sure, he expected it. A glare. A sneer. For you to chuck his apology right back at him, hitting Tucker squarely in the nose.

He just didn't expect to feel so hollowed out after.

At the end of class, Tucker and you silently presented the quiche to Bernard. After taking a couple bites and inspecting the plate for a painfully long moment, he smirked proudly. “Well done, you two. Full marks.” The man mischeviously glanced between you both, smile curling under his gray mustache. “Maybe I need to assign partner labs more often.”

Every Friday was karaoke night at Malone’s—and every Friday you were tucked into that boiling hot kitchen. 

Fridays weren’t pretty. If you mix a hoard of drunk college kids with microphones and an elevated stage, things were bound to happen. Knowing that, Hannah and Allie normally took Friday night off—unless they were downright desperate for the money (*cough cough* like you were). So they’d normally just drop in for cheese fries, a couple of drinks with Sean and Dexter, and then skedaddle. 

Most of the other line cooks avoided it as well. Having a wife and kids at home wasn’t exactly conducive to the late weekend closing times. Like Larry and José—who every shift, without fail, asked why a pretty girl like you wasn't out on the town on making memories. 

You were broke. That was the short and long of it. 

As an in-state student, you were going to school for relatively little compared to everyone else (read as: you were paying a kidney instead of an arm and a leg). Plus your parents, God love them, could only cover so much while handling the restaurant. So yeah, money was tight.

From the second you’d applied to Briar, you knew you would major in hospitality. After all, you were set to inherit The Mayflower Inn, the restaurant and boutique hotel that your grandparents started back in the 60s. A place so small that it was basically a bed & breakfast compared to the other Boston chain hotels. Being the only one of your cousins to actually give a crap about the Inn, it wasn’t really a surprise you’d run it—but a colossal burden all the same.

All day, every day, you reminded yourself what was at stake. If you skipped even one hospitality lecture, thousands of dollars went down the drain and you could miss out on a vital education that would keep the business afloat. But, if you came back fully trained with your culinary degree, your parents could hire you instead as head chef—along with a severe pay cut for the position, of course. That way the money could go towards something else, like taking on more waitstaff or better produce. You had spent these three years penny pinching and skipping meals, you could do it for a couple more. 

Because if things failed, there would be no one to fall back on. No plan B—and you sure as hell weren’t selling your soul to private equity—so it was all you. 

Your future depended solely on yourself, so you acted accordingly.

Well—not all the time. Even you could admit that Hannah, Dexter, and Allie were the best thing to happen in your lifetime. When entering Briar freshman year, the best you’d hoped for was a couple of good friends you could study and grab dinner with at the dining hall. Then, you’d say your goodbyes once you all graduated.

Those three though, you were keeping forever—as long as they’d let you.

Being the friends they were, Allie and Hannah had come back to the diner after class just to keep you company while you set up for karaoke during the post-lunch closed hours. 

And being the fact she’s Allison Hayes, Allie was grilling you about working set up shift. Alone.

“Why are you doing this by yourself? Again?”

Still unwrapping the tangled microphone cords, you huffed, “Della pays me double and Gus is always late, so I'd rather just take double the pay for double the work I'd be doing anyways.”

Actively restocking the napkin holder, Hannah cut in this time. “Okay, then, why don’t you just take the set up shift alone and swap your dinner shift with him?”

“Guys—”

“Three years, babe!” Allie whined. “Three years and not once have you gone out with us on a Friday.”

Still turned away and hunched over the mic box. “I need the money, Al.”

“Dude,” Hannah cut in this time with a sympathetic smile, “same here, but you also kinda have to enjoy life. We’ve got less than two years left together—come on.”

“I see getting fake laid made you real chipper.” Roughly, you picked up the mic box to slam it on the stage. “I’ll take a break senior year.”

“No, you won’t!” Allie cried again, this time standing up to follow so you couldn’t conveniently run away to the kitchen. “Y’know what you said last summer, when you found you out didn’t have classes on Tuesdays and Fridays anymore?”

Both girls, in unison, echoed, “You doubled your shifts.”

“Guyyyyss,” you groaned again, finally turning around with a pinched pout. 

“It’s lookin’ great, hon!” Della called out, appearing from the swinging kitchen door. “Oh, hi girls! Didn’t know you were working today. Shift swap?”

Ever Hannah, she returned Della’s wide smile. “Nope, just keeping her company.”

The older woman put a hand to her heart like she was touched. “What gems you are.”

“Oh, Della! Quick question.” Allie jumped around you to be in the older woman’s eyeline. “Is it too late for Gus to take her shift tonight?”

Your head whipped to face Allie, lips pursing. “Al—”

“Course not!” The old woman crowed. “That boy needs to learn the ropes anyways.”

“Um, Della,” you gritted out, “I had to teach Gus how to turn on the fryer last week...he’s been working here since March.”

The older woman just waved you off, looking completely unconcerned. “Karaoke night’s perfect then—a little baptism by fire.”

You gulped. 

Thanks to Fifth Line, everyone knew you worked Fridays. Apparently, your cheese fry special was legendary even. God forbid the whole campus think the way Gus cooked was your cooking. That would truly be the arsenic cherry on top of this shit cake of a week.

You awkwardly chuckled, trying to not sound like you were now bordering on a panic attack. “Could we, I don’t know, maybe put up a sign that names the line cooks for the night? Just so everyone’s aware.”

Della cackled. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want your good reputation tarnished, would we?” Ending with a wink.

For the first time that day, your shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Della.”

“Or!” Allie cut in. “You could come to karaoke night—as a normal person, for once.”

Nevermind, both shoulders were back up to your ears. “Hilarious.”

Like tweedle-dum to Allie’s tweedle-dee, Hannah piped in with the most fake sounding surprise. “What a wonderful plan, Allie! How did you ever think of that?”

At least Allie sounded like she hadn’t been practicing it in the mirror.

You glowered. “I hate you two.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” Della bellowed. “ ’Bout time you took a weekend off. Y’know, I’m surprised you never used the extra employee discount.”

All of you turned to face your boss. “What discount?”

“Didn't you read your contract? Since you girls have worked here for over a year, you get 50% off food and drinks on weekends—starting Friday nights.”

From the way you three glanced at each other stupidly, Della couldn’t help barking an amused laugh.

“I mean, at least we’re not as bad as Chris,” Allie added with a grimace. “The guy doesn't even know we get a shift meal.”

“That kid’s got a screw loose or something.” The old woman mumbled, checking her watch quickly. “Gotta head out girls—but have fun tonight, you deserve it!”

“Bye, Della!” You all called out. 

As the staff entrance slammed shut, Allie and Hannah squealed, “FINALLY!”

“You are wicked, nasty women.”

Allie clasped her hands wholesomely. “Awww, how sweet you are.”

Instantly, it came on like a migraine. “Fuckin’ hell—don’t remind me.”

“Huh?”

Hannah chuckled, popping off the top of the decorations bin for you. “Dean’s calling her Honey now.”

One side of Allie’s face screwed up in disgust. “In like a romantic way?”

“Ew—no. It’s cause of the post.” Shuffling back over to the decorations bin now. “Him and Jules got the whole hockey team in on it.” At that reminder, you groaned again. “Plus the whole campus at this point—this is why I didn't wanna go, guys! You saw it, I can’t even step campus without a phone being flung in my face.”

“Babe, at some point you just have to ignore it,” Allie sympathetically cooed, coming over to gently fix your hair while you hunched over the bin, pouting at the tangled kaleidoscope of streamers. “You take the drama out of it and they’ll get bored.”

“Oh yea, sureeee.” 

Suddenly, she clapped behind you, startling you to the point of almost dropping the streamers. “You and Tucker should do a song together tonight! Something about, like, not liking each other, or something.”

Hannah cackled, coming around your other side to grab the end of the streamer in hand. “Even I think that’s a bad idea, Al.”

Voice straining as you hung the streamers on your tippy toes. “The only people who could get me on that stage are you two so I can hide behind your voices and just hum.”

With a satisfying thump, Hannah tacked the other end of the streamer in place. “Fat chance you’re getting me up there.”

“Perfect,” you sighed, collapsing back down on flat feet.

You both jumped again as Allie squealed. “I have an idea!” Running away to the corner of speakers.

Before either of you could ask, the first phrases of piano blared out of the speaker.

“Shit—Sorry!” Allie yelled before turning the volume down, followed by the sound of a click and then the beginning phrase replayed.

She popped around the speaker with a devilish grin as she watched your face morph from horror to a pouty scowl as recognition flickered behind your eyes. 

It was “Honey, Honey” from Mamma Mia—because apparently Allie could be a real comedian only when it was at your expense.

“Allie...no.”

Hannah cackled, finally catching on. “Why didn't I think of that?”

“Because you’re not a musical theatre genius like moi,” Allie giggled with a twirl.

You however, remained unmoved, pouting at her grin. “No.”

“Oh come on!” Allie squealed, scuttling over to grip you by your shoulders. Stone cold serious as she said, “It’s Abba, you’re like contractually obligated as a woman to sing.”

“I didn’t sign anything, you’ve got nothin’ on me.”

Allie groaned, “Oh come on! Live a little!” Whipping around to run back to the speaker as she restarted the song. In her heeled boots, she nearly face planted over the wires as she tried scurrying back to the stage. Fumbling with a mic just in time to wail out the first line.

“Honey honey, how you thrill me, a-ha, honey honey!” Shimmying for added effect. 

For a whole verse, you remained strong. A pinched glare still perched on your face—right up until Hannah grabbed a pink streamer. With a friendly shove to your shoulder, she hopped on stage and slung the streamer around Allie’s shoulder like a feather boa. It was dangling so long behind her that if Hannah stepped wrong Allie might be swiftly flung down—the thought suddenly making a laugh bubble out. 

“Ah-hah!” Allie yelped while pointing at you from above.

Unconsciously, your lips puckered out as you attempted to smother a smile.

“Too late!” Hannah cackled, taking hold of your arm to tug you on stage. With another chortle, she wrapped the dangling streamer end around your shoulder. Both laughing harder as you flinched from the tickle to your neck.

For the next few minutes, you forgot all about the whole Fifth Line situation, giggling in the bubble you all created. It was maybe the first time that week where you weren’t hyper aware of anyone watching, even in an empty room. But you weren't surprised—after all, it was always like this when you were with with them. 

Most of the time you didn’t even need alcohol to feel buzzed around them. Walking home together with a warmth tugging at your cheeks and your stomach cramping from laughing so hard. When the three of you were together, the world seemed to fade out. Just you three, the music, and the dizzying feeling of being young and dumb together. 

It was probably why you hadn’t heard the front entrance bell ding past the music. 

While singing the end of a verse, shouting out “doggone beast!” Allie tried jumping from the short stage to stick her landing. However, the sharp ripping of the pink streamer shocked her back so much that she wobbled on her landing, flopping flat on her ass. 

That did you three in, practically snorting with laughter as Allie rubbed her sore butt cheek, still unable to stop grinning. 

“Owwie-hehehe,” she whined with an uncontrollable giggled. The song fading out as she still sat immobile on the floor through the final verse.

To your horror, an echo of applause rang out in the empty diner.

All three of you scrambled to face the entrance—the one that Allie supposedly locked and flipped the closed sign around hours ago. Maybe you could've handled it being Della or even another line cook, they’d tease you for days but at least you could survive it.

But Garrett, Logan, Birdie, and Tucker...you should’ve bought a gun. 

Garrett was grinning wildly, arms crossed over his black hoodie. “You guys really gotta lock that door.”

From down below, Allie laughed sheepishly, “Oops.” Before reaching a hand up, twiddling her fingers to cue one of them to help her to stand. Of course, Tucker was the first to spot it and immediately lunged forward to take hold of her hand, helping pull her back up.

Back on flat feet, Allie patted Tucker’s shoulder. “Thank you, good sir.”

He chuckled with a stupidly charming grin. “Anytime.”

Still near the front door, Logan coughed to cover a laugh. “You practicing for tonight, Honey?”

Your finger came out to point furiously at him, accidentally dropping the torn streamer. “Watch it, you’re still on thin ice, Logan.”

“Ouch,” he sighed with faux grimace, an ever present smirk still peeking through. 

Before long, Garrett had waltzed over to help hoist Hannah off the stage, instantly causing you and Allie to exchange smirks at the way she fiercely blushed beside him. 

Right as you’d turned, the torn streamer now crumpled in one fist, a hand appeared in front of you. Unconsciously, your eyes narrowed in on it like it was a weapon pointed to your head. In many ways it was, because it being Tucker’s hand made the decision all that more lethal to your pride. 

After a second, you tried opening your mouth to spat something bitter about never needing his help—but he swiftly interrupted you. Apparently, Tucker was well acquainted with the signs of an insult was coming his way, specifically from you. 

“Just shut up and take the damn hand.” 

This time your eyes narrowed in on his own, more angered by the way he’d actually shut you up with it. His tone more stern and unmoving than he had ever dared with you—and, unfortunately, more effective than you’d ever admit. 

Beyond your recognition, all of your friends were eyeing the show. Each fighting smirks as you begrudgingly accepted the hand with an eye roll and immediately ripped your hand away when you’d landed on the ground. Tucker’s own hand fell down to his side, fingers flexing quickly like the fleeting touch had stung. 

“Well,” Birdie chuckled to Logan, “guess I was wrong about that.”

Endnotes: NEXT PART IS kArAoKe nighttttt

❥In the meantime, feel free to check out my Jack Abbot series here— "I'm on Fire"

Taglist: @flashyourgreeneyesatme @pola-rosa @dina2223 @juniper-flour @tayvxi @cardcaptorrin @jissellegw @st-ev-ie @jtr-hunter-blog @ficklepicklefandoms @sandrellymendonca @foolishseven @fiction-obsessedd @heartsandheadcanons

*dividers and moodboard are mine, made on Canva

[daydreamfiles]

Thank you for providing some of the best writing out there for off campus, i'm kicking my feet giggling over here 🤭 Would you be down for a Tucker one where they're friends but he finds out she's into the spicy cowboy romance genre and that's when he decides to sing "save a horse, ride a cowboy" at karaoke? Lots of blushing, teasing from the boys and confessing feelings? Thanks!! 🤠🐎💛

wait this is everything to me 😭 I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!

Save A Horse - John Tucker

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

blurb: after dean gets his hands on your phone and discovers your cowboy romance habit, you’re convinced the teasing can’t get any worse. then tucker gets signed up for karaoke, chooses the one song guaranteed to ruin your composure, and suddenly your best friend starts feeling a lot less friendly.

warnings: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, teasing, karaoke chaos, alcohol mention, semi-public hookup, fingering, dirty talk, protected sex

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl

The problem started with Dean Di Laurentis.

Most problems did, in your experience.

You were sitting in Garrett and Hannah’s living room, tucked into the corner of the couch while everyone else argued over where to go that night. Logan wanted a bar. Dean wanted a bar with “personality,” which apparently meant sticky floors and men named Rick who took karaoke too seriously. Garrett wanted food first because he was Garrett and turned into a tragic Victorian orphan when he went more than two hours without eating.

Tucker sat on the floor in front of the couch, back against your knees, scrolling through his phone with one hand. His other hand rested loosely around your ankle, thumb brushing once over the bone like he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.

You noticed.

Unfortunately, you noticed everything Tucker did.

Which was exactly why you should have known better than to leave your phone faceup on the cushion beside you.

Dean’s hand shot out before you could stop him.

“Whoa,” he said, dragging the word out.

You lunged for it. “Give it back.”

He twisted away, holding it just out of reach. “Absolutely not. This looks educational.”

“Dean.”

Garrett immediately perked up. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not nothing.”

Tucker turned his head, looking up at you from where he sat between your legs. His brows lifted, more amused than nosy, and somehow that made it worse.

“Di Laurentis,” Tucker said. “Give her the phone.”

Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m offended you’d assume I’m doing anything wrong.”

“You stole her phone.”

“Temporarily relocated it.”

“Dean,” Hannah said, already fighting a laugh. “Give it back.”

But Dean had already seen enough.

His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his face transformed.

“Oh my God.”

You covered your face with both hands. “I hate you.”

Logan leaned over the back of the couch. “Read the title.”

“No,” you snapped.

Dean cleared his throat in a formal, dramatic voice. “Saddled by Sundown.”

Garrett choked on his water.

Logan made a sound like he had been punched in the ribs.

Hannah burst out laughing.

You snatched the throw pillow beside you and hurled it at Dean’s head. He ducked out of the way, still laughing.

“It’s a book,” you said, hot all over. “People read books.”

Dean looked down at the cover again. “This man is shirtless in a barn.”

“Farm labor is very demanding.”

Garrett nodded like he was considering it. “True. Lots of hay. Heavy equipment.”

“Don’t help,” you said.

Tucker still hadn’t moved, but you felt his thumb sweep once over the inside of your ankle.

You looked down.

He was watching you now, his mouth curved just enough to make your stomach tighten.

Dean, tragically still alive, kept going. “Wait, wait. There are more of these in the app. She has a whole collection.”

“Dean,” you said slowly. “I am begging you to remember that I know where you sleep.”

“Cowboy romances,” Logan said, looking far too pleased with this development. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You don’t see most things coming,” you muttered.

Garrett leaned back in his chair, pointing his slice of pizza at you. “So is this why you got weirdly defensive during that movie when Dean said cowboys were overrated?”

“I was defending the genre.”

“The genre of shirtless barn men?” Dean asked.

You reached for another pillow.

This time, Tucker caught your wrist gently before you could throw it. His hand wrapped around you easily, warm and solid.

“Save it,” he said. “He’ll only get louder.”

Everyone started talking again, and slowly, mercifully, your phone was returned. You locked it immediately and shoved it under your thigh like that would erase the last five minutes from history.

Tucker gave your ankle one last squeeze before standing.

“You okay?” he asked, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You lifted your chin. “I’m fantastic.”

His eyes moved over your face, taking in every bit of false dignity you had left.

“Sure are,” he said.

You hated the way his accent made two simple words feel like a hand sliding beneath your shirt.

By the time you all made it to the bar, the cowboy jokes had mostly died down, replaced by Dean getting rejected by the karaoke host because he tried to submit the same song three times under three fake names.

The place was crowded and loud, packed with Briar students, locals, and a few regulars who seemed deeply unprepared for whatever Dean had planned.

You claimed a booth in the back with Hannah while the boys fought their way to the bar.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, still grinning. “But the way your face dropped when Dean read that title was incredible.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side. I also support your right to read about dusty, emotionally unavailable ranchers.”

“They’re not all dusty.”

“Of course not.”

“Some of them bathe in rivers.”

Hannah laughed into her drink, and you tried very hard not to look at Tucker where he stood at the bar.

He was leaning with one elbow on the counter, talking to the bartender like they were old friends, because of course he was. Tucker could make friends with a parking meter. He wore jeans and a dark shirt that fit him in a way you had been trying not to notice all night. His hair was a little messy from the cold outside, and when he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes found you immediately.

You looked away before you could do something humiliating.

The night settled into the kind of chaos that only happened with that group. Garrett sang a painfully sincere power ballad and somehow made half the bar cheer for him. Logan and Dean performed a duet that involved too much hip movement and absolutely no musical talent. Hannah recorded the entire thing while Garrett yelled, “That’s my girl,” even though she had told him twice that recording evidence of Dean’s crimes was a public service.

Tucker stayed beside you through most of it, shoulder brushing yours in the booth, one arm stretched along the back behind you. He did not mention the books again. He did not tease you about cowboys or covers or shirtless men in barns.

The silence felt deliberate.

You were halfway through your drink when Dean stumbled back to the table, flushed with victory from whatever crime he had just committed onstage.

“Tuck,” he said. “You’re up.”

Tucker lifted his brows. “Am I?”

“You are now. I signed you up.”

“Of course you did.”

Dean dropped into the booth beside Logan. “You’re welcome.”

You turned to Tucker. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at you for a second too long.

Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to make you nervous.

“Nah,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll do it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What did he sign you up for?”

Dean pressed his lips together with the focus of a man trying to keep a secret and failing at every visible level.

“Dean,” you said.

“I’m just here for the arts.”

Tucker walked toward the small stage, and your heart started beating harder for no reasonable reason. He looked too comfortable up there, taking the mic from the karaoke host, rolling his shoulders once like he was getting ready for something more dangerous than a song in a bar full of drunk college students.

Then the opening notes started.

You froze.

Dean slapped both hands over his mouth.

Logan fell forward onto the table, already laughing.

Garrett looked at you, then at Tucker, then back at you. “Oh, he’s dead.”

You sank slowly into your seat.

“No,” you whispered.

Hannah grabbed your arm. “Yes.”

Tucker stood under the cheap bar lights with the microphone in hand, his eyes already on you, and started singing “Save a Horse.”

The whole room erupted.

Dean was on his feet immediately.

Logan pounded on the table.

Garrett yelled, “Commit to the bit, Tuck!”

And Tucker did.

He did not have the best voice in the world, but he had enough confidence to sell it and enough charm to make the entire room go with him. He moved across the tiny stage like it belonged to him, smile easy, head tipped slightly whenever the crowd sang along. He kept it funny at first. Light. Ridiculous. Playing into the shouting and clapping like he was only doing it because Dean had signed him up.

Then he looked at you during the chorus.

Your entire body forgot how to behave.

He didn’t point. Didn’t wink. Didn’t make it obvious enough for everyone to catch.

He just held your gaze, singing the title like he knew exactly what it would do to you.

Heat climbed up your neck.

“Oh, she’s dying,” Logan said.

“I am not.”

“You kind of are,” Hannah said, delighted.

Dean leaned across the table. “Are the cowboys in your books this committed? Because I respect the hustle.”

“I’m going to pour this drink on you.”

Onstage, Tucker laughed through the next line, probably because he could see you plotting murder from the booth. It only made him worse. He got the crowd clapping again, voice rough and warm through the cheap speakers, and every time the song swung back to that chorus, his attention drifted to you like a match being struck.

By the time it ended, you were gripping your glass too tightly.

The bar erupted into applause.

Tucker handed the mic back, stepped offstage, and started toward the booth while Garrett and Logan cheered like he had just won a championship.

Dean bowed to him. “You’re welcome. I created this.”

Tucker slid back into the booth beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

You stared straight ahead.

He leaned in, voice low. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m considering a transfer.”

“To where?”

“Somewhere without karaoke.”

“That’d be a shame,” he said. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

You turned your head.

He was close. Too close for the amount of people at the table. His eyes were on your mouth for half a second before they lifted again.

“I was embarrassed for you,” you said.

“Were you?”

“Mhm.”

Tucker nodded slowly, as if giving that the respect it deserved, which was none. “That’s why you haven’t touched your drink since I got onstage?”

Your fingers loosened around the glass.

Across the table, Dean was loudly explaining to Garrett that he had “changed the romantic trajectory of the evening,” so at least no one was paying attention.

No one except Tucker.

You tried to find something sharp to say. Something that would put the night back where it belonged, with jokes and distance and plausible deniability.

Instead, you said, “You’re a terrible friend.”

The amusement in his face shifted into something lower, steadier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was hoping that came across.”

Your breath caught.

Tucker’s hand slid under the table and rested on your knee. Not high. Not rushed. Just there, his palm warm through the fabric of your skirt.

“Tell me I’m reading this wrong,” he said.

There was still laughter around you. Dean shouting. Garrett arguing. Hannah ordering another round. The bar lights flickering over Tucker’s face.

You could have lied.

You had lied for months.

But his thumb moved once against your knee, and your self-control went thin enough to tear.

“You’re not,” you said.

Tucker’s jaw worked slightly.

Then his hand moved higher.

Your breath went uneven.

He leaned back like nothing had happened, picked up his beer, and took a slow drink. To anyone watching, he looked relaxed. Normal. Like he hadn’t just shifted something huge between you with two quiet words and a hand under the table.

Then he stood.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he said casually.

Dean waved him off, too busy trying to convince Hannah that he deserved producer credit for Tucker’s performance.

Tucker did not look at you when he walked away.

You stayed in the booth a little longer, listening to Dean talk over Logan, feeling the heat of Tucker’s hand still sitting on your knee like he’d left a mark there.

Then you slid out.

Hannah caught it, because of course she did. She glanced from you to the back hallway, and whatever she saw on your face made her pick up her drink and start an argument with Dean loud enough to cover you leaving.

Bless her.

The hallway to the bathrooms was dimmer than the rest of the bar, narrow and lined with old posters. Your pulse beat hard in your throat as you passed the women’s room and found Tucker near the single-use bathroom at the end.

His eyes lifted when he saw you.

That was all it took.

He opened the door behind him, and you slipped inside.

The lock clicked.

The room was small, with a sink set into the counter, a mirror, and music thumping faintly through the walls. For half a second, Tucker only looked at you.

Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you.

Tucker kissed you like he had been waiting all night to stop pretending.

There was nothing slow about it. His hand came to the back of your neck, the other finding your waist as he backed you toward the sink. You made a small sound against his mouth when the counter hit the backs of your thighs, and he swallowed it, kissing you deeper.

He tasted like beer and mint and Tucker, familiar in a way that made your chest ache even as your body went molten.

His hands slid down to your hips.

“You have any idea,” he murmured against your mouth, “what you looked like sitting in that booth?”

You tugged him closer. “Annoyed?”

“Distracted.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Tucker kissed along your jaw, then down your neck, his mouth warm and unhurried even though the rest of him was anything but. The music outside changed, bass thumping through the door, and someone laughed somewhere in the hallway.

The sound should have made you stop.

Instead, your hands slid under the edge of his shirt, fingers pressing into the warm skin at his waist.

Tucker’s breath hitched.

“Keep doing that,” he said, voice roughening, “and we’re not making it back to the table.”

You dragged your nails lightly over his skin.

“Good.”

His hands tightened on your hips, and whatever control he’d been pretending to have snapped thinner.

Then he lifted you onto the sink counter.

The mirror shook faintly behind you. You wrapped your legs around him, and he stepped between them, kissing you again like he had no interest in remembering there were people waiting just outside.

His hand slid beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh.

He paused.

His mouth stopped moving against yours.

You felt the second he realized.

He drew back enough to look at you.

“No panties?” he said, voice lower than before.

You tried to look composed and failed spectacularly. “Laundry day.”

His eyes darkened.

“That right?”

“Yeah.”

His hand moved higher, slow enough to make you grip the edge of the counter.

“All night,” he said, “you were sitting next to me like this?”

Your knees tightened around his hips. “I didn’t plan for you to sing that song.”

“No?” His mouth brushed yours. “What did you plan for?”

“Nothing involving a public bathroom.”

Tucker kissed you once, hard and brief.

“Plans change.”

His fingers slipped between your thighs, and your whole body jerked when he touched you. The sound you made was too loud for the space, too honest, and Tucker caught it with his mouth while his hand worked under your skirt.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he murmured.

“You started this.”

“I sang a song.”

“You knew what you were doing.”

His smile brushed against your cheek. “Yeah, I did.”

He pulled his hand back just enough to lift it between you. You watched, breath stuck in your chest, as he licked two fingers slowly, his eyes not leaving yours.

Every thought in your head vanished.

Then his hand was under your skirt again.

“Oh,” you breathed.

He rubbed your clit in slow circles, slick fingers moving with a confidence that made your hips shift forward helplessly. You caught his shoulder with one hand and the counter with the other, trying to stay quiet as pleasure rolled through you fast and bright.

Tucker watched your face like he was learning what ruined you.

“You’re trying so hard to keep quiet,” he said, mouth near your ear. “It’s making it worse.”

You swallowed a moan. “Tuck.”

“I like that,” he said. “Say it like that again.”

Your thighs tightened around his hips.

He pressed a little firmer, circles steady and sure, and you gave him exactly what he wanted because you couldn’t help it.

“Tuck.”

His breath dragged out rough against your neck.

“There you go.”

The praise hit you hard, and he must have felt it in the way your hips rolled against his hand, because his fingers slowed just to make you chase them. Then they slipped lower, teasing your entrance, and your laugh broke apart into a gasp.

The music outside swelled, loud enough to rattle the door in its frame. A burst of laughter passed down the hall, and Tucker moved closer, his body covering yours as though that could hide what the two of you were doing.

His fingers pushed inside you.

Your grip on his shirt tightened.

He moved slowly at first, watching your face, reading every little shift. Then he curled them, and you had to press your mouth to his shoulder to keep from making too much noise.

“Tucker,” you gasped.

His jaw brushed your temple. “That’s the spot, huh?”

You nodded into his shoulder, too far gone to make a joke out of it.

He did it again.

Your whole body tightened.

“God,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Please what?”

You lifted your head enough to glare at him, even though you were breathing too hard for it to land properly.

“Tuck.”

He smiled, but it was strained now, his control wearing thin. “I know. I’m sorry. I just like hearing you ask me.”

You reached between you, fingers finding his belt. “Then I’m asking.”

Tucker kissed you as he helped, hands brushing yours, breath uneven. He got his belt open, shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, and you caught one glimpse of him before he was reaching for his wallet with the kind of urgency that made your stomach flip.

“Tell me you have a condom,” you whispered.

He pulled one out.

“Thank God,” you breathed.

He tore it open, rolled it on, then gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the sink. The movement made you gasp, your skirt pushed up around your hips, his jeans low, both of you still mostly dressed and somehow that made it filthier.

Tucker’s hand came to your face.

He kissed you once. Not rushed. Not this time.

Then he lined himself up and pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. He stretched you slowly, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, the other gripping your thigh. Tucker’s forehead dropped against yours as he filled you, his breath shuddering.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Your nails dug into his shoulder. “Tuck.”

He stayed still once he was all the way inside, jaw tight, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the effort it took for him not to move right away.

“You feel so good,” he said, voice rough. “I need a second.”

A breathless laugh escaped you.

He smiled against your cheek, and then he started to move.

The first thrust made your head fall back against the mirror.

His hand came up behind your neck, cushioning you before you could hit too hard. Even here, even like this, he noticed. Then his hips snapped forward again, and your thoughts scattered.

He fucked you against the sink with his mouth at your neck and one hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for him. The counter creaked beneath you. The mirror fogged slightly near your shoulder. Your skirt was bunched at your waist, your top twisted under his hand, your body taking him in quick, deep strokes that made it nearly impossible to stay quiet.

“Tucker,” you breathed, and his name came out broken.

His grip tightened.

“You have no idea,” he said against your throat. “How many times I thought about you like this.”

You clung to him, barely able to answer. He angled his hips, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your eyes squeezed shut.

“There,” you gasped.

He caught it immediately.

“There?”

“Yes.”

He kept that angle, steady and focused, kissing you to swallow the sounds you couldn’t hold back. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, pleasure building too fast after his fingers, your body already sensitive and wet for him.

His hand slid between you again.

When his fingers found your clit, you nearly fell apart.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Tucker’s breath stuttered. “Come on. Let me feel it.”

Your body locked around him.

He kissed you hard as you came, his fingers still moving, his hips slowing just enough to drag it out. The orgasm hit you in waves, your thighs shaking around his waist, one hand slapped over your own mouth because you could not trust yourself.

He watched you through it, eyes dark and stunned, like he could not believe he got to see you like this.

Then his thrusts got rougher.

Desperate.

He buried his face against your neck, breathing hard, his hands gripping you as he chased his own release. You held onto him, murmuring his name near his ear, and that seemed to finish him.

Tucker came with a low groan, his body pressing yours back against the mirror, his hips stuttering once, twice, before he went still.

For a few seconds, the only sounds were your breathing and the muffled disaster of the bar outside.

Then someone in the hallway shouted, “Yo, whoever’s in there, some of us have beer organs with limited patience.”

Dean.

Of course.

Your eyes widened.

Tucker dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he whispered.

You started laughing, quiet and helpless, your body still wrapped around his.

Tucker lifted his head, and the look on his face softened so much that it made the laughter fade in your throat.

He kissed you gently.

Then once more.

Then he helped you down from the counter like your knees were not in immediate danger of betraying you. He cleaned up, fixed himself, washed his hands, and handed you a paper towel without making you ask.

You straightened your skirt, then turned to the mirror and immediately regretted it. Your hair, your mouth, the flushed look on your face all gave you away at once.

Tucker came up behind you, but he didn’t wrap his arms around you right away. Instead, he braced both hands on the sink on either side of you, boxing you in without touching anywhere except the faint brush of his chest against your back.

You looked at him in the mirror.

He was watching you there, his hair a little mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes quieter now than they had been all night.

“I don’t want to walk back out there and pretend this was just the song,” he said.

Your fingers paused at the hem of your skirt.

Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours in the mirror, steady in a way that made your chest feel too tight for the room.

“I want you,” he said. “Not just tonight. Not just because Dean’s an idiot and I picked a song I knew would get under your skin. I mean seriously.”

Your throat went dry. “You’re telling me this in a bar bathroom?”

His mouth curved a little, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. Not my best setting.”

“No,” you said, softer now. “But it’s very you.”

Tucker leaned in, pressing one kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take you home. Let me take you out tomorrow. Let me do this right after doing it completely wrong first.”

You stared at him in the mirror for another second, trying to keep your face together and failing.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Tucker’s hands tightened once on the sink, like that one word had hit him harder than anything else you’d done in that bathroom. Then he kissed your shoulder, soft and lingering, before finally reaching past you to unlock the door.

Dean was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

Not surprised. Not horrified. Barely even interested.

Just waiting.

“Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think I’d have to send Garrett in with snacks.”

You froze in the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know I was right.”

Tucker sighed. “Dean.”

“No, no, I’m being mature about this.” Dean pushed off the wall, eyes flicking between Tucker’s hand at your waist and your very obviously fixed-in-a-hurry hair. “I’m not saying a word.”

You stared at him.

Dean lifted both hands. “Out loud.”

Tucker started guiding you past him.

Dean fell into step beside you like he had been invited. “For the record, I accept thank-you gifts in cash, liquor, or public acknowledgment that I’m the reason this happened.”

“You are never getting that,” Tucker said.

Dean smiled. “That’s fine. I’ll know.”

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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[crowdedimagines]

The team figures it out (Showtime Extra) 

Aaron Hotchner x reader

an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐

-

It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing. 

“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth. 

You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”

“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”

You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”

Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”

You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile. 

He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”

This cannot be good. 

Morgan perks up instantly, “Oh, this I like.” 

“Two coworkers,” Rossi continues, “Highly disciplined. Private. Excellent compartmentalization skills.” 

The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.

Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”

“Is it?” Rossi questions. 

Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction. 

JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”

“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two. 

Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”

“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.

“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”

“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”

You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes. 

“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”

“Garcia!” Hotch warns. 

She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.” 

“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”

“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states. 

Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes. 

“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”

“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.

Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”

“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”

Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”

You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely. 

“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out. 

No denial. Just silence.

Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail. 

JJ covers her mouth and repeats, “Oh my god!”

Morgan’s jaw falls slack, “You faked gym sessions to hide dating?”

Hotch finally speaks, his voice is calm and dry. 

“Cardio was implied.”

The room explodes. 

“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now. 

You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.” 

“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals. 

Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”

Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”

“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”

“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.

You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.” 

“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out. 

Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement. 

“Yes.” 

Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.” 

“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?” 

You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”

“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states. 

“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.

You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns. 

Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.

-

Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.

The elevator dings. 

JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”

Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you. 

You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug. 

“Hi.”

You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”

Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees. 

JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”

Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”

He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”

“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand. 

“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”

The bullpen goes totally silent. 

You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”

“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”

“Jack…” Hotch warns. 

You can tell he’s just getting started. 

“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.

“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”

He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.

“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head. 

“Always ask the child.” JJ nods. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug. 

“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”

“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures. 

“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head. 

“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.” 

Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”

You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.” 

You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes. 

Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”

Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”

“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”

Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”

“Jack.” 

Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.

“What? Honesty matters.”

“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues. 

You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”

Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you. 

[lovelytsunoda]

UNTIL THE SUN EXPLODES | John Tucker

Summary: She may have graduated and found a full time job, and have to spend most of her twenties working at a desk instead of having fun with people her own age, but John Tucker is always there to make YN YLN feel young again.

Pairing: John Tucker x Paralegal!Reader

Warnings: implied smut, two idiots in love, Tucker is head over goddamn heels, teeny tiny little bit of angst and insecurity. Mostly fluff. Tuck’s teammates being the reigning kings of chaos.

Author’s Notes: Guess who’s back, bitches!!! And I’m totally not writing something incredibly self indulgent and projecting all of the anxieties I have about my current phase in life into a fanfic because that would be a horrible coping strategy-

Driving past Briar University always made YN feel strange. Like she was missing a phase of her life that she’d never gotten to experience.

She had never been a Briar student herself, studying instead at the community college down the road. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t had fun, of course she had, but she’d never had the kind of fun that her friends at Briar had ranted and raved about.

It still felt strange, she thought to herself as she got behind the wheel of her shiny gently used Volkswagen, staring at the parking pass for the office complex that dangled from her rear view mirror, right next to a plastic keychain holding a picture of her and John. Even a year on, going to work still felt like being a little kid dressing up in her mom’s clothes for the day. While other twenty-somethings got to spend their days lounging around campus and going to parties, YN spent her days in a windowless cubicle filing court documents and chasing down clients who hadn’t provided copies of their ID to the lawyers.

Just that day she had missed one of her boyfriend’s games. The game started at 1:30, and her rigid lunch hour was from 12:00 to 1:00, no exceptions.

She missed spending time with people her own age, but also felt as though she could no longer relate to them.

As she pulled into John’s driveway, she exhaled a sigh of relief when she noticed that no other cars were there, just his. After the day that she’d had, she wasn’t sure if she could tolerate a house full of hockey boys.

She got out of the car, reaching idly into the footwell of the passenger seat to grab her mustard yellow leather tote bag, which next to the Passat GT that she drove was the most expensive thing that she owned. By the time she reached the front door, Tucker had already opened it, and the bright smile he gave her was enough to wash away all the stress of her day.

“Hey, handsome.” She grinned, stepping into the front foyer and pulling him in for a kiss. “Sorry I missed the game. If we want to go to Corpus Christie in the summer, I can’t take any more time off.”

Sometimes, she wished she could be a better girlfriend. That she could be the girlfriend who went with John to his parties, and showed up to every single game in a jersey with his last name on it. But vacation time wasn’t free, and somehow she was supposed to survive on only two weeks of it per year. That fact made her a little insecure, and there had been times where she worried that she wouldn’t be enough for Tucker any more.

Little did she know that there were times that John Tucker felt like he couldn’t keep up with a hard working, money-earning twenty something that was far more successful than he was in a much shorter time frame.

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize.” Tucker laughed, taking her purse from her outstretched hand. “Have I told you that you make business casual look obscenely sexy?”

“Kiss ass.” She giggled, kicking off her sling backs. “Where is the rest of the freak parade?”

Tucker grinned. “Partying. We have the place all to ourselves. I’m making gnocchi.”

She didn’t realize how hungry she had been until her boyfriend mentioned food, and she knew there was no way to hide the growl of her stomach. “You’re too good to me.”

“And I bought massage oils!” He chirped, remembering how she had told him that her back consistently hurt due to the subpar desk chair at her work station. After three months of complaints, John had finally convinced her to ask the office manager for a new chair. It had helped, but every now and again the aches and pains came back.

“Now you’re just spoiling me.” She laughed, bare feet cold against the tile on the kitchen floor as she headed to the dining room table. “How was the game? Allie told me you ended up in the penalty box twice.”

Tucker laughed, throwing up the hand that wasn’t stirring the gnocchi sauce. “The referee was biased, I’m telling you. That other guy totally started it! We won though, so Dean and the guys are out celebrating.” He turned to face her, a thoughtful grin on his face. “What about work?”

She groaned, burying her head in her hands. “I’m quitting.” They both knew she wouldn’t. “Wayne is a fucking control freak and I’m so sick of lawyers. He flipped his shit on me today because I told him I couldn’t stay late, even though I skipped my lunch to work through this foreclosure file he has me working on that’s so complicated I don’t even know why he’s given it to me.”

Tucker switched off the stove, plating the gnocchi and sitting down across from her at the dining table. He was in awe of the woman across from him. She was smart and intelligent, and he knew she hated when she couldnt answer a clients question even if she knew the answer because it was treading too close to giving legal advice. Time after time he found himself asking why she had chosen him and not some asshole in a three piece.

“Can’t you ask Irene for help?” Tucker suggested. “She’s been doing this for like thirty years, right? Surely she must have some advice.”

“Irene threatens to quit every twenty minutes and swears at Wayne when he pages her to his office. I wish I could be as unbothered as she is.”

“Well, I know what’s good for stress.” John winked from across the table. “Good food. Good company, and someone who’s very good with his hands.”

Conversation flowed easily after that, once the topic of work was somewhat avoid, instead replaced with joyful anecdotes about coworkers and teammates. She liked spending time with John. She may have missed out on a college romance, but every moment she spent with Tucker reminded her that she was still young. She enjoyed having someone to lean on, to rant about work and share her dreams with. He was a great supporter, and had never once shamed her for not seeking higher education. In fact, twice he had shown up at the office unannounced to bring her lunch, or coffee, or a potted plant for her desk. Some of her coworkers were starting to get jealous of all the attention she was getting.

After dinner, they went upstairs, and she spread out on a Mexican blanket on John’s bed, sighing with pleasure as Tucker’s nimble fingers worked over the tense knots in her shoulders, senses soothed by the smell of eucalyptus in the warm massage oil.

“Fucking hell, Tuck.” She moaned softly “Where did you learn to do that?”

He smiled softly, leaning down to place a kiss on the back of her neck. “I’m an athlete, darlin’. Comes with the territory. Whatever makes you feel good.”

After a while, over ten minutes of Tuckers warm hands working on her aching muscles in her shoulders and lower back, she asked him a question.

“Tuck?”

“Yeah, honey.”

“How come you’ve never asked me why I decided not to go to law school?”

John paused, movements stopping before he tapped her bare shoulder. “Babe, turn over for a second.”

She complied, fanning her long hair out behind her as she shifted beneath Tucker to look up at him.

“Because it’s none of my business. I think you did something really brave. You knew what you wanted out of life and you went for it. Now look at you. You have fantastic job, and you earn good money. Your student loans are paid off. I’m really fucking proud of you, you know that?”

Her heart swelled as she looked up at the man she loved, his dark,curly hair falling into his eyes and bright smile on his face, and her chest filled with love at the sight.

She looped her arms around his neck, smiling as she pulled him in for a deep kiss.

“I love you, John Tucker.”

Waking up at Tuckers on a work morning was difficult. She silenced her phone alarm, not wanting to trade John’s warm embrace for the unforgiving cold office and Wayne’s lectures on ID fraud in real estate. Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed, going for the drawer in his dresser that held some of her work clothes.

Back in the double bed, Tucker stirred, a serene smile on his face as he watched her get ready for work, humming an Alanis Morrisette song under her breath as she brushed her hair.

She looked like an angel.

“Your navy blazer is in my closet. Just behind my playoff suit.” He shifted in bed, sitting up and letting the covers fall away from his bare chest, showing off the faint red scratches she had left on his pecs the night before.

“Thanks.” She smiled softly, flicking through his closet to find the blazer she had left at the house last time she had come over. “If I wasn’t so scared of Wayne catching me coming in late, I’d be pouncing on you right now, I hope you know that.”

Tucker laughed, climbing out of bed to wrap his strong arms around her. “I know.” He laughed, kissing the side of her head. “Go grab some breakfast. I’m going to have a quick shower.”

Gathering her belongings and slinging her purse over her shoulder, she practically skipped down the stairs, still humming ‘Head Over Feet’. She flicked the kettle on, filling up her Stanley with ice water as she waited for the water for her instant oatmeal to boil.

“So this is the person who’s spent more time in Tuck’s bed than he has. Now I get to put a face to the name.”

She jumped, squealing as she turned around to see Garrett Graham sitting at the dining room table, a shit eating grin on his face. John Logan sat next to him, mirroring Garrett’s teasing expression.

“You guys are shit at sneaking around, by the way.” Logan added

Her face fell, guard instantly coming up. “We weren’t trying to sneak around. I’ve just been so busy the last couple of months because I work in real estate law, which is so fucking insane at the moment, and there just hasn’t been time.”

“Calm down, Y/N.” Dean Di Laurentis’ voice carried as he came into the kitchen. “They’re just messing with you. They know you work full time, and they’re totally chill with it.”

“Hi Dean.” She exhaled, smile returning. “Is Tuck out of the shower yet?”

Dean shrugged. “He was singing Pearl Jam songs when I walked past, so who knows.”

“Wait a hot second!” Logan interrupted. “You guys know each other?”

She laughed, shaking her oatmeal packet and determined to move on with her morning. The townhouse was closer to work than her own home was, but she still didn’t want to take any chances. “Dean and Allie were the ones that set me up with Tuck. Allie’s my cousin.”

“Hey, we’ve got a game on Friday.” Garrett started. “It’s a late start, around 6:30. You get off at five, right?”

She nodded, joining Garrett and Logan at the table to finally eat her breakfast.

“Tuck would love it if you could come. Have you ever seen him play? I know you missed today’s game because of work, and I don’t m ow what your mental load is at work, so if you’re too tired to come-“

“I’ll be there.” She smiled. “Can’t wait.”

There was a creaking noise on the stairs, and then Tucker came bounding into the kitchen, his unruly hair tied in a loose bun at the name of his neck, biceps showing off underneath his muscle tank. His face lit up when he saw YN sitting at the kitchen table with his teammates.

“Hi sweetheart! You left your spare charger in my room. I know it’s the one you keep in your car, so I didn’t want you to leave without it.”

“Thanks babe.” She beamed, kissing him softly. “I love you.”

“Love you too, sugar.” Tuck smiled. “Hang on one sec, I made you something.”

Tucker crossed to the fridge rooting around inside for a minute before he came back with a glass container, a laminated sheet of paper stuck to the top.

“I made you lunch. Microwave instructions are on the top. Have a great day at work.”

“Oh, Tuck.” She blushed “you didn’t need to do that.”

“Yes he did.” Dean coughed. “Cooking is the man’s love language.”

“Fuck off, Dean.” Tuck laughed. “Can’t a man dote on his wife without his friends making fun of him for it?”

At the slip of the tongue, YN coughed on her glass of milk. Wife? They had barely been together for six months yet. Although, as she watched her credit score slowly climb each month, she found herself imagining what it would be like to see her name next to his on a mortgage.

“I have to go to work.” She said finally, getting up from the table. “If any of you assholes have boxed me in, your cars are getting keyed.”

“It happened once!” Dean protested. “How was I supposed to know the sports car was yours?”

Still laughing, she turned back to Tucker. “I love you, you big dork. I’ll see you on Friday for your game.”

Tuck’s eyes lit up. “You’re coming?”

“Of course I am!” She pressed up on her toes to kiss him. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“have I told you how much I love you?”

She beamed, mindlessly wrapping a strand of his hair around her finger. “Only about five times since I woke up.”

He kissed her again, ignoring the wolf whistles from his teammates. She grabbed her keys from the counter and threw her purse over her shoulder, waving goodbye to the hockey players as she exited the front door.

Once Logan heard her car start, he turned to Tuck. “Dude, I mean this in the most polite way possible, but you need to put a ring on that before she meets some jackass with a 401(k).”

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Branch {John Tucker x reader} Part 22

Masterlist

Summary: Eight years ago, John Tucker and Y/N L/N fell in love. Unfortunately, they realized it three weeks before graduation. With Y/N leaving Briar for a journalism internship and John staying behind to figure out his future, they did what seemed easiest at the time—they walked away. Now, eight years later, a reunion weekend brings the old Briar crew back together. John is expecting nothing more than beer, hockey stories, and a trip down memory lane. What he isn't expecting is Y/N. The girl he never forgot. The woman he can't stop staring at. And the second chance he never thought he'd get. Sometimes timing is everything. Sometimes it's worth waiting eight years for.

Warnings: hospital, crying, emotional chats

The silence did not last long.

Of course it didn't.

Not with Dean in the room.

Not with Logan standing at the foot of the bed looking like he'd swallowed every emotion he'd ever had.

Not with Garrett staring at John like he was trying to decide whether to hug him or lecture him.

Not with Hannah quietly crying into Allie's shoulder.

But for a few precious seconds, nobody said anything.

John's words hung in the air.

Love you too.

Simple.

Rough.

Barely above a whisper.

But somehow louder than everything else.

Y/N stayed close to him, her hand wrapped carefully around his, her lips still pressed against his knuckles like she needed the contact to convince herself this was real.

He was awake.

He was alive.

He loved her.

And she'd said it back.

It should have felt romantic.

It should have felt like one of those perfect moments people remembered forever.

Instead, it happened beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with machines beeping beside them, John covered in bruises, and their entire friend group crowded into a room that was far too small for all of their feelings.

Which, honestly, made sense.

Nothing about them had ever happened the normal way.

John blinked slowly, his gaze drifting over the room again.

His expression tightened slightly.

"Why are you all staring at me?"

Dean made a wounded sound.

"Because you nearly died, asshole."

Allie smacked his arm immediately.

"Dean."

"What? He did."

John's mouth twitched.

"Barely."

Garrett's eyebrows lifted.

"Barely?"

John's eyes moved toward him.

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me."

Garrett stepped closer to the bed, his voice low and controlled in a way that made Y/N understand exactly how scared he had been.

"You had surgery, you idiot."

John looked mildly offended.

"I know."

"You just asked if you died."

"I was checking."

Dean pointed at him.

"See? That's funny."

"No," Garrett said sharply. "That's concerning."

John's eyes slid toward Y/N.

"Is he mad?"

Y/N brushed her thumb over his hand.

"He's scared."

Garrett looked away instantly.

John's expression softened.

Even half-awake, even drugged and in pain, he seemed to understand.

"Sorry, G."

The nickname hit the room quietly.

Garrett's jaw flexed.

For a second, he looked almost angry.

Then he leaned down and squeezed John's uninjured shoulder with careful strength.

"Don't do that again."

John blinked slowly.

"Get hit by a truck?"

"Yes."

"I'll try."

Dean made a strangled noise.

"Okay, I hate to say this, but hospital Tucker is kind of hilarious."

Logan nodded once.

"Agreed."

"Nobody encourage him," Hannah said through her tears.

John looked toward Hannah.

"You're crying."

Hannah laughed wetly.

"You said 'I love you' in front of all of us after nearly giving everyone heart failure. Of course I'm crying."

John's eyes moved back to Y/N.

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

"I said that out loud?"

Y/N's heart softened painfully.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

His thumb shifted weakly against hers.

"Good."

The single word almost broke her.

Because there was no embarrassment in his voice.

No panic.

No regret.

Just relief.

Like even through the fog of medication and pain, he was glad she'd heard it.

Y/N leaned closer.

"Good?"

John's tired eyes stayed on hers.

"Been meaning to."

Her breath caught.

Around them, everyone very suddenly became fascinated by the floor.

Even Dean.

Especially Dean.

Y/N swallowed hard.

"Yeah?"

John nodded faintly.

Then immediately grimaced.

"Don't let me nod."

A laugh escaped her.

Small.

Shaky.

Full of tears.

"Okay."

"Bad idea."

"I'll remember that."

His eyes fluttered, exhaustion already pulling at him again.

"You're staying?"

Y/N squeezed his hand.

"I'm staying."

His gaze moved toward Gail.

"Mom?"

Gail stood at his other side, one hand pressed to her chest, her face pale but softened by relief.

"I'm not going anywhere either, baby."

John seemed satisfied by that.

"Good."

Then his eyes drifted toward Dean.

Dean straightened immediately.

"What? You want me to stay too?"

John stared at him for a long moment.

Then whispered, "No."

The room burst into quiet laughter.

Dean clutched his chest.

"I am wounded."

"He's already wounded," Logan muttered. "Don't make this about you."

"Everything is about me if I stand close enough to it."

Garrett rubbed a hand over his face.

"There it is."

For the first time since the accident, the room felt almost normal.

Not completely.

There was too much fear lingering beneath the surface for that.

Too much pain.

Too much reality.

But the laughter helped.

It reminded Y/N that this was still them.

Still the same people who had crowded into a lodge and cheered when she and John kissed.

Still the same people who had interrupted family dinners and sent twenty-seven-page spreadsheets.

Still ridiculous.

Still impossible.

Still family.

A nurse came in shortly after, took one look at the crowded room, and gave them the expression of someone who had been a nurse long enough to frighten full-grown athletes without raising her voice.

"Everyone out."

Dean opened his mouth.

The nurse pointed at him.

"Especially you."

Dean closed his mouth.

Allie grabbed his hand.

"Come on."

"But she doesn't even know me."

"She knows enough."

One by one, they filed out.

Garrett squeezed Y/N's shoulder as he passed.

Hannah hugged her carefully.

Logan gave John one last look and muttered, "Don't be dramatic while we're gone."

John's eyes were closed again, but his mouth twitched.

Beau left the snacks behind, as if snacks were a medical necessity.

Eventually only Y/N and Gail remained.

The nurse checked John's vitals, adjusted something on his IV, and reminded them that he needed rest.

Then she left too.

The room settled into quiet again.

Different quiet this time.

Less panicked.

Still heavy, but no longer suffocating.

Y/N sank back into the chair beside John's bed, her body suddenly realizing how exhausted she was.

Every muscle hurt.

Her head throbbed.

Her throat felt raw from holding back tears.

But she kept her hand in his.

Gail watched her from the other side of the bed.

After a while, she spoke softly.

"You should sleep for a little while."

Y/N shook her head immediately.

"I'm fine."

Gail gave her a look that was so motherly, Y/N almost smiled.

"Sweetheart."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

Y/N looked down at John.

At the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"I'm scared if I close my eyes, something will happen."

The confession slipped out before she could stop it.

Raw.

Quiet.

Honest.

Gail's expression softened.

"Oh, honey."

Y/N swallowed hard.

"I know he's stable. I know the doctors said they're optimistic. I know all of that."

Her voice cracked.

"But every time I look at him, all I can think about is that he was on his way to me."

Gail's eyes filled again.

Y/N wiped quickly beneath her own.

"If he hadn't been coming to New York..."

"No."

Gail's voice was gentle but firm.

Y/N looked up.

"No, you don't do that."

The words landed with enough certainty to stop her thoughts for a moment.

Gail leaned forward slightly.

"John was in that car because he wanted to be with you. But the accident was not because of you."

Y/N's lips trembled.

"It feels like it."

"I know."

Gail reached across the bed with her free hand.

Y/N took it.

"He would hate that," Gail said softly. "He would hate you blaming yourself for someone else's recklessness."

Y/N looked back at John.

His face was bruised.

His lips were pale.

But he was breathing.

There.

Still there.

"I just got him back," she whispered.

Gail's hand tightened around hers.

"I know."

"I can't lose him now."

"You won't."

The answer came quickly.

Not because Gail could promise that.

Not really.

No one could.

But because she needed to say it.

Because Y/N needed to hear it.

Because in that moment, hope mattered more than certainty.

For a long time, they sat like that.

Both holding onto John.

Both holding onto each other.

Two women who loved the same man in very different ways.

Eventually, Y/N's eyes grew heavy despite herself.

She fought it.

Then fought it again.

Then felt Gail gently shift a blanket over her lap.

"Rest," Gail whispered.

Y/N wanted to argue.

She truly did.

But John's hand was warm in hers.

His breathing was steady.

The room was quiet.

And for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, the terror loosened enough for exhaustion to pull her under.

When Y/N woke, it was still dark outside.

For one disorienting second, she didn't know where she was.

Then the beeping brought everything back.

The hospital.

The accident.

John.

She sat up too quickly.

A hand squeezed hers.

Weakly.

But there.

Her head snapped toward the bed.

John was awake.

Barely.

His eyes were open just enough to look at her.

"You stayed."

His voice was rough with sleep and pain.

Y/N leaned forward immediately.

"Of course I stayed."

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then his mouth curved faintly.

"Good."

She brushed his hair back carefully, avoiding the bandage.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck."

Y/N stared at him.

John blinked.

Then, very slowly, looked pleased with himself.

"Too soon?"

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

A real laugh this time.

Exhausted.

Tearful.

But real.

"You're impossible."

His eyes softened.

"Made you laugh."

"You scared me."

"I know."

The humor faded.

His gaze held hers as clearly as it could through the medication.

"I'm sorry."

Y/N shook her head.

"No."

"I am."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"I know."

His thumb moved lightly across her fingers.

"But you were waiting."

That hurt.

Because he remembered.

Maybe not everything.

Maybe not clearly.

But that.

Her apartment.

The dinner.

The waiting.

"I was."

John's face tightened.

"I wanted to be there."

"I know."

"I was coming."

"I know, baby."

The word slipped out without thought.

Both of them noticed.

Something soft passed through his expression.

Despite everything, despite the bruises and the pain and the awful hospital room, he looked almost happy.

"Baby?"

Y/N's cheeks warmed.

"You're concussed. Don't get smug."

"Too late."

She laughed again, wiping quickly under one eye.

John watched her carefully.

His smile faded.

"I love you."

This time, nobody else was in the room to hear it.

No friends.

No chaos.

No Dean standing there ready to ruin the moment.

Just the two of them.

The words were quiet.

Clearer than before.

More deliberate.

Y/N felt them settle deep in her chest.

"I love you too."

John exhaled slowly.

Like hearing it eased something in him.

Like he'd been waiting for it.

Like maybe he'd waited eight years.

Y/N leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to his forehead.

His eyes fluttered closed.

But his fingers stayed around hers.

"Don't leave," he whispered.

Her heart cracked.

Then healed around the words.

"I won't."

And this time, unlike eight years ago, there was no hesitation.

No fear.

No silence where honesty should have been.

Y/N held his hand tighter and settled back into the chair beside him.

"I'm right here."

John's breathing evened out again.

His hand relaxed in hers.

But this time, Y/N didn't feel quite as afraid when his eyes closed.

Because he knew.

She knew.

They both did.

Whatever happened next, they were done losing each other.

Taglist {Open}: @kmc1989 @yogurts-things @parker-barnes-af @spooky-librarian-ghost @thecraziestcrayon @distantlyshatteredshard @ilocuras24 @garrettgrahamssexysnaps

[heartsandheadcanons]

❤︎ Kiss Me More (tuck’s version) ❤︎

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: boyfriend!john tucker x reader

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: different types of kisses with john tucker

𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: established relationship, reader referred to as honey/baby, gets (barely), steamy towards the end, let me know if I missed any!

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 191

𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻’𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮: this was a request! I loved writing this one, so thanks for requesting it! ♡

Requests are always welcome!

Taglist!

Masterlist!

‎۶ৎ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 ۶ৎ

Kisses on the cheek while you sit next to him on the couch, kisses on the shoulder while he hugs you from behind, he’ll kiss you on the knuckles while he drives with one hand on the wheel, small kisses on the nose before he leaves for practice

‎۶ৎ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 ۶ৎ

Now Tucker is never really jealous, just extremely touchy in public. Nothing crazy over the top, but small meaningful touches. Hands on your waist, small kisses on the lips every now and then, a gentle hand on your thigh. Just enough to subtly let everybody know that you’re his.

۶ৎ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 ۶ৎ

You and Tuck were cooking together, that was until he sat you up on the counter and said “M’sorry baby, I just need you so badly”. His hands were gripping hard on your hips, while yours were scratching at his back. He planted hot sloppy kisses on your mouth and neck, groaning softly while he needily grinds into your hips. “So so good honey” he’ll whisper to you while he kisses you on your collar bone. If you tell him that anybody could walk in here and catch you two, it’d only make him kiss you harder.

[girlontheruin]

- Set it up -

Summary: John Tucker teaches you how to play pool. A.k.a you both make your move in hopes you feel the same.

> Shoot your shot

- John Tucker x Figure skater!reader - (Fluff) -

Ever since Hannah started dating Garrett, you’d found most of your time merged with your friends and his. Malones had upgraded another area and added a few pool tables, which you had never set foot in till tonight. You’ve been exchanging heated glances with one particular hockey player, southern charmer John Tucker.

Athletes weren’t your usual type, your last late night hookup or a string of spontaneous sex was with an older guy. Easier to fuck someone you don’t bump into on campus. That and your figure skating coach/mother would go crazy if you were even breathing in a hockey players presence. You can’t help it though, John Tucker’s danced around your short replies and coaxed actual conversations out of you each time you’ve seen him.

“Just, like lean over,” Allie says, she’s perched on the edge of the pool table, gaze flitting to the guys near the bar and you’re terrible hold on a cue stick. Always the lookout, she’s a hundred percent sure Tucker’s interested in you and you’re hoping so too. She’s backed it up with intel, but won’t tell you who the trusted source is.

“Least you’re terrible enough to draw him in naturally,” Hannah grumbles, her hand covering her mouth as she tries to muffle her laugh. Her trembling shoulders give her away though. The band playing in the next room aren’t enough to calm your nerves or the doubts swimming in your head.

Garrett’s the first one to approach, his arm draped over Hannah shoulders as he steals her away. His head lowered as he whispers something in her ear. The guys set up another game of pool on the other side of the room, the nearest free one available and you exhale a long breath, thankful they aren’t teasing you. Allie’s palm pats your back as she disappears into the crowd, something about checking out the band or Photo Booth. You don’t get a glimpse of whoever she’s making a beeline for.

“Wow, this is a rare sight.”

You turn to face Tucker, nearly knocking him in the thigh with the stick. “What me in Malones or me sucking at pool?” You can’t help, but mirror his smile it’s infectious. Everything about him melts away the ice around you, the walls you built falling like water and for the first time it doesn’t scare you. You want him closer.

“Both,” Tucker says. He pushes the stray spring of curls out his face, bicep flexing as he raises his arm. His white T-shirt taunt across his defined chest, silver chain dipping between his pecs.

“Celebrating,” you say, nodding along with him till you realise the guys don’t follow figure skating. “I made it to sectionals, got a new sponsorship. Kinda a big deal.” Well you and your skating partner, Alek had made it. Another reason your mother doesn’t want you having a public relationship, she prefers to let others think you’re dating Alek.

Tucker wraps his arms around you, “congrats, that’s a big fucking deal,” he gives you a reassuring squeeze, the weight of his embrace leaving as quick as it came. You sway on the spot, the knot in your stomach twisting as you second guess your move. No, you don’t close the distant between you and him. Maybe he just sees you as friend.

He’s never hugged you before, the closest you’ve come to touch are your thighs brushing against each others on the sofa or that one time you bumped into him in the corridor leading to the rink. He was all geared up in his hockey kit and nearly knocked you clean on your ass. He caught you though, before you could fall. Maybe that’s when you first fell for him. His kindness. The soft lilt of his voice asking if you’re okay. You were too embarrassed to stick around and he never mentioned it since.

You’re staring, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His dark eyes trailing up and down your form. Oh he’s going to be trouble. He scratches his neck, the column of his throat stealing your attention. You saw a girl on his lap kissing his neck the first time you met him. That was months ago though and you haven’t seen him with anyone else.

“Want some pointers?” He nudges his head towards the table, his hand reaching around you to grab the chalk on the side. You stumble back to the edge, watching him pry the cue stick from your grasp with little effort and he preps the cue stick, blue staining the white tip. He blows the extra leftover residue off and your eyes dart to his lips.

You face the table, unable to meet his gaze, “uh, sure,” you say, there’s nothing else forming in your brain other than the thought of his lips on yours.

Tucker hovers behind you, sliding the cue stick on the table and he instructs you on how to hold it correctly. You place your right hand on the black handle, but his hand covers yours and guides it lower, “here,” is all he says, as if he too has to summon his own courage to speak out loud.

His hand lifts from yours on the handle and he leans forwards, “you wanna, put your left hand like this, balance the stick between your thumb and here,” Tucker says, his back pressing into yours and his weight makes you lean over the pool table. His left hand cups your elbow and the other returns to the handle and he draws the cue stick back and forth, practice.

“Okay, now try this one,” he says, pointing to the white ball, which you have to lean further over the table to get a better shot.

“Like this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder and he doesn’t move an inch. His lips a hair width from yours, he nods, nose bumping yours. You focus returns to the plush green velvet surface of the table in front you, acutely aware of his body moulded to yours.

“Follow the line of the cue stick, set up your shot,” his deep raspy voice rumbles in your ear, hot breath fanning the side of your face. “You wanna hit the ball in the centre, take your time.” His hands settle on your hips and he adjusts your body, guiding you closer to the edge of the pool table.

You jolt at his sudden touch fumbling your shot. The cue stick slips, white ball bouncing over the green surface and onto the floor. Tucker’s laugh shakes his chest and you feel it tremble through you too.

Tucker steps back. “Thought you figure skaters were graceful?” He says, cocking his head to the side to meet your gaze. That damned smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, curls tumbling over his forehead. One hand trails to the small of your back, a small splinter of hope that he’s interested in you.

“Only on ice.” You spin around to face him and his hand follows the movement, the warmth of his palm stinging the bare skin beneath your blouse.

“What else do figure skaters do off the ice then?” He lifts you up, setting you on the side of the pool table and steps between your legs. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look up at him.

You grasp the front hem of T-shirt, “we kiss handsome boys.” It’s now or never.

Tucker’s lips press to yours, teeth clinking as you meet him halfway. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt and you tug him closer, deepening the kiss. Hot and heavy, he leans back for a breath. His forehead resting against yours, you place your hand on his chest and feel the fast beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“You wanna know what hockey players do off the ice?”

[daydreamfiles]

My Girl - John Tucker

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

blurb: after a party gets a little too uncomfortable, tucker walks you home, and one quiet moment turns into something neither of you can take back.

warnings: 18+ mdni, unwanted attention, protective tucker, possessive undertones, party setting, emotional tension, explicit content, unprotected sex, aftercare, language.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs

The party was too loud.

It had been too loud from the moment you walked in, bass trembling through the floorboards, bodies packed too close in every room, cheap beer spilled sticky near the kitchen tiles. Usually, you could handle it. Usually, you liked the noise, liked the way it gave everyone permission to be a little less careful for a few hours.

Tonight, though, you kept feeling like there was nowhere to put yourself.

Garrett and Logan had claimed the beer pong table almost immediately, yelling over each other like they were trying to be heard from two houses down. Dean was on the couch with some girl half in his lap, saying something that made her throw her head back laughing.

And Tucker was somewhere behind you.

You knew because you kept looking for him without meaning to.

He had been doing that thing all night where he let everyone else take up the room while he leaned back and watched. One hand curled around a red cup, shoulders relaxed, mouth tilted like he was amused by something no one had said out loud yet. He wasn’t loud about anything. Not his presence, not his attention, not even the way his eyes found you every so often from across the room.

But you felt it every time.

That was the problem with John Tucker.

He made you feel looked after before he had any right to.

You were in the kitchen when the guy first came up to you. You recognized him vaguely from campus, maybe a friend of a friend, maybe someone who had been at a few of these parties before. His name might’ve been Ryan. Or Tyler. Something forgettable enough that you felt bad for not remembering.

He leaned beside you against the counter, too close for someone you hadn’t invited into your space.

“Hey,” he said, smiling like he’d caught you waiting for him. “You’re with the hockey guys, right?”

“Friends with them,” you corrected, reaching for the bottle of soda beside the sink.

He watched the movement, eyes dropping just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“Right. Friends.” His grin got wider. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

You gave him a polite laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to encourage anything. “Pretty much.”

He didn’t take the hint.

For the next ten minutes, every time you shifted, he shifted too. When you stepped closer to the fridge, he followed. When you turned your body toward the hallway, he angled himself in front of you just enough that leaving would mean brushing past him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could point to without sounding like you were making a big deal out of nothing.

But your shoulders had started to tense.

“I should go find my friends,” you said, still trying to keep your voice light.

“They’re busy.” His hand landed on the counter beside your hip. “You can hang with me for a minute.”

“I’m good.”

“Come on.” He laughed, like you were being adorable instead of clear. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being anything. I said I’m good.”

This time, your voice came out flatter.

His smile flickered.

Then his hand moved.

It wasn’t much at first. Just his fingers catching lightly at your waist, like he was trying to stop you from turning away. Like he had the right to put his hand there because he wanted to.

Your stomach dropped.

You pushed his wrist away. “Don’t.”

He looked almost offended. “Relax. I’m not doing anything.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before the air behind you changed.

You didn’t see Tucker move through the kitchen. You didn’t hear him over the music or the shouting from the living room. One second you were alone with some guy’s hand too close to your waist, and the next Tucker was beside you, warm and solid, his presence cutting through the noise without him having to raise his voice.

His hand came to rest at the small of your back.

Not possessive. Not showy.

Just there.

“You okay?” he asked you.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

That was the worst part. You had been fine until someone asked you if you were.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’m okay.”

Tucker’s eyes stayed on your face a second too long to believe you. Then he turned his attention to the guy in front of you.

He didn’t look angry.

That somehow made it worse.

His face had gone calm in that still, unreadable way that made the whole kitchen seem quieter around him.

“She said don’t,” Tucker said.

The guy scoffed. “Man, we were just talking.”

Tucker didn’t move. “Then you heard her.”

You felt his thumb shift once against your back, a small, grounding pressure through the fabric of your shirt. Your body wanted to lean into it. You hated that. You hated that you needed it so badly.

The guy looked between the two of you, like he was trying to decide if pushing it was worth the trouble. Tucker gave him nothing to work with. No raised voice. No dramatic step forward. No threat he could laugh off in front of other people.

Just that quiet look.

The kind that said he could wait all night if he had to.

The guy muttered something under his breath and grabbed his cup off the counter. He brushed past Tucker a little harder than he needed to on his way out.

Tucker let him.

Only after he was gone did Tucker turn back to you.

His hand left your back slowly, like he didn’t want to make you feel trapped by him too. “You wanna get out of here?”

You nodded before you even thought about it.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Come on.”

He didn’t grab your hand until you reached for his first.

The second your fingers slid into his, his whole expression changed. Not much. Just a little pull at the corner of his mouth, something soft and private, like he was trying not to let you see how much it mattered.

He led you through the hallway, past the living room, past Logan calling his name from somewhere near the beer pong table.

Tucker didn’t stop.

He looked back only once, enough to make sure you were still with him, and then he kept going.

Outside, the cool air hit your face hard enough to make you breathe.

The party noise dulled behind the closed door. It was still there, still pulsing through the walls, but it felt far away now. Like something happening to somebody else.

Tucker walked you down the porch steps and onto the sidewalk without saying anything. His hand stayed around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted, firm enough that you knew he wasn’t going anywhere unless you asked him to.

You made it half a block before you spoke.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Tucker slowed beside you.

He looked at you then, eyebrows drawn slightly together. “Do what?”

“You know what.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “I really don’t.”

You looked down at your shoes. “Step in.”

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then he stopped walking completely.

You had no choice but to stop with him, your hand still caught in his.

“He had his hand on you after you told him no,” Tucker said. “I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch it happen.”

“I know. I just…” You swallowed, embarrassed by the heat climbing up your neck. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“You didn’t make it a thing.”

“I kind of did.”

“No.” His voice gentled, but it didn’t lose its firmness. “He did.”

That made something in your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready for.

Tucker stepped closer, slow enough to give you room. “Hey.”

You looked up.

His gaze moved over your face carefully, like he was checking for damage he couldn’t see. That almost undid you more than the guy in the kitchen had.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and shaky. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

Tucker’s expression softened.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let me walk you home.”

You didn’t argue.

Your apartment wasn’t far from the party, but the walk felt longer with him beside you. Maybe because neither of you filled the silence just to fill it. Maybe because every step made you more aware of your hand in his, of the warmth of his palm, of the way he adjusted his pace to yours without making it obvious.

By the time you reached your building, your nerves had settled into something else.

Something quieter.

Something worse.

Want.

Not because of the guy at the party. Not because Tucker had played hero or acted like you owed him something afterward. That was the thing. He hadn’t.

He had gotten you out. He had checked on you. He had walked beside you like being trusted with your silence was enough.

And somehow that made you want him so badly you could barely stand to look at him.

At your door, you fumbled with your keys.

Tucker stood a step behind you, giving you space even though your body had started to scream for the opposite.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked.

You pushed the door open, then turned around.

He looked ready to leave if you said yes.

That bothered you more than it should have.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked.

His eyes flicked over your face. “You want me to?”

You almost smiled. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved faintly. “You did.”

You stepped inside first, and he followed, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your apartment was dim except for the small lamp you had left on near the couch. There were clothes folded over the armchair, a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table, a book face down by the window.

Tucker looked around for only a second before his attention came back to you.

“Water?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“You sure?”

“Tuck.”

That stopped him.

Maybe it was the way you said his name. Not sharp. Not annoyed. Just too full of everything you had been trying not to feel.

His shoulders shifted with a quiet breath. “What do you need?”

There it was again.

Not what happened, not what did he do, not are you sure you’re fine.

What do you need?

You stared at him, and your answer terrified you a little.

“You,” you said.

Tucker went still.

The silence after it felt bigger than the room.

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move toward you. He stayed exactly where he was, hands loose at his sides, jaw working once like he had to physically hold himself back from doing what he wanted.

“Darlin’,” he said carefully.

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I’m not.” His voice was rougher now. “I’m making sure you do.”

You hated how much that made you want to kiss him.

Instead, you walked past him toward your bedroom, because standing in the living room under that soft yellow light suddenly felt impossible. You expected him to stay where he was, maybe tell you goodnight, maybe be noble enough to walk himself out.

But after a second, his footsteps followed.

Your room was darker than the living room, lit only by the thin spill of light coming through the doorway. You sat on the edge of your bed and pulled off your shoes, mostly to have something to do with your hands.

Tucker leaned against the doorframe.

Not coming in all the way.

Of course he wasn’t.

“You can sit down,” you said.

His gaze dropped to the bed, then back to you. “I know.”

“But you’re not.”

“Trying to be smart.”

That pulled a real smile out of you, even if it was small. “Is that working?”

“No,” he said honestly.

The warmth that spread through you was almost painful.

You patted the spot beside you.

This time, Tucker came in.

The mattress dipped under his weight when he sat down, careful to leave a few inches between you. A few respectful, maddening inches. His knee brushed yours once, and both of you noticed.

Neither of you moved away.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “You called me your girl.”

Tucker’s head turned slowly.

“What?”

“At the party.” Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You said something like that.”

“I didn’t say it to him.”

“No.” You looked at him fully now. “You said it to me.”

He held your gaze for a second, then looked down with a quiet exhale. “Yeah.”

“Did you mean it?”

His hands were clasped loosely between his knees. His thumb dragged once over his knuckles, a nervous habit you had never noticed before.

“Tuck.”

He looked at you then, and every teasing thing you had planned to say disappeared.

“Yeah,” he said again, quieter this time. “I meant it.”

Your breath caught.

He gave you a tired little smile, like he knew exactly what that confession cost him. “Probably shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t ask you first.”

Something inside you melted so fast it almost hurt.

You shifted closer without thinking. “Ask me now.”

Tucker’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

For one second, he looked twenty different kinds of wrecked.

Then he said, “Are you my girl?”

Your answer came out in a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Tucker didn’t kiss you right away.

He lifted his hand first, slow enough for you to stop him, and touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. Barely a touch. Just enough that you leaned into him before you could pretend not to.

His mouth met yours softly at first, almost too softly, like he was testing the shape of the moment before trusting it. You kissed him back harder. Tucker made a quiet sound against your mouth, one hand sliding to your jaw while the other braced against the mattress beside your thigh.

You had thought about kissing him before. Too many times. In the kitchen while he cooked eggs with his hair still messy from sleep. In the passenger seat of his truck when his hand rested on the gearshift inches from your knee. Across crowded rooms when he smiled at you like he had a secret.

None of those daydreams had prepared you for this.

Tucker kissed like he paid attention.

Like he noticed the tiny hitch in your breathing when his thumb stroked along your jaw. Like he caught the way your fingers tightened in his shirt when his mouth slanted deeper. Like he knew when to give and when to take, when to ease back and when to make you chase him.

You climbed into his lap before you could lose your nerve.

Tucker’s hands caught your waist immediately, steadying you more than holding you down. His head tipped back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips parted from kissing.

“Hey,” he breathed.

You settled over his thighs, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I wasn’t going to leave.”

“I mean…” You touched the side of his neck, feeling the jump of his pulse under your fingers. “I don’t want you to leave like that.”

Understanding moved across his face slowly.

Heat followed.

His hands flexed once on your waist, then went still.

“Tell me what you’re asking for,” he said.

Your stomach flipped.

“Tucker.”

“I need to hear it.”

The words should’ve embarrassed you. Maybe they did. But there was no teasing in his voice, no pressure, no smugness. Just need, low and careful and serious.

You leaned closer until your forehead nearly touched his.

“I want you,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you to touch me.”

His eyes searched yours.

“Because of me?” he asked.

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

Tucker’s thumbs moved slowly against your sides. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’m not.”

“If you’re upset, if you’re scared, if you just need somebody to make you feel wanted—”

“You do make me feel wanted,” you interrupted.

He stopped.

You swallowed, then forced yourself to say the rest. “But not because of him. I wanted you before tonight.”

The air between you shifted.

Tucker’s face changed with it, something restrained giving way to something warmer, hungrier.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “How long?”

“Too long.”

That got you a smile, soft and a little breathless.

Then he kissed you like he had finally let himself believe you.

There was nothing tentative about it this time. His mouth opened over yours, his hands sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his. You sank into him, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Tucker groaned so quietly you felt it more than heard it.

Your hips shifted without meaning to.

He broke the kiss with a sharp breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You almost laughed, but then his mouth touched the side of your neck and the laugh disappeared.

Tucker kissed you there slowly, once beneath your ear, once lower, his lips warm and patient against your skin. He didn’t leave marks. Not yet. He just learned you, one careful press at a time, while his hands moved over your back like he was still reminding himself he was allowed.

You tugged at the hem of his shirt.

He lifted his head. “You sure?”

You answered by pulling it higher.

A rough little laugh left him, and he helped you, one hand reaching back to drag the shirt over his shoulders. It landed somewhere beside the bed, forgotten the second your palms touched bare skin.

He was warm under your hands. Solid. All lean muscle and breath and restraint. Your fingers traced over his shoulders, down his chest, across his stomach, and Tucker watched you do it like you were taking him apart piece by piece.

Then he reached for you.

His hands found the bottom of your shirt but didn’t lift it yet. He waited, eyes on yours.

You nodded.

Only then did he pull it up.

Slowly.

The fabric dragged over your ribs, up your arms, catching for a second before you helped him get it over your head. Your hair fell messily around your face afterward, and before you could fix it, Tucker was kissing you again, one hand sliding into it, the other settling against your bare waist.

It stopped feeling like undressing after that.

It felt like being chosen apart.

Your fingers worked at his belt while his mouth moved back to your neck. He made a sound against your skin when you got impatient, his hand covering yours for a second like he meant to slow you down, but he didn’t stop you. Not really.

He just kissed you deeper.

Your jeans came undone with clumsy fingers and uneven breathing. Tucker helped you shift off his lap just long enough to ease them down your legs, his touch careful at your hips, your thighs, your knees. When you kicked them off, he looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment without making you feel exposed.

It made you want to hide and pull him closer at the same time.

“You okay?” he asked.

You touched his face. “I’m okay.”

His mouth brushed your palm. “Still with me?”

“Still with you.”

That seemed to settle something in him.

He pulled you back into his lap, and the kiss turned messy in seconds. Your hands were everywhere now, his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck. His hands weren’t careless anymore. They moved with more confidence, smoothing up your sides, over your back, down to your hips, holding you like he had wanted to all night and had finally run out of reasons not to.

When your back met the mattress, you barely remembered moving.

Tucker hovered over you, one knee between yours, his forearm braced beside your head. His hair had fallen forward slightly, his breathing uneven, his lips swollen from yours. For a moment, he just looked at you.

“What?” you whispered.

He shook his head.

“Tell me.”

His smile was faint, almost shy. “You’re gorgeous.”

It was too simple to argue with.

Too honest to dismiss.

So you pulled him down and kissed him again.

He followed easily, settling over you with careful weight, his mouth finding yours, then your cheek, then the curve of your jaw. You arched into him when his hand slid over your thigh, and his breath caught hard enough that he had to stop kissing you for a second.

“Wait,” he said suddenly.

You froze.

Tucker lifted his head, expression softening the second he saw your face. “No, no. You’re okay.” His thumb brushed over your hip. “I just don’t have a condom.”

Your body relaxed, but only a little.

“I’m on the pill,” you said, still breathless.

His eyes stayed on yours. “That’s not the only thing I’m asking.”

You went quiet.

He leaned down, pressing one gentle kiss near the corner of your mouth.

“I’m asking if you’re sure about me,” he murmured.

The room felt very still around you.

You looked up at him, at the boy who had pulled you out of a crowded kitchen without making you feel small. The boy who had walked you home and waited at every door. The boy who had stopped more than once, even when wanting you was written all over his face.

You slid your hand to the back of his neck and pulled him close enough that your lips brushed his when you answered.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

Tucker’s eyes closed for half a second.

When they opened again, the last of his restraint was barely hanging on.

“Okay,” he breathed, the word a soft vibration against your lips before he kissed you again.

The kiss was slow and tasted of longing. Tucker’s hands stayed on your waist, his grip firm but careful as if he were holding something precious. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze searching to ensure you were still with him. When you leaned back in, your hands sliding over the lean muscle of his bare chest, he let out a shaky breath.

His hands moved to the clasp of your bra. He didn't rush, his fingers working the hook with a deliberate patience. As the straps fell away, he didn't immediately pull the fabric off. He paused, his eyes roaming over your breasts with a look of pure reverence. He kissed the valley between them, his lips warm and patient, before he eased the bra away completely.

You reached for the button of his jeans, your fingers trembling slightly. Tucker let out a soft, encouraging chuckle and covered your hand with his to help you guide the denim down. You helped him kick the jeans and boxers away, leaving him completely exposed and pulsing with need. Finally, he reached for the edge of your underwear. He looked at you, a silent question in his dark eyes, and when you nodded, he slid the lace down your legs.

When you were finally, completely naked, the air in the room felt electric. Tucker didn't immediately move to claim you. Instead, he just looked at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his southern drawl thickening. "Absolutely breathtaking."

He began a slow, worshipful descent, his lips trailing fire down your stomach. He paused, glancing up to make sure you were okay, and when you arched your back and whimpered, he continued. He moved to your breasts, capturing one nipple in his mouth. He sucked firmly, his tongue swirling around the peak and teasing it into a hard point.

A loud moan escaped you, and Tucker paused, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "You like that, sweetheart? I can keep going if you want."

"Yes... please, Tucker, don't stop," you gasped.

He moved to the other side, repeating the process with a focused intensity. He praised you softly, murmuring about how perfect you felt and how much he'd wanted to touch you. He treated your body like a sanctuary, ensuring every touch was welcomed.

As your breathing became erratic, Tucker slid down further, his hand gliding over your thigh to find the center of your heat. He found you soaking, your pussy glistening and open for him. He started slowly, pressing a single finger against your clit, circling it with a precision that made your hips jerk upward.

He watched your face intently, memorizing the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your lips parted. He slid one finger inside you, then a second, feeling the tight, wet walls of your pussy clamp around him. He moved his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curl, opening you up and exploring your depth.

"You're so wet for me," he breathed, his voice shaking.

The sight of you falling apart beneath him—the way you gripped the sheets, your knuckles white, your moans turning into desperate pleas—was too much for him to bear in silence. While his fingers continued to work you open, driving you toward a peak, Tucker reached down with his other hand. He wrapped his fingers around his own cock, stroking himself in long, heavy slides. He was overwhelmed, caught between the need to give you everything and the agonizing pressure in his own groin, but he never took his eyes off you.

"Still okay? You want me?" he whispered, his voice ragged.

"Yes, please... I want you inside me," you whimpered.

Tucker shifted, moving his body to hover over you. He guided his thick, pulsing cock to your entrance, pausing for a second to lock eyes with you. He pushed forward slowly, easing himself into your warmth. As he sank deeper, you let out a sharp gasp, your body tensing as the fullness felt like a bit too much.

Tucker stopped instantly. He didn't push further. He froze, his muscles locking as he looked at you with immediate concern.

"Hey, hey," he whispered, his voice steady and soothing. "I'm stopped. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Tell me if you need me to pull back."

"I'm okay," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It's just... you're so big. Just give me a second."

He waited, kissing your forehead and your eyelids, whispering reassurances until he felt your muscles relax and your hips tilt upward, inviting him back in. Only when you whispered for him to continue did he begin to move.

His thrusts were slow and shallow at first, mindful of your comfort. He stayed close, his chest brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. He kept his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"You doing alright, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, honeyed caress.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling. "It feels so good."

As the rhythm established itself, you reached up, your fingers diving into his thick curls. You tugged gently, threading your fingers through the soft hair as you pulled his face down to yours. You kissed deeply, a slow, romantic melding of souls that matched the steady pace of your bodies.

The feeling of your fingers in his hair seemed to break something inside him. Tucker let out a low groan and leaned into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. He kissed your palm, his breath hitching as he felt your acceptance.

Slowly, the shallow thrusts began to deepen. He didn't rush, but as you began to meet his pace, his restraint started to slip. He pushed deeper, filling you completely, his movements becoming more fluid and passionate. He continued to check in, his whispers becoming more frequent, telling you how much he loved the way you felt around him.

The quiet of the room only made every sound feel sharper, the uneven pull of his breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the broken little moans he kissed out of you every time he pushed in deep. Your fingers slid back into his curls, tugging gently, and Tucker’s eyes fluttered for a second like that simple touch nearly undid him. “Keep doing that,” he murmured, voice rough against your mouth, his hips pressing slower but deeper, giving you time to feel every careful inch of him. 

You held onto him tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, and the last of his restraint slipped in a way that still felt tender. He didn’t stop watching you. Didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t stop asking with his hands and his mouth if you were still with him. And you were. You were with him in every breath, every touch, every quiet gasp of his name, choosing him again and again because Tucker didn’t just make you feel wanted. He made you feel safe enough to want him back.

You kept your eyes locked on his, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race. He looked at you with such raw adoration and hunger, yet his hands remained tender, framing your face and brushing your hair back from your forehead. You threaded your fingers deeper into his curls, tugging gently, and he responded by kissing you with a renewed passion, his tongue dancing with yours in a slow, wet rhythm that mirrored the friction below.

"You're so tight," he whispered against your lips, his southern drawl thick and heavy with need. "God, you feel perfect."

As you began to meet his thrusts for thrust, the friction building into a searing heat, Tucker’s composure finally began to fracture. He wasn't rough, but he was no longer holding back the sheer force of how much he wanted you. His movements became more fluid, more desperate, though he still paused for a split second every few thrusts just to search your eyes and make sure you were still with him.

"Still okay? You still like this, baby?" he murmured, his voice ragged.

"Yes, Tucker... please, don't stop," you whimpered, your voice breaking.

The feeling of you wanting him so badly seemed to push him over the edge. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. He groaned, a deep sound of surrender, as he pushed himself as deep as he could go.

"I'm close, sweetheart," he gasped, his voice trembling. "I'm not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that."

"Don't stop," you pleaded, pulling his face back up to yours. "I want you. I want all of you."

The admission shattered the last of his restraint. He began to move with a focused, driving intensity, his hips snapping against yours in a rhythmic, wet heat. You could feel the tension building in your own core, a tight coil of pleasure that was winding tighter with every deep, sliding stroke. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the sound of your synchronized breathing.

Tucker didn't look away. He watched your expression, his eyes darkening as he saw the moment your pleasure peaked. He sensed the first ripples of your orgasm beginning to squeeze his cock, and he let out a choked sound of pure bliss. He pushed one last time, deep and firm, and you screamed his name, your body shaking in a violent, beautiful release.

The feeling of you coming around him was the final trigger. Tucker let out a loud, breathless moan, his body locking up as he spilled himself deep inside you. He held you tight, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let go, his forehead pressed firmly against yours. You both stayed like that for a long time, locked in a mutual, shaking climax that felt as much emotional as it was physical.

As the intensity faded, Tucker didn't pull away. He stayed heavy and warm on top of you, though he shifted his weight to his elbows so he wouldn't crush you. He began to kiss you softly, starting with your eyelids, then your cheeks, and finally a long, lingering kiss on your lips.

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice returning to that steady, soothing tone. "I've got you.”

You nodded, still catching your breath, your fingers slipping gently through his curls.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Tucker’s expression softened, and he kissed you once, slow and sweet, like he needed to make sure you felt it.

“Good,” he murmured, easing beside you and pulling the blanket over your bare skin. His arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you against his chest, warm and careful and certain.

For a while, neither of you moved.

You rested your cheek over his heartbeat, listening as it slowly steadied beneath you. Tucker’s hand traced lazy lines along your back, his lips brushing your forehead every so often like he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Tuck?” you whispered.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

You smiled against his chest. “I like being your girl.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because I meant it.”

And wrapped up in his arms, with his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, you believed him.

[iceyngi]

Open Minded

☄︎ Warnings: not proofread, threesome, oral (m to f & m to m), multiple orgasms ☄︎ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!Reader x Beau Maxwell ☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut. ☄︎ Words: 1169

💭: I was aiming to write a continuation of the one before, but this is literally just dirty, messy, smut. This so so self-indulgent, I’m so sorry.

Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Beau & Dean Masterlist here.

Lifting you by the waist, Dean positions you over Beau, who’s lying flat on the mattress. You’re already aching, your pussy quivering as you’re suspended over Beau. You can hear him breathing heavily under you, eager to have a taste, and it’s driving you insane.

“Wait-” you call shakily, you’re not fully seated yet but Beau’s already lifting his head, trying to lick at you. “Ahh, Beau.”

“I want you to smother him,” Dean whispers into your ear as he lowers you down fully over Beau. “He can take it.”

“I can, I can take it,” Beau tells you; his breath is hot against your core and you shiver. Strong hands come to spread you open as Beau sucks on your clit. He’s relentless, sucking and flicking his tongue where you’re most sensitive.

Hinging forward, you press your chest against Beau’s stomach, ass rising to the air as your forearms press into the mattress to hold yourself up. As Beau’s tongue continues to move over you, you reach out, lazily dragging your hand along his length and teasing the tip.

From behind, Dean has the perfect view of you spread open, dripping and ready for him. Your hole clenches as you feel Dean’s finger slide alongside Beau’s tongue. You won’t last long like this.

“Dean, please,” you beg, “I won’t last much longer, fuck me. Please,” your voice quivers, and it sends jolts of electricity down their spines.  

“So, so, needy,” Dean teases. He grabs hold of your waist and slowly drags his dick along your folds. “Are you ready for me?”

You whine in response. It’s a redundant question, he knows. Your folds are glistening, drenched in your excitement.

Over Beau’s head, he lines himself up and slowly sinks himself into your wet, hot, pussy. His eyes flutter shut as you squeeze around him. “So tight, so perfect,” he whimpers.

The praise has you pushing your hips back into him. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny. The dual attention leaves you dizzy, Dean slowly rocking into you as Beau’s tongue circles your clit again. Your thighs quivering around Beau’s face.

Tears prick your eyes in frustration as Beau’s mouth leaves yours. You were so close, “why,” you whine. Beau tilts his head up, tongue coming to where Dean disappears inside of you. As Dean plunges into you, Beau licks along the vein of his dick.  

Dean pulls back slowly, letting the tip catch on you.

“Look at our greedy girl clenching around nothing.” You never should have let them know just how much you like it when they’re mean and teasing.

“I know you want to see your boyfriend taste you on my cock,” Dean speaks to you sweetly, a stark contrast to the lewd things coming from his mouth.

“I do,” you whine. You want to turn, but Dean keeps one hand pressed against your lower back. Beau’s got his arms locked around your waist too.

You can hear the sound of slurping, as Beau tastes you on his ‘best friend’.

Desperate for some friction, to be touched, you grind down on Beau’s chin.

“Ow, are we not paying you enough attention?”  

“Please,” you sob. They’ve been edging you for almost half an hour now, bringing you close then leaving you dry. You need to cum.

“Ok, I’ve got you.”

Dean slides back into you as Beau takes your clit in his mouth again. Both moving with renewed vigour and a determination to make you cum.

“I could stay like this forever, buried deep inside you. I never want to leave.”

“Mhm,” Beau agrees around your clit.

Nails digging into Beau’s thighs, your mouth falls open as you wantonly moan.

You can tell Dean’s close as his thrusts get sloppy. He practically folds over you as he buries himself into you.

“F-Fuck, I’m… Fuckkkk.” Dean holds you in place as he squirts ropey cum into you. You feel the coil tightening in your belly, the pleasure rising up your body at the feeling of being so full and so surrounded.

“Yes, yes, I’m gonna-” your words cut off as your orgasm crashes over you. You collapse forward, falling onto Beau as you clench around Dean’s softening erection. He winces, he’s too sensitive but he doesn’t want to come out of you yet.

“That’s it, cum for us,” Dean coos, your body twitching as you come down.

Beau keeps his mouth on you throughout, not sucking, just on you gently. You hiss as Dean slides out, somehow feeling over and under stimulated at the same time. His cum leaks out of you, dripping onto Beau’s face.

You’re given no more time to rest as Dean lifts you by the waist again. You’re not small, but you’re flung around like you’re weightless. The joys of being with athletes, you muse to yourself as you’re flipped over.

There’s a lewd squelch as you’re lowered down onto Beau’s still stiff erection. A mixture of your wetness and Dean’s leftover cum making it an easy slide down him.

You’re spent but you want to do this for Beau. You lean forward, hands resting on his chest as you grind down into him. You rock your hips a few times, Beau’s dick circling around your walls.

Beau looks up at you, dark pupils blown as he takes you in.

“You’re so beautiful,” his voice is strained.

Pulling you down so you’re chest to chest, Beau plants his feet on the mattress and fucks up into you. Each thrust sends Dean’s load deeper into you.

Despite your fatigue, when he hits that sweet spot inside you, you feel the coil start to tighten again.  

Dean’s fingers slide in between you two. He knows just the right amount of pressure to apply, just the right way to circle you, and just the things to whisper to you, to get you to cum again. You cry out against Beau’s shoulder.

Your pussy is swollen and sensitive but Beau’s so close.

“Please… I can’t,” your voice is hoarse, your body is tingling.

“You can,” Dean calls. “You can take it.” He strokes your cheek, it’s soft and intimate. If you really couldn’t take it, you knew the word to say to get all activity to stop. They know you know it, you confirmed it before you started this, so Beau continues pounding into you through your whines.

“I’m almost there,” Beau grunts.

Beau spills inside of you, his cum mixing with Dean’s inside of you. You feel him twitch inside of you as he continues shooting ropey cum into you. You’re sticky, hole overflowing with cum, but content.

As aways, Dean’s ready with a warm washcloth to clean you up.

Beau rolls out of the bed to open the window. He spots your book, the one that inspired today’s activities and smiles fondly.

“This book of yours is incredible,” Beau says, flipping through the pages.

“Yeah, big fan,” Dean smirks, “What’s next?”

 “Well, there is this one…” you start, “how open minded are we all?”