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matt-murdockk · 3 months ago

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Sweet Escape

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

words: 6.0k

warnings: slow burn, reader and spencer are oblivious idiots in love (reader more so)

summary: Spencer and (Y/n) navigate the slow unraveling of their friendship as buried feelings, a drunken confession, and a forgotten note at the BAU push them toward something more. A quiet shift becomes impossible to ignore.

a/n: tried something new this time, this story contains six parts (all are in the same chapter here lol dw), each part of the story corresponding to a different aspect of the slowburn, we have how spencer caught feelings, how reader did, missed chances, confessions, etc, hope you like it!

Part 1: The Shift

It started on a Tuesday. Which, honestly, was fitting— Tuesdays were always the worst. The kind that dragged like molasses, heavy and colorless, where even the fluorescent lights at Quantico felt dimmer than usual.

(Y/n) had come in late. She was drenched from the rain, hair sticking to her cheek, shoes squeaking against the tile. She mumbled something about the metro breaking down and then tripping over a puddle. Spencer had glanced up briefly from his file, half-expecting her to be irritated or miserable.

She wasn’t.

She was laughing.

Not politely. Not reserved. Full-body, head-thrown-back laughter as she peeled off her coat, dropped her soaked bag, and nearly slipped again trying to kick her boots off. JJ tried to help and nearly got hit in the face by a flying heel. It was chaos.

And she was just— Radiant.

Spencer blinked.

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her. That would’ve been months ago, probably. She was hard not to notice— sharp-eyed, quicker with a comeback than most, warm in a way he didn't often see in this line of work. But this was different. This was the first time he saw her.

Really saw her.

The way she always filled a room without trying. The way her smile made other people instinctively smile back. The way she was a little clumsy and didn’t care, the way she tried to hide how much she cared about cases even when it tore her up inside. He had known all those things in the abstract, the way you know a fact— like gravity, or the freezing point of water.

But right then?

It hit him like impact trauma.

He watched her laugh until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, watched the way she looked at everyone else with such unguarded fondness, and he wondered— When did I stop thinking of her as just a teammate?

Because now he couldn’t stop.

Now he was noticing things. Little things.

Like how she always chewed on the end of her pen when she was reading. Like how she hummed under her breath when she was focused. Like how she always saved the last donut in the box for Garcia, even when she didn’t say anything.

Or how, that same morning, soaked and messy and late, she still handed Spencer his usual coffee— black, two sugars, extra hot.

“I figured you’d forget to take a break,” she said simply. “You get like that on paperwork days.”

He blinked at the cup. Then at her.

“You think about that?”

She shrugged. “I think about you.”

Just like that. No hesitation. No implication. Just honesty, handed over with a cup of coffee.

And Spencer— Spencer felt his pulse skip a beat. Because he thought about her, too.

Just… not like that. Not until now. Not until her smile did something to his chest he couldn’t quite name.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, a little too quickly, and took the cup with hands that were suddenly too warm.

She had already moved on, rifling through her files, feet still damp, hair a mess, completely unaware that the axis of his entire day had just tilted beneath her rain-soaked boots.

And Spencer sat back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and realized with horrifying clarity—

Oh. This might be a problem.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 2: The Fall

It wasn’t sudden.

She’d known Spencer for a while. They worked together. Traveled together. Spent more time with each other than most married couples did. She knew his coffee order, his go-to obscure facts, his nervous tics, the way he tugged his sleeves when he was thinking too hard.

He was Spencer. Reliable, brilliant, slightly feral around whiteboards. Hers, in that quiet, unspoken way you claim someone who always saves you a seat.

But then one morning, something… shifted.

It was during a briefing, of all places. She was half-asleep, balancing a coffee on her knee and trying to keep up with Garcia’s rapid-fire details, when she glanced over and saw him— brow furrowed, lips slightly parted, fingers moving absently as he mentally sorted data like a magician laying out a trick deck.

He looked beautiful.

And that was annoying.

Because he’d always looked like that— messy curls, soft eyes, the kind of face you don’t forget. But she’d never noticed it like this. Not in a “why is my stomach doing weird things and why is my brain short-circuiting” kind of way.

He caught her looking and smiled, small and distracted.

Her stomach flipped.

Oh no.

That smile. That goddamn smile.

He smiled like the sun rising through fog— tentative, shy, like he didn’t know he was allowed to. It was the kind of smile you wanted to tuck away somewhere safe.

She looked away too quickly, cheeks warm.

Nope. Not going there. He’s your friend. Your genius, gentle, too-good-for-this-world friend. This is just hormones. Sleep deprivation. Maybe the coffee’s too strong.

Except it wasn’t just that.

It was the way he started rambling about parasite reproduction on the flight to Phoenix, and she hadn’t even rolled her eyes— she’d just… listened. Genuinely. Because he was passionate and awkward and unapologetic, and God, when was the last time someone cared about something that much?

It was the way he always noticed when she was having a bad day. The way he never made a big deal out of it— just slid a granola bar across the table or quietly rerouted her paperwork when she was too tired to see straight.

It was the way he said her name. Soft. Like it mattered.

It was the way he laughed once, sharp and unfiltered, when she tripped and called herself a “danger to national security,” and how he kept smiling for ten whole minutes after.

It was all of that. And more.

And it pissed her off.

Because she hadn’t signed up for this. She hadn’t meant to like him. She wasn’t even sure she did like him like that. Maybe she was just imagining it. Romanticizing friendship.

Except she wasn’t imagining how her heart jumped when his hand brushed hers. Or how she remembered everything he’d ever said to her, even the throwaway facts. Or how she’d started wearing the perfume he once said reminded him of “a field in late spring, just after it rains.”

She was screwed. She was falling for Spencer Reid.

And worst of all— He didn’t seem to notice.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 3: Fate's cruel joke

Spencer

Spencer didn’t mean to look.

He really didn’t. He’d walked into the coffee shop near Quantico for a quick refill and some mental quiet. But the universe— cruel, dramatic, always five steps ahead— had other plans.

There she was.

Seated near the window, hair lit golden by the morning sun, fingers curled around a paper cup.

And not alone.

The man across from her was tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking in a “probably played varsity something” kind of way. His hand brushed hers casually as he passed her a pastry. She laughed. Not politely. Not restrained. That full, unguarded laugh Spencer used to think was reserved just for—

Oh.

Spencer’s feet rooted to the floor. He watched— helpless, invisible— as she leaned in closer. Her expression was soft. Comfortable. Familiar. She looked... happy.

It knocked the air out of him.

He turned and walked out without his coffee.

The weight in his chest didn’t hit him all at once. It bled in slow, like a pressure system closing in. And he couldn’t explain it—not even to himself. Not at first.

He told himself he was just surprised. Caught off guard. It was normal. People dated. She had every right to. She was beautiful, kind, smart, the kind of person who made other people feel like they mattered.

Of course someone would want her.

Of course she’d want someone, too.

Later that week, they were elbow-deep in paperwork, one case closed and another already looming. The bullpen was unusually quiet. Even Garcia’s playlists had taken the day off.

Spencer was at his desk, flipping a pen between his fingers, eyes fixed on the page in front of him but reading none of it. Across the room, (Y/n) was laughing softly with JJ over something on her phone— shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at her mouth like it lived there now.

Spencer looked away.

A few minutes later, Morgan sank into the chair across from him, sliding a file folder across the table like it was just another update.

“You alright?” Morgan asked, voice quiet.

Spencer didn’t look up. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Morgan gave it a beat. “Let me rephrase that. What’s bothering you?”

Spencer hesitated, tapping the pen against the corner of the file. He sighed, finally putting it down, and leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean… it’s not that I’m upset. She’s happy. That’s a good thing.”

Morgan watched him closely but didn’t speak.

“It’s just… new,” Spencer said. “This feeling. I don’t really know how to name it yet. It’s not jealousy. At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve never really felt jealous before. It’s more like—” He paused, searching. “Like something doesn’t sit right. Not because he’s wrong for her, but because… I don’t know where I fit anymore.”

Morgan didn’t press. Just nodded slowly.

“She’s still your friend, man.”

“I know. I know that,” Spencer said. “It’s just… different now. I didn’t expect it to be.”

There was a pause.

“Reid,” Morgan said gently, “I’m not here to tell you what you’re feeling. That’s your own puzzle to solve. But whatever it is—it’s valid.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his gaze distant.

Morgan continued, “And for what it’s worth, it’s okay if it is jealousy. Or grief. Or fear. Sometimes those things tangle up when we care about someone more than we realize.”

Spencer stayed quiet.

Morgan stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m not going to meddle. But I’ve seen the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching.”

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet his, something unreadable passing between them.

Morgan offered a faint, understanding smile. “You’ve got feelings for her. That’s not a crime.”

“I can’t talk to her about it,” Spencer said softly. “Not right now. She’s happy.”

Morgan nodded. “Alright. Then just… be there. The way you always are. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is, man. You don’t have to do anything yet. But you do have to feel it.”

Spencer looked down at his hands. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

And outside, across the room, her laughter echoed again— effortless, warm, distant in a way he’d never quite felt before.

It didn’t hurt. Not exactly.

But it ached.

Reader

The moment she realized she couldn’t keep doing this, she was halfway through a dinner she wasn’t even really tasting.

The man across from her— Nate, nice, funny, not Spencer— was telling a story about a sting operation gone wrong in White Collar, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.

Spencer would’ve laughed at that detail.

He’d have interrupted with some wild statistic about entrapment cases or ethical loopholes, and they would’ve spiraled into one of their weird back-and-forth debates that no one else enjoyed but them.

She missed that. God, she missed him.

Nate smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re doing it again,” he said gently.

She blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me all weird,” he said. “Like you wish I were someone else.”

Her throat went dry. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and weirdly, he meant it. “You’re not trying to be cruel. But… I think you’re in love with someone else.”

“I—” she started. But then stopped. “I didn’t mean to be.”

“Yeah,” Nate said, soft. “We never do.”

There was a silence that stretched between them, long, not bitter, but full.

“I’m still glad I got to know you,” he added after a beat.

“Me too,” she whispered.

She didn’t sleep that night. She barely sat still. She just kept replaying things in her head— conversations, touches, jokes that stuck to her ribs. Everything Spencer. All at once.

The way he smiled when she made a dumb pun. The way he noticed when she was too tired to speak and filled the silence for her. The way his eyes always flicked to her first in the middle of a case, as if to ask you okay?

She had to tell him. She would tell him.

So she did what anyone would do in a full-blown romcom panic: she got dressed, grabbed her keys, and all but ran out the door.

But fate, as ever, had a crueler script.

She found him outside a bookstore downtown. He was laughing. Not his usual soft chuckle— the rare, full kind that showed his teeth and squinted his eyes.

And she wasn’t the one making him laugh.

The woman standing with him was beautiful. Effortless. She had one hand on his arm, the other holding an iced coffee. She leaned in when she spoke, laughed like she meant it, and when Spencer nodded at something she said, it was with a softness that knocked the wind out of (Y/n)'s chest.

She stopped in her tracks.

He looked… content.

The moment crystallized into something heavy.

Because what was she doing? Running through the city in the hopes of changing something that maybe wasn’t meant to change?

Spencer deserved someone who wouldn’t hesitate. Someone who could love him loudly and surely, not someone who'd spent months burying feelings out of fear.

She turned on her heel, words still crowding her throat, never spoken.

She didn’t see Spencer glance up, scanning the street, eyes narrowing faintly like he thought he saw someone in the crowd.

And then the moment passed.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 4: Limbo

There was no dramatic fallout. No confrontation. No big emotional speech.

Just a quiet agreement made without words: this is fine.

This is enough.

And maybe it was, for a while.

They went back to being friends. Or at least, a version of it. The kind with polite check-ins and scheduled banter, the kind where every glance carried a weight neither of them acknowledged. No one else seemed to notice the shift. They still laughed at each other’s jokes. Still sat beside one another on the jet. Still passed each other files with fingers that never quite touched.

But it wasn’t the same.

Not really.

Spencer smiled too quickly now, and it never quite reached his eyes. He’d started excusing himself more often, slipping away under the guise of paperwork or old case reviews. Sometimes he’d leave before she even noticed he was gone.

And (Y/n)— she’d become careful.

Measured.

Her words were gentler, less pointed, her jokes shorter. She never touched his arm when she laughed anymore. Never lingered at his desk just to see what he was working on. She still brought him coffee sometimes, but now it was just coffee— no notes, no inside jokes scrawled on the side in sharpie. Just a cup, placed quietly beside his files.

No one else questioned it. If anything, they seemed relieved things had settled. Whatever undercurrent had rippled beneath their friendship before had apparently smoothed out into still waters.

But still waters could be deceiving.

Because underneath the surface, it churned.

Spencer noticed everything. The slight dip in her voice when she said good morning. The way her smile faltered for half a second too long whenever their eyes met. The way she never mentioned the guy from the coffee shop again— Nate, or something— and how she never said why.

And (Y/n)? She was haunted by almosts.

Almost told him. Almost called. Almost reached for his hand when they sat side by side in a too-quiet stakeout. Almost said his name like it meant something.

But she never did.

Because maybe he was happy now. Maybe that girl from the bookstore meant something. Maybe (Y/n) had missed her moment. Maybe she was just his friend, and maybe that would have to be enough.

So they stayed in that in-between. Not lovers. Not just friends.

Just two people orbiting each other, close enough to feel the pull, but too scared to crash.

And the worst part?

Neither of them knew the other felt the exact same way.

Not yet.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 5: Liquid courage

It had been a long week.

The kind where the hours blurred into bloodstains and autopsy reports, where sleep came in two-hour bursts and meals were just granola bars crushed into coffee lids. By the time the team stumbled into O'Keefe's Pub on Friday night, they looked like the before picture in a stress commercial.

But after a couple drinks and Penelope’s insistence on a round of shots “for emotional exfoliation,” the weight started to lift.

Somehow— because life had a sense of humor— everyone else filtered out by midnight. JJ’s babysitter had called. Morgan was texting a girl. Emily bailed early with the promise of takeout and bad reality TV. Even Garcia left, citing a single word reason that needed no elaboration— Kevin.

And that left Spencer and (Y/n).

Alone. In a bar. Buzzed. Warm with the kind of alcohol that made the lights seem softer and the world less sharp around the edges.

(Y/n) was mid-rant about how buffalo wings were “the most overrated bar food in the history of civilization” when Spencer leaned back in his seat, eyes still half-drowsy but smiling.

“You wanna get out of here?”

She paused. “Is that code for something?”

He rolled his eyes, grinning. “I mean, just… get out. Walk. Anywhere that doesn’t smell like spilled beer and disappointment.”

She laughed. “Only if there’s food involved.”

“There’s always food involved with you.”

“Yeah, and?”

Spencer stood, wobbling just slightly as he offered her a hand. “Come on, chaos. Let’s go see if the world’s still awake.”

They wandered aimlessly, shoes thudding against the pavement, their shadows long under the streetlamps. The city felt gentler at night— hushed and slow, like it was exhaling after holding its breath all day.

They stopped to buy street fries from a food truck, the kind that were probably illegal in three states but tasted like heaven when you were tipsy and sleep-deprived. (Y/n) insisted on drowning hers in hot sauce. Spencer winced.

“You’re going to regret that in like twenty minutes.”

“And yet, I live on the edge.”

“You cried eating mild salsa last month.”

“That was emotional crying,” she said primly, licking sauce off her thumb. “It had depth.”

He laughed— really laughed— and she felt it all the way in her ribs.

They passed a fountain and dared each other to jump in. They didn’t, but she did splash him, and he yelped like a cartoon character and threatened to have her arrested for crimes against humanity.

At one point, they passed a bakery with the lights still on. The sign in the window read Baking at Midnight: Back Soon. (Y/n) pressed her nose to the glass dramatically.

“They’re mocking us,” she said. “This is targeted harassment.”

Spencer smirked. “You had street fries and a cocktail with three umbrellas. I think you’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

They kept walking. Past sleepy storefronts and quiet bus stops and the occasional dog walker who looked at them like they were unhinged. They probably were.

But it felt easy. Safe. Familiar in a way they hadn’t been in a long time.

Eventually, they landed on a park bench just off the river, fries long gone, the night stretching out like a secret between them.

Silence settled, not heavy— just there. Companionable.

And then Spencer said, softly, “I missed this.”

(Y/n) turned to him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean— this. Us. Whatever this is.”

She nodded, slowly. “Yeah… me too.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the edge of his jacket. His knee bounced once, and then stilled.

“What happened to us?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked out over the water, watching the way the streetlights shimmered against it, like the night was made of little floating pieces of gold.

Then she sighed. “Alright, what I’m about to say is going to make both of us extremely uncomfortable, so I apologize in advance,” she began, hands tucked between her knees. “But if I don’t get it out of my system, I might explode. Like, physically combust. You’ll have to scrape me off this bench with a spatula. This is definitely the alcohol talking and I am absolutely going to regret this in the morning— if I even remember it, which is questionable at best, honestly.”

Spencer blinked, both amused and alarmed. “...What?”

She barreled on. “So if I start rambling, please stop me. Actually, no, don’t stop me. I have to say it. But also maybe do stop me. You know what, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Spencer blinked again. “You haven’t said anything.”

“Oh. Right.” She swallowed, then blurted, “I like you.”

He froze.

“I mean— like, like you. More than friends. I like you in a way that’s really inconvenient for both of us, and I’m so sorry because I know you were just being a good friend and I was supposed to be cool about it, but then you kept being you, and I couldn’t help it.”

He stared at her, stunned into silence.

“And I know you’re not really into the whole feelings thing and you don’t like change and this is probably making you incredibly anxious and I swear I didn’t plan this, I’m just drunk and dumb and emotionally compromised.”

“(Y/n)—”

“And it’s not just that I like you, it’s how I like you. I like the way you get really animated when you talk about something you love, even if no one else understands a word of it. I like the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking too hard. I like how you always know when I need a break before I do. I like how you never make me feel like I'm too much.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.

“I like how your voice changes when you're reading out loud. I like how you never remember your umbrella but always remember mine. I like how you smell like books and peppermint. I like—” She broke off, covering her face with both hands. “God. I like you so much it’s embarrassing.”

There was a long pause.

Then, gently— “Hey. Breathe.”

She peeked through her fingers.

Spencer’s expression was soft. A little overwhelmed, a little stunned, but not in a bad way.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling something.”

“Even if it’s wildly inconvenient?”

He gave a tiny smile. “Especially then.”

She let out a breath, shaky. “Okay. Cool. Awesome. So. Now what?”

Spencer looked down at his hands. Then at her. Then back again.

“I like you too, you know?” he said, almost in a whisper. “I have for a long time.”

She blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen either. It just… did. One day I looked up and you were laughing about something— something completely ridiculous, probably— and I realized I hadn’t stopped thinking about you since.”

“Oh,” she said, very softly.

“And I thought it was just… admiration. Or friendship, you know? But it wasn’t. Not even close. I like the way your eyes light up when you're excited. I like how you always pretend not to be scared during horror movies but grip the popcorn bowl like it owes you money. I like how you leave me little notes in the margins of case files just to make me laugh.”

She was staring at him, eyes wide and glassy.

“I like you, (Y/n). In all the ways I’m not supposed to. And I didn’t say anything because… because I thought I’d ruin what we had.”

“You didn’t,” she said immediately.

Spencer smiled, just a little. “You didn’t either.”

There was a beat. A breath.

She exhaled, a mix between a laugh and a sob. “God, we’re such idiots.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But at least we’re honest idiots now.”

She sniffed. “So… now what?”

“Now…” he hesitated, smile deepening, “we admit we’re both way too drunk and the chances of remembering any of this tomorrow are pretty slim.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, slumping back against the bench.

He chuckled. “But— just in case we do want to remember… I have an idea.”

She turned to him again, cautious. “Go on.”

“We each write a note. Something simple. ‘I meant it.’ Or ‘I didn’t.’ Whatever. Doesn’t matter. We hide it in each other’s desks at the BAU. And if we find it when we’re sober… we’ll know.”

She stared at him. “That’s… that’s genius.”

He beamed a little. “I have my moments.”

“This, this is why I like you.”

That stopped him cold for a second— she didn’t notice.

She stood up, wobbling slightly. “Alright, Doc. Let’s go break into a federal building.”

He laughed and followed her into the night.

They made it to Quantico in one piece. Miraculously.

The bullpen was dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of emergency lights. The place was deserted, eerily quiet— except for the whispered shushing and badly stifled giggles echoing from two very drunk federal agents.

“Shhh,” (Y/n) hissed, tiptoeing down the hallway like a cartoon burglar.

“We’re literally allowed to be here,” Spencer whispered back. “We have clearance. We work here.”

“Yeah but it’s more fun if it feels illegal.”

Spencer blinked. “That… doesn’t track.”

“You don’t track.”

“That doesn’t even mean anything—”

“Shhh!”

They burst into silent laughter and tripped over each other on their way to the bullpen.

(Y/n) nearly crashed into his desk, catching herself just in time. “Okay,” she breathed, sobering a little. “Notes. Where’s the paper? Where does Hotch keep the secret government paper stash?”

Spencer reached into his own desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad like it was contraband. “We’re writing this on the record,” he said dramatically.

They sat side-by-side, giggling and shoving at each other’s elbows, each scribbling furiously like they were signing a peace treaty that could expire at dawn.

“What are you writing?” she asked, squinting over his shoulder.

“No peeking!” he said, shielding it with his hand. “That defeats the whole purpose.”

She rolled her eyes and refocused on hers. “Fine. No take-backs.”

They folded their notes— sloppily, unevenly, with way too much tape because they kept forgetting which drawer the stapler was in— and swapped places.

(Y/n) tucked hers in the back of his top drawer, between a pack of gum and a copy of Statistical Models in Behavioral Science. Spencer wedged his under her desk calendar, hidden behind a sticky note that said “remind JJ to never pick lunch again.”

“There,” she said. “It’s done. The pact is sealed.”

Spencer turned to her, lips parted like he was about to say something else— something probably profound or sweet or hopelessly analytical.

But then she swayed slightly, and her hand brushed his.

And the air between them shifted.

Not dramatically. Not like the world tilted or the stars aligned. Just a small, quiet pause— one breath longer than it should’ve been.

She was still smiling, tipsy and sleep-heavy and happy in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks.

And Spencer— gentle, brilliant, usually-overthinking-everything Spencer— leaned in. So did she. It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It was soft. Tentative. A shared breath, a question answered.

Their lips met in a kiss that was more laughter than logic, more hope than heat— warm and unsure and a little clumsy, like a secret they’d kept too long finally letting itself out.

(Y/n) pulled back first, eyes wide. “Was that…”

Spencer blinked. “Yeah.”

“Should we—”

“Maybe we shouldn’t—”

They both paused. Then grinned.

She reached out, brushing a thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Well. That was overdue.”

“I blame the fries,” Spencer said solemnly.

“I blame Penelope’s tequila.”

“Fair.”

They lingered another minute in the silence, not quite ready to leave the moment behind.

Then she nudged him with her shoulder. “Walk me to my car, genius?”

He stood, already reaching for her hand. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep in the passenger seat again.”

“No promises.”

They left the bullpen behind— two notes tucked away in drawers, two hearts lighter than they’d been in months— and disappeared into the quiet warmth of the night.

And in the silence that followed, Quantico stayed still.

Waiting.

The next day

The bullpen was too bright.

Spencer winced slightly as he stepped in, coffee in one hand, sunglasses still perched on his face despite being indoors. He wasn’t hungover, exactly— he didn’t drink enough to be. But he was sleep-deprived and jittery, and his chest still felt too full. Or too empty. He hadn’t decided.

(Y/n) wasn’t in yet.

He told himself that was fine.

He told himself a lot of things.

Settling into his chair, Spencer reached for a pen— only to knock his top drawer halfway open.

A folded scrap of paper peeked out from between the gum and the behavioral science book.

His breath caught.

With careful fingers, he picked it up, recognizing her handwriting immediately— slanted, loopy, a little rushed. His thumb brushed over the crease as he unfolded it.

“If you're reading this, congrats— either we remember everything and we’re in love now, or this is about to be very awkward for exactly one (1) of us. Either way, here’s a fun fact: statistically, kissing your coworker is a terrible idea. …But you’re worth skewing the data for.” — (Y/n)

Spencer laughed. Quiet. Genuine. A little breathless.

He folded the note back up, gently, like it was something precious, and tucked it into his pocket. He turned toward her desk, smiling instinctively—

But she wasn’t looking back.

She was sitting there, just a few feet away, utterly unaware. Sipping her coffee. Typing up a report. Like it was any other morning.

Spencer’s smile faltered.

She hadn’t found it.

The note— his note— was still hidden, wedged under the calendar like some half-finished confession. She didn’t know. Last night hadn’t landed for her the way it had for him.

Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe she hadn’t looked. Maybe she had looked and—

He didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, he turned back to his desk, refocused on the file in front of him, and took a long sip of coffee that didn’t quite burn enough.

Whatever last night was— drunken giddiness, emotional overflow, wishful thinking— he’d carry it on his own. At least for now.

He could wait.

He always did.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 6: Sweet Escape

A couple weeks had passed.

Life returned to normal— at least, that’s what they told themselves. Cases came and went, paperwork piled and shrank. The days blurred into late nights and early flights and coffee-fueled briefings. And somewhere in the middle of it, they slipped quietly back into their rhythm.

Friends again. Close again. But nothing more.

Not because they didn’t remember. Not because it didn’t matter. But because neither had said anything.

The note (Y/n) had meant to find remained lost in the chaos of her desk, buried under files and candy wrappers and the noise of everyday life. Spencer hadn’t mentioned it. He hadn’t needed to. Something between them had changed after that night— softened, stretched, turned inward— but it never quite crossed the line again.

Not until tonight.

They were just back from a case. A bad one. Long and tangled and sad in the way some stories just are. Most of the team had gone home as soon as they were wheels-down. Morgan was first out, muttering something about needing a shower that might double as an exorcism. Emily left with Penelope, who’d shown up in full sparkle to “emotionally supervise.” JJ and Hotch were the last to trickle out, both exhausted and too sleep-deprived to even say goodnight properly.

And then it was just them.

(Y/n) sat at her desk, a little sideways, lazily spinning a pen between her fingers. Spencer was across from her, legs stretched out, head tipped back against his chair.

“You know,” she said, voice rough with fatigue, “if we survive another one of these weeks, I think I deserve full naming rights over the jet.”

Spencer cracked a smile, eyes still closed. “You’d name it something unhinged like ‘Cloud Boss.’”

“I was thinking ‘Flight Risk,’ actually.”

“That’s worse.”

She grinned. “You love it.”

Spencer pushed himself upright, gathering his things with a slow, almost reluctant motion. He looked at her for a beat— quiet, unreadable— and then said softly, “Goodnight.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Night, Spence.”

He turned and walked toward the elevator, footsteps echoing in the mostly empty bullpen.

(Y/n) stretched, groaning a little, and began packing up. Her desk was a mess— typical for post-case chaos. She reached to move a half-crumpled folder when something slid free from underneath it.

A small piece of paper.

Folded.

Her heart stuttered.

She opened it slowly.

And read the words inside.

To: Drunk You From: Also Drunk Me If you're reading this, we either made very good or very questionable choices. I meant everything. Even the part about your hot sauce addiction being a cry for help. P.S. I like you too. A lot. Like... "statistically improbable but emotionally devastating" a lot.

Everything hit at once— the rooftop, the streetlamp laughter, the hot sauce fries, his hand in hers, the kiss. The kiss. Oh god.

She stood so fast her chair skidded behind her.

Bag slung over one shoulder, the note clutched tight in one hand, she sprinted for the elevator.

It was already nearly closed— just a sliver left. She slapped the button hard, breath catching.

The doors stopped.

Spencer stood inside.

He looked up, confused. “(Y/n)?”

She stepped in, breathless.

“I remember now.”

He blinked. “Remember what?”

“Come on,” she said, still breathing heavily. “You know what.”

He just stared at her. Blinking. Quiet.

“I…” she faltered, heart hammering. “Really?"

"(Y/n), I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Never mind.”

The doors began to close again. And then, just before they sealed, he reached out.

Caught her by the wrist. Pulled her in. Her back hit the elevator wall. And without a word, Spencer leaned in and kissed her.

Slow. Certain. Tender. Like it had been waiting. Like he remembered every second of it. Her free hand curled into the front of his shirt. His fingers slid behind her neck, his other hand at her waist. The kiss deepened, soft and aching and everything they hadn’t let themselves say.

The elevator kept moving.

But they didn’t notice.

Not anymore.

She broke the kiss first, breathless and blinking like she’d just come up for air. Her forehead rested lightly against his as she caught her breath.

“…Why the fake out?” she asked, half-laughing, still clutching the note in her hand.

Spencer smiled, and it was all mischief.

“For making me wait two weeks.”

Her mouth dropped open, affronted.

“Okay,” she said, pointing a finger at his chest, “fair enough, but you are so lucky that was adorable.”

“I know,” he said, completely unrepentant.

And before she could come up with a snarky retort, he kissed her again.

Just because he could.

Just because she let him.

Just because, finally, finally— they didn’t have to pretend anymore.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x reader fluff #maya writes #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert

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cozmic-ash · 2 years ago

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"#you don’t buy a sketchbook every time for one sketch"

UGH yes thank you lmao like, yall really keep one million separate tiny files for individual sketches???? I generally keep all of my related sketches in one file, separated by fandom, and only move something out of that file if I plan to polish it up into something more finished. I make a new sketch file probably every six months or so, sometimes sooner or later depending on how full the file gets (I do not, for example, let it get to the point where the program lags).

The thought of having a shit-ton of tiny little individual files for every sketch gives me anxiety

I think it's much more common than the people who are reacting hyperbolically think it is lol

This was the file for all my Potion Permit sketching (minus the 'shh' folder which is nsft so not shown here, but includes like half a dozen more sketches)

WAIT GENUINE QUESTION FOR ARTISTS, DO YOU GUYS NOT USE THE SAME CANVAS FOR MULTIPLE DRAWINGS???? YOU JUST MAKE A NEW ONE EVERYTIME??

#'i wanna study u under a microscope' why lol just because they do something different than u do.............#like yeah letting it get to the point where the program becomes nigh unusable is maybe a little much but like...#idek why ppl overreacting to this is so annoying to me either lol it just is #it's not like we're talking something REALLY bonkers and out there #tbh the thought of making a separate file for every sketch seems MUCH weirder to me than having them all in the same file #it almost feels wasteful somehow #or maybe unorganized? or badly optimized??? idk if just feels Weird #TO ME #my art #I keep all my fandom-related oneshots in the same document too!!!! absolutely the fuck not am I gonna have two dozen 1-3 page documents #when they can all go in the same document and I can just use gdoc's table of contents/outline tools to navigate super quickly between them

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knotdispenser · 2 years ago

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tag dump n.n

#file under: muses #file under: faces #file under: rules #file under: bios #file under: starter #file under: verses #file under: queue #file under: navigation #file under: mail #file under: memes #file under: asks #file under: anon #file under: aesthetics #file under: ooc #file under: wants #file under: body #file under: usfw #file under: tag dump

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knotfodder · 2 years ago

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always subject to change

Disclaimers:

So first thing is first, my name is Ian. If you know who I am and we haven't had fun yet, assume you won't have fun here.

Or we still might have fun, I don't mind people reaching out.

No Minors & No Terfs.

I am over 21, please be over 18 and play characters that are over 18 too before interacting.

So this blog basically has a lot of muses.

I have yet to write cohesive bios for them atm besides their stats.

Any additional info that y'all want to know about them, feel free to drop an ask.

All my muses are gay. If your characters I.D. as male, they’ll be attracted to them.

In addition to that, this is a trans positive blog. Don’t be an ass.

I have an alternative blog for more triggering content here: @knotdispenser

Rules:

No Godmodding, apparently this is a thing. Unless it’s discussed before hand, don’t try to rp as my character in the thread.

Speaking of which, I made this blog primarily to rp on the Tumblr dash, however, I do have a discord. If you ask nicely, I'll give it to you (😏).

Adding on to that, IMs and Inbox/Asks are open for plotting.

The Ship Whore has arrived! Comfortable with shipping as long as I feel it’s organic. I can’t really do anything if my character’s personality clashes with your characters.

Kinks and taboo are okay. I like to say I'll try everything once, just please understand sometimes it only takes once to find that something is not for me, so please respect that.

To add on to that, the only things I’ll ever reject are: scat, vore, necro, gore, age play / age regression & pedophilia.

There will be smut. If you need a tag for it, please feel free to reach out so I may tag appropriately.

no forbidden fcs, just please don’t be mean/rude.

AUs and OCs are welcome. If we need to take a few minutes to plot something out for it, I’ll happily oblige.

I don’t mind icon RPers, just note that I don’t have access to making custom gifs, so I hope you’re okay with whatever gifs I find on tumblr.

I am not above making custom starters for anyone. Just drop an asks and I’ll happily send you something.

I am semi-selective, but kinda not. You don’t need to match my writing length. If you think your reply is strong with just three lines, that’s perfectly fine. Just no single or two word answers please.

Multiple threads from the same blog are fine with me, just allow me some space in between other threads with other people. Speaking of:

Please don’t be clingy or start any drama. It just never works out for anyone.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, means a lot. n.n

#file under: rules #file under: navigation #knotfodder

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carlislefiles · 2 months ago

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jjk fics

fushiguro megumi holding hands in the dark | fushiguro megumi ╰►some nights he talks in his sleep. you stay quiet, holding his hand in the dark…some nights you do just that; other nights you wake him, tell him that it’s going to be okay, that he’s going to be okay. some nights he rolls over, and pretends he isn’t wiping away tears. other nights, he believes you. but most nights, when he realizes that your hand is squeezing his, whether you’re awake or not, he squeezes back.��4.2k words

fushiguro toji weight | fushiguro toji ╰►toji carries a lot of weight on him: the weight of his job, the weight of fatherhood, the weight of his fears, the weight of his past, and the weight of himself—his flaws, his failures, his mere pitiful existence…but that weight seems to fall off, pound by agonizing pound, when he’s with you. 9.5k words

gojo satoru first fight | gojo satoru ╰►you and your boyfriend, gojo, never fight. it's like your whole schtick. you love each other sooooo much that nothing is ever important enough to argue over. sure, you get annoyed with each other, but you're both adults who love each other very, very much. nothing is worth jeopardizing your relationship over, and you're both perfectly capable of having mature conversations with one another. it drives his students crazy, how gojo pulled such a 10/10 and how you never fight, your relationship is just perfect. until it isn't. until you tell gojo the one thing he never thought you'd say, the last thing he ever wanted to hear from you. 3.8k words

nanami kento domesticated | nanami kento ╰►nanami was born to be a husband—measured, attentive, impossibly good with his hands—but more than that, he was born to be your husband. he keeps a bullet journal, folds your laundry with surgical precision, and makes you tea just the way you like it. and as sure as you are that he’s perfect, he’s still determined to prove it to you, every single day. 7.3k words saturdays | nanami kento ╰►your husband, nanami's, favorite day of the week is saturday, and therefore, your favorite day of the week is saturday. the stress of work is gone, and yet to come back. for 24 blessed hours, you are nothing and no one but his. (part two to domesticated). — COMING SOON

family man | nanami kento ╰►things between you and kento have been casual the past couple of months, at least that’s what you think. he’s been crushing on you for a lot longer than that. he just adores everything about you. all of your little quirks, the way you smile, how you style your hair…it’s all a wondrous kind of beauty to him. problem is, you’ve been keeping a secret. not necessarily on purpose, but now that it’s coming to light, you’re sure it will be nanami’s deal-breaker, that he’ll have no choice but to break up with you. 7.4k words

someone to come home to | nanami kento ╰►for the first time in a long time, nanami had started to imagine a future. something domestic, something soft. you, in his kitchen. your socks on his floor. it wasn’t a dream he spoke aloud, but he felt it growing roots. it’s not that nanami can’t survive without you—he’s survived many things. it’s that everything is worse. food doesn’t taste right. his bed is cold. the silence is heavier. but when you stir, when you lean into his touch even in sleep, he knows: things can be good again. not easy. not painless. but better. and he will do whatever it takes to keep you here, with him, where life still makes sense. 13.8k words

yuuji itadori penpal | yuuji itadori ╰►it's just one summer. but...it's not just one summer. it's a whole three months, thirteen weeks, away from you. he finally has you, and now he's gonna give you up. but he finds that being away from you, while miserable and lonely and awful, does have its appeals. like the lovely, heartfelt letters you write him, and the sweet, knowing packages you mail him. the facetime calls that go on for hours. missing you is awful, but it's a bittersweet kind of ache. one he feels thankful to have. 5.5k words — COMING SOON

cigarette drawing (top left) by rawpixel on pinterest

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moluvies · 2 months ago

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celestial alignment ꔛ armin arlert x reader (pt. 2)

a/n: the banners just get weirder.... part two to in your orbit but idk if u need to read that one to understand this one lmao 😝🙏 #idk why this one is so much longer than part one but yolo

words: 9.6k

cw: nerd!armin, college au, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy for reader, fwb (kinda) to lovers, confessions, smut, blowjobs, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v sex, MDNI !!

ꔛ

The morning after the party, Armin woke with a pounding headache and fragments of memories that made his face burn crimson against his pillow. But even through the haze of his first-ever hangover, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single moment of what had happened between you.

Three weeks had passed since that night, and your astronomy project had become both the most productive and least efficient academic endeavor of Armin's college career. What should have been straightforward work sessions frequently dissolved into lingering touches, stolen kisses, and eventually, hurried excuses to abandon the library study room for somewhere more private.

Armin frequently worked shifts at his part-time job at the cinema on top of being the project leader. It was confusing to you how he had time to do anything besides work and school, but he managed to play an unhealthy amount of games and watch an embarassing amount of anime whenever he got the chance.

That was, unless you were around. After your hookup at the frat party in Jean's room (something Armin would never allow him to know), you and him had spent a considerable amount of time together.

You continued working on the project together, the other members eventually showing up to the meetings Armin hosted, but things were obviously different than they had been—and no, Armin did not regret anything.

In fact, he'd shown you how little he regretted the encounter many times since then. He'd act as though he wanted your special input on the project when he invited you over, only to not keep his hands to himself the entire time you'd be at his place.

You'd sat beside him at the desk in his room, looking at his PC where you were looking over the slides and ideas from your groupmates.

"This one's just ridiculous," he said, his chin rested in his hand. "I suppose graphic design doesn't come easy to everyone."

"I don't know," you teased, "that neon green and purple combo really makes the statistical analysis pop, don't you think?"

Armin groaned, running his fingers through his blonde hair. "It's physically painful to look at. I'm going to have to redo this entire section before submission."

"Always the perfectionist," you said, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"Someone has to be." He clicked through a few more slides, his knee occasionally brushing against yours under the desk. "Otherwise we'd be presenting with clip art and Comic Sans."

You reached for the mouse, your hand briefly covering his. "Let me show you mine."

Armin leaned back in his chair, watching you navigate through the shared folder. You could feel his eyes on you rather than the screen, that subtle attention he'd been giving you since the party. It made concentrating on the project increasingly difficult.

"Here," you said, opening a new file. "This is what I was working on last night."

Armin's casual expression shifted as he leaned forward, eyes widening slightly as he reviewed your slides. The casual criticism vanished as he scrolled through your work.

"(Y/N), this is..." he paused, scanning the detailed analysis you'd prepared. "This is really good. The way you've visualized the data is exactly what we needed."

You felt a flush of pride at his genuine appreciation. "Yeah? I spent way too long on it, honestly."

"It shows." He turned to face you, his expression softened. "You didn't have to go this in-depth."

"Well, you're not the only perfectionist around here."

The corner of his mouth twitched up into that half-smile you'd grown increasingly fond of. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

"I think we deserve a break," he said quietly.

Without waiting for your response, he leaned in and kissed you softly, his hand coming up to rest against your cheek. Unlike the urgent, heated kisses you'd shared before, this one was gentle, appreciative—sweet in a way that made your heart flutter unexpectedly.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced your cheekbone lightly. "Sorry," he murmured, not looking sorry at all. "I've been wanting to do that since you walked in."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "You don't have to say sorry anymore, Armin. Not for that."

His smile widened, and he leaned in again, this time catching your lips with more confidence. The kiss deepened slowly, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he pulled you closer. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the way his lips curved against yours when you smiled into the kiss.

One of your hands found its way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further. His other hand slid down to your waist, thumb brushing against the exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. The touch sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you let out a quiet hum against his lips.

Armin pulled back just enough to look at you, his cheeks slightly flushed, eyes bright with affection—and something else, something warmer. "You're distracting," he murmured, his voice low.

"Me?" you teased, nipping lightly at his lower lip. "You're the one who started this."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it. His fingers traced idle patterns along your side, his touch feather-light but enough to make your breath hitch.

Just as you were about to shift closer, a loud bang rattled the door, followed by an exasperated shout.

"ARMIN!" Connie's, Armin's roommate and friend you had met a few times and who was always nice if not a little wild, voice carried through the wood, sharp and impatient. "I swear to god, if you don't get your ass out here and deal with the dishes, I'm throwing them all in your bed!"

Armin groaned, dropping his forehead against yours with a defeated sigh. "I told Sasha to clean them last night."

You bit back a laugh, watching as he reluctantly pulled away, his expression torn between irritation and lingering amusement.

"I'm not kidding, man!" Connie banged on the door again. "Sasha refuses to touch them, and I'm not doing it! You live here too!"

Armin exhaled sharply through his nose, casting you an apologetic glance. "I should probably... handle this before he actually follows through."

You grinned, giving his hand a quick squeeze. "Go. Save your bed from dishware."

Armin sighed dramatically but pushed back from the desk, giving you one last lingering glance before heading toward the door. "I'll be right back," he muttered, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

You turned back to the slides, clicking through them with half-hearted focus, but without Armin beside you, the work suddenly felt dull. The silence of the room—now free of his quiet murmurs and occasional frustrated sighs—made the minutes drag.

Bored.

After a few more lackluster attempts at editing, you finally gave up, pushing the chair back and stretching before wandering out of the room. The sound of running water led you to the kitchen, where Armin stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, scrubbing at a stubborn plate with a sponge. His hair was pushed messily behind his ears, slightly damp at the temples from the steam rising from the hot water.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy muttering under his breath about "Sasha’s stupid cereal bowl crusted like cement." The sight was unfairly endearing—his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his forearms flexed slightly as he scrubbed, the way his lips pursed when he was annoyed but trying not to complain too loudly.

Leaning against the doorframe, you crossed your arms and just watched for a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"You know," you finally said, making him jump slightly, "I didn’t take you for the domestic type."

Armin turned, blinking at you in surprise before his expression softened into something playful. "And yet here I am, saving our apartment from a dish-based apocalypse." He flicked soapy water in your direction, grinning when you yelped and dodged.

"You’re terrible," you laughed, stepping closer.

He smirked, rinsing off the last plate before setting it in the drying rack. "But you’re still here, so I must be doing something right."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, moving to stand beside him. Without thinking, you reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Armin's cheeks flushed a soft pink as he dried his hands on a dish towel, hesitating for a moment before clearing his throat.

"Uh—so," he started, avoiding your eyes for a second before forcing himself to meet your gaze. "I was thinking... I have free tickets to the movies. Since I work there. And—well—I was wondering if you'd... maybe... want to go? Sometime?"

The words tumbled out in a rush, and he cringed slightly at how awkward it sounded.

"But—!" He held up a hand, suddenly looking panicked. "Not just because it's free. I mean, it is free, but that's not—that's not the point." He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before trying again.

"What I'm trying to say is... I'd like to take you. On a date. If you want."

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the towel, his expression caught somewhere between hopeful and terrified.

You grinned, stepping closer and nudging his shoulder with yours. "Armin Arlert," you said, voice teasing but warm, "are you asking me out on a proper date?"

He swallowed hard, then nodded, a shy smile finally breaking through. "Yeah. I am."

You pretended to think about it for a dramatic second, tapping your chin—just long enough to watch his shoulders tense in anticipation—before grinning.

"Obviously, yes."

The relief that washed over his face was instant, his whole posture relaxing as he let out a breathy laugh. "Really?"

You rolled your eyes, reaching out to tug lightly at his sleeve. "Yes, really. I'd love to go on a date with you."

His smile was brighter than you'd ever seen it, boyish and genuine. "Good. Great. I—uh—I'll figure out the details. Make it... nice."

You couldn't resist. Leaning in, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling back before he could react.

"Looking forward to it."

Armin blinked, momentarily stunned, before his grin turned lopsided, a playful glint in his eye.

"Me too."

ꔛ

The theater’s neon lights flickered against the pavement as you spotted Armin waiting near the entrance, hands shoved awkwardly into his jean pockets. The second he saw you, he straightened up, eyes widening slightly before a warm, nervous smile took over.

"You—" He cleared his throat, stepping forward. "You look pretty... cute. I mean pretty and cute. Like. Both. At the same time."

You bit back a laugh, watching as his ears turned pink the second the words left his mouth. It was ridiculous—considering the things you’d done together, the way he’d whispered filthy praise against your skin just last week—yet here he was, stumbling over his words like this was his first-ever date.

God, he’s adorable.

"You clean up nice too," you teased, nodding at his slightly-too-big button-up and the way his hair was trying to be neatly styled but already falling out of place.

Armin exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath, before hesitantly reaching for your hand. His fingers laced with yours, warm and slightly shaky, and when you squeezed, he squeezed back like he was afraid you’d disappear.

"You nervous?" you asked, bumping his shoulder as you walked toward the ticket line.

"No," he lied immediately, then groaned. "Okay, yes. But only because I—I don’t know. This feels different."

You knew exactly what he meant. Hooking up was one thing, but this? The deliberate choice of each other, the quiet intimacy of a date—it was terrifyingly sweet.

Armin led you past the concessions stand, waving casually at his coworker who shot him a knowing grin and a thumbs up. He'd insisted on paying for popcorn despite the fact that most of his perks came free with his job—"It's a proper date," he'd said firmly, handing over actual money when you tried to protest.

The theater was nearly empty for the late showing, just a couple of pairs scattered throughout the front rows. Armin guided you toward the back row, his fingers still intertwined with yours.

"I hope you like horror," he said, settling into the cushy seat beside you. "Jean and Eren said this one was supposed to be good."

What Armin wasn't telling you was the entire embarrassing conversation that had led to this choice.

"Dude, horror movie. No question," Jean had said, sprawled across Armin's couch while Eren nodded enthusiastically from the floor.

"I don't know..." Armin hesitated. "What if she doesn't like being scared?"

Eren rolled his eyes. "That's the point. She gets scared, you comfort her, she feels safe with you—boom, instant connection."

"We've already connected," Armin muttered, his cheeks warming. "Multiple times."

"Yeah, but this is different," Jean insisted, sitting up to look more serious. "This is you being the strong, protective one. Plus, dark theater, back row..." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Eren threw a pillow at Jean before turning to Armin. "Look, trust us. It's the perfect first date movie. You can protect her if it gets too scary."

As the lights dimmed and the previews began to play, Armin lifted the armrest between your seats, allowing you to slide closer. The warmth of your body against his side made him acutely aware of his heartbeat—too fast, too loud—as the movie title splashed across the screen in dripping red letters.

Twenty minutes in, it became abundantly clear that Jean and Eren's advice had been... flawed.

A jump-scare sent Armin practically out of his seat, his hand clutching yours so tightly it almost hurt. You bit back a laugh as he quickly tried to play it off, clearing his throat and settling back down. Another ten minutes passed before a second scare had him actually yelping—a small, startled sound that he immediately tried to cover with a cough.

"You good?" you whispered, leaning closer to his ear, amused by the way he'd tensed up.

"Totally fine," he whispered back unconvincingly, his eyes still fixed on the screen where a shadowy figure lurked behind the protagonist. When the inevitable jumpscare came, he flinched again, harder this time.

You couldn't help it—you laughed softly, squeezing his hand. "It's gonna be okay, Armin."

His face burned in the darkness, visible even in the dim light from the screen. "I don't usually watch this stuff."

"It's fine, really." You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling him gradually relax against you. "It's cute, though, how scared you're getting."

Armin turned slightly, his breath warm against your temple. "Cute wasn't exactly what I was going for, but I'll take it."

The movie continued, a predictable parade of creaky doors and bloody apparitions, but you found yourself paying less attention to the plot and more to the way Armin's thumb absently stroked the back of your hand. How his breath would catch before each scare, how he'd release it slowly afterward, trying to play it cool.

Halfway through, during a particularly tense scene, you glanced up at him—his profile illuminated by the flickering blue light, his features etched in concentration despite his obvious discomfort. Without thinking, you pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw, just a light brush of contact.

Armin stilled, his attention immediately diverted from the screen to you. His eyes, wide and questioning, found yours in the darkness.

You smiled innocently, but when his gaze dropped to your lips, the air between you shifted. The movie faded to background noise as he leaned closer, hesitating just a breath away. His eyes met yours in question.

In answer, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his in a soft, testing kiss. He responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, holding you there as the kiss deepened. The taste of buttered popcorn lingered on his tongue as it slipped past your lips, exploring with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

A particularly loud noise from the movie made him jump again, breaking the kiss with a startled gasp before he laughed softly against your mouth.

"Sorry," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"Don't be," you whispered back, shifting to get a better angle.

This time when you kissed him, it was less cautious. Your hand slid up his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles as he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair. The armrest dug into your side but you hardly noticed, too lost in the way he kissed you—deepening from sweet to something hungrier, something that made heat pool in your stomach.

The protagonist's screams provided a bizarre soundtrack as Armin's hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive spot beneath your ear that he'd discovered weeks ago. You shivered, and he smiled against your lips, clearly pleased with himself.

"Thought you were scared," you teased quietly, nipping at his lower lip.

"Distracted now," he breathed, kissing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw.

You glanced around quickly—the nearest couple was rows away, focused on the movie—before sliding your hand to his thigh, feeling him tense beneath your touch. His own hand moved to your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to brush warm skin.

The kiss turned deeper, messier, as his tongue slid against yours. You could feel him getting bolder, his grip on your waist tightening as you shifted closer, your hand inching higher on his thigh. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat that sent a pulse of want straight through you.

His teeth grazed your lower lip, and you gasped quietly, feeling his smile against your mouth. This was a different Armin than the one who'd stumbled through asking you out—this was the Armin who knew exactly what you liked, who'd mapped your body with his hands and mouth, who'd made you come undone with just his fingers on multiple occasions.

"We should—" he started, pulling back slightly, his breath warm against your lips. "We should probably watch the movie."

"Yeah. I don't want your coworkers making fun of you," you whispered with a smile.

A woman on screen shrieked as something lunged at her, and Armin tensed again, his grip on you tightening reflexively. You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Maybe we should have gone with a comedy," he admitted, his voice low with embarrassment. "Eren and Jean said horror would be—" He cut himself off, realizing he'd said too much.

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What exactly did they say?"

Armin's hand fell from your waist as he ran it through his hair, messing up the careful styling even further. "Something about, uh... you getting scared and me comforting you." His ears were burning again. "Which obviously backfired because I'm the one jumping at every shadow."

"I don't know," you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear. "I think I like comforting you just fine."

He shivered, his hand finding yours again in the darkness. For the remainder of the movie, you stayed close, your head on his shoulder, occasionally stealing kisses during the less intense scenes. Whenever a jumpscare hit, you'd squeeze his hand, feeling him relax against you as the moment passed.

By the time the credits rolled, Armin had practically forgotten his embarrassment, too content with your warmth against him, the smell of your shampoo as you rested against his shoulder. As the lights slowly brightened, he turned to look at you properly, taking in your slightly disheveled appearance—lips a little swollen from his kisses, hair mussed where his fingers had tangled in it.

He looked just as affected—cheeks flushed, blonde hair falling messily across his forehead, lips pink and just a touch raw. The sight made your heart flutter.

"So," he said, voice hoarse as he helped you gather your things, "on a scale of one to ten, how bad was my movie choice?"

You laughed, standing to stretch your legs. "Well, I didn't really see much of it, so I can't judge fairly."

His smile was slow, a little smug as he stood beside you. "Me neither."

You both lingered in the theater as others filed out, neither quite ready to end the night.

"We could..." Armin started, then stopped, suddenly looking shy again. "We could go back to my place? Connie and Sasha are out tonight, so..."

The implication hung between you, charged with possibility.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. "Let's go."

His smile was bright enough to rival the theater's exit signs as he pulled you gently toward the door, the forgotten horror movie already a distant memory.

ꔛ

The door to Armin's apartment swung open, his hand fumbling slightly with the key as he stepped aside to let you in. The familiar space greeted you—Sasha's mismatched throw pillows scattered across the couch, Connie's gaming setup in the corner, and the subtle scent of Armin's sandalwood candle that he always lit when studying late.

"They're definitely out?" you asked, slipping off your shoes by the door.

Armin nodded, his eyes never leaving yours as he set his keys on the counter. "Until late. Frat party, I guess."

There was a beat of silence—a moment of shared understanding—before you both moved at once. Armin's hands found your waist as he backed you toward his bedroom, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that made it clear he'd been restraining himself at the theater. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly in the way you'd discovered made him groan.

He navigated the hallway without breaking the kiss, blindly pushing open his bedroom door. The familiar space—desk cluttered with textbooks and astronomy notes, walls adorned with star charts and anime posters he'd shyly explained on your first visit—welcomed you like an old friend.

Armin walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed, his hands steady at your waist. He broke the kiss, looking down at you with eyes darkened by desire, a question in them that you answered by sitting down at the edge of the mattress.

Before he could make another move, you reached for the button of his jeans, watching his breath hitch as your fingers worked the metal through the hole. His hands moved to your shoulders, gentle but trembling slightly.

"You don't have to—" he started, his voice cracking embarrassingly in the middle.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes with a small smile. "I already told you, I want to."

The flush on his cheeks deepened, but he nodded, swallowing hard as you slowly lowered his zipper. His fingers twitched against your shoulders, anticipation building in the way he shifted his weight.

The contrast between drunk Armin and sober Armin had fascinated you from the start.

Drunk Armin was all impulse and confidence—hands everywhere, whispered confessions against your skin, boldly telling you exactly what he wanted with none of his usual hesitation. The first night at the party, he'd been liquid courage and hungry eyes, pulling you into Jean's room without a second thought.

Sober Armin was a slow burn—starting tentative and sweet, checking in with gentle touches and questioning looks, always making sure you were comfortable. But what made him so intoxicating was the transformation that happened when pleasure built—how his careful control would gradually unravel, revealing the intensity he usually kept hidden beneath his quiet exterior.

As you tugged his jeans down his thighs, you could see that transformation beginning. His fingers flexed against your shoulders, his breathing already uneven despite how little you'd done.

"Is this okay?" you asked, looking up at him through your lashes, your hands resting on his hips.

He nodded rapidly, then cleared his throat. "Yeah—yes, it's... it's more than okay."

You smiled, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, enjoying the way his abdominal muscles tensed in anticipation. Slowly, you pulled the fabric down, revealing him inch by inch until he sprang free, already hard and straining.

Armin's breath caught audibly, his hands moving from your shoulders to card gently through your hair. The touch was reverent, careful—so typically Armin at the start.

You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him pulse against your palm as you stroked slowly from base to tip. His eyes fell shut momentarily, lips parting on a shaky exhale.

"You're already so hard," you murmured, thumb circling the sensitive head.

"Been thinking about this all night," he admitted, voice strained but still controlled. "Since the theater."

You leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as you pressed a soft kiss to the tip, watching his pupils dilate at the contact. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair, not pushing, just holding on like he needed an anchor.

When you finally took him into your mouth, Armin's quiet gasp filled the room. You started slow, taking just the head between your lips, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before dipping into the slit. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, restraint evident in every tense muscle.

"That feels—" he broke off as you took him deeper, his voice cracking again. "So good, God."

You hollowed your cheeks, establishing a rhythm as you worked him with your mouth and hand together. Sweet, shy Armin was still present in the gentle way his fingers stroked your hair, in the soft, appreciative sounds he made with each movement of your tongue.

But as the minutes passed, you felt the shift.

His breathing grew heavier, his normally precise vocabulary reduced to fragments and your name. When you took him particularly deep, letting him hit the back of your throat, his hips jerked forward involuntarily causing you to gag slightly.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped immediately, trying to pull back.

You responded by gripping his hips, encouraging him to stay where he was, looking up to meet his gaze. The message was clear: It's okay. I can take it.

The careful restraint in his expression began to crack. His hand tightened in your hair, not painful but definitely more commanding than before, guiding your movements as you continued.

"You look so—" he swallowed hard, jaw clenching as you swirled your tongue around him. "So perfect like this."

This was where drunk and sober Armin began to converge—where pleasure stripped away his inhibitions, leaving raw need in their place. His hips started to move in shallow, careful thrusts that grew more confident when you moaned encouragingly around him.

"Is this okay?" he asked, voice rough with desire, his hand now firmly guiding your head. When you nodded, he exhaled sharply. "Good, because I—fuck—I need to—"

The proper, articulate Armin was gone now, replaced by a version of him that chased his pleasure with focused intensity. His fingers tangled more firmly in your hair, his thrusts growing more deliberate as he watched himself disappear between your lips.

"You're so good at this," he praised, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "So perfect with your mouth, taking me so well."

You hummed around him, sending vibrations through his length that made him curse—something rare from his usual vocabulary. His self-consciousness had evaporated, replaced by a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to ask.

"Deeper," he urged, voice strained but commanding. "Please, just like—yes—just like that."

When you felt him start to throb against your tongue, his thighs tensing beneath your hands, you knew he was close. His careful rhythm faltered, growing erratic as his control slipped further.

"I'm going to—" he warned, trying to pull back slightly. "If you don't stop, I'll—"

You dug your fingers into his hips, taking him deeper instead, and the last thread of his restraint snapped. His head fell back, throat working around a groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him as he pulsed against your tongue.

"Fuck," he gasped, the words falling from his lips as he came, his fingers clenching in your hair, his body shuddering with release.

You worked him through it, swallowing around him until he became too sensitive, his hands gently urging you back as he caught his breath. When you finally pulled away, looking up at him with a satisfied smile, his expression was dazed, cheeks flushed dark red.

Armin was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly, when his gaze dropped to you—eyes dark with hunger, lips kiss-swollen, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or give you a second to recover.

Then, with a suddenness that made your pulse jump, he pushed you back onto the bed.

You let out a surprised laugh as you landed against his pillows, but the sound choked off when he climbed over you, his hands sliding possessively up your thighs. His glasses—already fogged from his heavy breathing—slipped slightly down his nose, and with an impatient noise, he yanked them off and tossed them onto the nightstand.

"Fuck these things," he muttered, before his attention snapped back to you, making you laugh momentarily before your breath hitched.

His fingers hooked into the hem of your skirt, pushing it up your hips in one smooth motion, exposing the damp fabric of your panties. He exhaled sharply at the sight, his thumbs immediately pressing against the soaked material, dragging slowly along the seam.

"Armin," you gasped, arching into the touch.

He smirked—actually smirked—before dipping his head to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips were warm, teasing, moving higher with agonizing slowness.

"You’re so wet," he murmured, fingertips ghosting over the damp fabric of your panties. "Just from sucking me off?"

You bit your lip, nodding, and his expression darkened with satisfaction.

"Then let me return the favor."

Armin’s fingers curled into the sides of your panties, dragging them down your legs with deliberate slowness, his knuckles brushing against your thighs in a way that made you shiver. The moment they were off, tossed carelessly onto the floor, his hands returned—spreading your thighs wider, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath your hips, like he was memorizing the way you opened for him.

His breath was warm against your bare skin as he leaned in, pressing a kiss just above the apex of your thighs, teasing.

"You're so cute," he murmured, voice rough with want, lips brushing against your slick folds without giving you what you wanted. "The way you react every time."

You whined, hips lifting desperately toward his mouth, but he chuckled—chuckled, the bastard—and held you down with one firm hand on your stomach.

"I—fuck, Armin—" you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.

"Hm?" he hummed breath fanning over your overheated skin. Then, finally, his tongue dragged through your wetness in one slow, torturous stroke, and you nearly arched clean off the bed.

His grip on your hip tightened, pinning you in place as he repeated the motion, lapping at you like he was savoring the taste. The contrast was maddening—his usual careful precision in everything he did, now applied to unraveling you completely.

Armin's mouth was relentless—hot, wet, and hungry as he devoured you with the same focus he usually reserved for his astronomy charts. His tongue laved broad, slow strokes through your folds before zeroing in on your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure to make your thighs tremble.

"Fuck—yes, like that—" you gasped, fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly as he worked you over with his lips and tongue.

He hummed against you in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Then, without warning, his fingers joined—two of them pressing against your entrance before sliding inside in one smooth thrust.

"You like that?" he asked, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he curled his fingers just right, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

All you could manage was a desperate nod, your voice failing you as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach.

Armin’s lips curved into a smirk—smug bastard—before his mouth descended again, tongue flicking over your clit in quick, relentless circles as his fingers fucked into you with growing insistence.

"You sound so pretty," he muttered against you, the vibrations making you writhe. "Always." His movements were precise, almost scientific, as if he’d studied exactly how to make you fall apart.

"Armin—" you panted, your grip tightening in his hair as his fingers pumped in and out, his thumb brushing your clit in tandem. "Don’t stop—please—"

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down—sucking your clit between his lips, fucking you with his fingers at a steady, maddening pace. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him as he worked you toward the edge with terrifying efficiency.

You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach, your breathing coming in ragged gasps as he pushed you closer and closer.

"Come for me," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with arousal. "Let me feel it."

And just like that, you shattered—your orgasm crashing over you in waves, your body clenching around his fingers as he coaxed every last pulse of pleasure from you.

When you finally slumped back against the bed, boneless and breathless, Armin pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"Fuck," was all you could manage.

"Good?" he asked, like he didn’t already know.

You simply whined, lips curling into a grin at his pleased expression. Armin crawled up your body, his lips finding yours in a deep, hungry kiss that let you taste yourself on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, hands sliding up his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath your palms as he settled between your thighs.

His fingers tangled in your hair, cradling your head as he kissed you thoroughly, unhurried now despite the way his arousal pressed insistently against your stomach. Each sweep of his tongue was deliberate, each gentle bite to your lower lip calculated to make you gasp.

He sat back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, revealing the lean, subtle muscle of his chest and stomach. Not bulky like some of his friends, but defined in a way that made your mouth water. You reached up, tracing a finger down the center of his chest, feeling him shiver under your touch.

"Let me grab something," he murmured, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before leaning over to his nightstand.

He pulled open the drawer, retrieving a small box of condoms that still had the plastic wrap on it. You raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Recent purchase?" you teased.

Armin's cheeks flushed, but he nodded, tearing open the box with slightly fumbling fingers. "Got them last week. After, uh—" he met your eyes, a small smile playing at his lips. "After I decided I never wanted to use Jean's condoms again. Completely ruined the mood knowing they were his."

You laughed, the sound turning into a soft gasp as he tore open a packet and rolled the condom onto his length with careful precision.

"Plus," he added, his voice dropping lower as he settled back between your legs, "I wanted to be prepared. For you."

His hands slid beneath your knees, gently pushing them back and open, exposing you completely to his gaze. The position left you feeling vulnerable, but the reverent way he looked at you—like you were a particularly fascinating celestial phenomenon he'd just discovered—made heat pool in your stomach.

Armin positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds without pushing in. He guidded his cock with his hand, coating himself in your wetness, watching your face as he teased you.

You whimpered, trying to shift your hips to take him in.

His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he continued the maddening tease. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You didn't answer immediately, distracted by the pleasure building again as he rubbed his dick against your sensitive clit.

"Tell me," he prompted, leaning down to kiss your neck. "I want to hear you say it."

You threw your arm over your face, suddenly embarrassed despite everything you'd already done together. "You know what I want."

"I do," he agreed, nipping lightly at your collarbone. "But I want to hear you ask for it."

Something about his tone—not demanding or smug, but genuinely wanting to hear your desire—made heat pool in your stomach. You peeked at him from beneath your arm, taking in his flushed cheeks, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth, the eager anticipation in his eyes.

"Please," you whispered, the word barely audible.

His smile was gentle, encouraging. "Please what?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

You swallowed, gathering your courage. "Please fuck me, Armin. I want you inside me."

The words sent a visible shudder through him, his breath catching as he lined himself up properly. "Like this?" he asked, pushing just the tip inside, watching your face carefully.

"Yes," you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as he sank deeper, stretching you deliciously. "Just like that—god."

Armin's breath hitched as he pushed in deeper, his hands gripping your thighs with increasing pressure. You watched his face transform—the careful control giving way to raw sensation as he buried himself inside you completely, his hips finally flush against yours.

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes falling closed for a moment as he adjusted to the feeling. "You feel—you feel incredible."

He stayed like that for a heartbeat, fully seated inside you, his thumbs drawing small, soothing circles against your skin. Then he opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, pulling back slowly before pushing in again with careful precision.

You shook your head, digging your fingers into his shoulders. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

The praise sent a visible shiver through him, his rhythm faltering briefly before he found it again, setting a deliberate pace that had you arching beneath him. Each thrust was measured and deep, hitting exactly where you needed it.

Armin bent down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as he continued to move within you. His hand slid from your thigh to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your top.

"Take this off," he murmured against your mouth. "Want to see all of you."

You nodded, and he helped you pull the shirt over your head, followed quickly by your bra. The moment you were bare beneath him, his eyes darkened with appreciation, his hands immediately moving to cup your breasts.

"Beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, as he rolled a nipple between his fingers, watching your reaction with fascination.

The dual sensation of his cock inside you and his fingers on your sensitive nipples had you moaning, head thrown back against the pillows. Armin took advantage, his lips finding your exposed throat, sucking and nipping at the tender skin there.

His thrusts grew deeper, more insistent, each one drawing a soft gasp from your lips. You'd almost forgotten how perfectly he filled you—the past few weeks had been rushed encounters between classes, hurried orgasms from his fingers and tongue, but not this. Not since that first drunken night in Jean's room had you felt the delicious stretch of him inside you, and your body was reacquainting itself with the sensation.

"You feel so good," Armin breathed, his voice strained as his hips snapped forward with increasing force. "So fucking tight—god—"

His cursing sent a thrill through you—the contrast between the polite, studious Armin who explained Europa's atmospheric composition with such precision and the Armin currently fucking you into his mattress, hair falling messily across his forehead as sweat beaded on his brow.

"Harder," you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

Something flashed in his eyes—a momentary hesitation, then resolve. "You sure?"

"Yes—please—"

He didn't need to be told twice. His next thrust came with enough force to make the headboard hit the wall, drawing a surprised moan from your lips. His hands found yours, fingers interlacing as he pinned them beside your head, using the leverage to drive into you with newfound intensity.

"Like this?" he asked, voice rough, eyes dark with concentration as he watched your face for every reaction. "This what you need?"

"Yes—fuck—just like that," you gasped, arching beneath him.

A particularly deep thrust had you crying out, and Armin groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his hips worked against yours.

"Missed this," he confessed against your skin, the words tumbling out between thrusts. "Thinking about fucking you again—couldn't focus on the project—kept remembering how you felt—"

You whimpered, the admission sending heat spiraling through your core. The idea of him daydreaming about this while working on those meticulous slides, wanting you while discussing celestial phenomena—it was both ridiculously endearing and intoxicating.

"Me too," you admitted, "got wet thinking about you in class, when you were sitting right next to me—"

Armin groaned, his hips stuttering before finding their rhythm again. "Yeah? While I was discussing Titan's atmosphere?" His voice was playful despite the strain, his lips curving against your neck.

"Especially then," you teased back, gasping as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. "Something about the way you talk about space—ah!—really does it for me."

He laughed, breathless and surprised, before pulling back enough to look at you. His expression shifted to something more serious, more vulnerable, as his pace slowed momentarily.

"I'm falling for you," he admitted quietly, the words hanging between you as his hips rolled in a slow, deliberate grind. "Not just this—though fuck, this is amazing—but all of it. You."

Your heart stuttered, warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the physical pleasure coursing through your veins.

Your heart swelled at his confession, but before you could respond, Armin's hips snapped forward with renewed vigor, stealing the words from your throat.

"But right now," he continued, voice dropping to a husky whisper as he picked up the pace, "right now I just want to make you come around my cock."

The filthy words from his usually proper mouth sent a shock of heat straight to your core. You watched, transfixed, as his lean muscles tensed with each thrust—the subtle definition of his abs contracting, the way his biceps flexed as he held himself above you. His golden hair, usually so neatly combed, now hung in sweaty strands around his flushed face, his blue eyes dark and unfocused with pleasure.

"Fuck," you moaned as he shifted, the angle changing just enough that the head of his cock dragged perfectly against your g-spot with every thrust.

"There it is," he murmured, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice as he noted your reaction. "Found it."

He slammed into you harder, making the bed frame creak beneath you, each thrust precise despite the increasing desperation of his movements. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, obscene and arousing.

"You're so fucking wet," Armin groaned, watching where your bodies connected. "Taking my dick so perfectly—shit—"

You whimpered at his words, clenching around him involuntarily, which made his eyes flutter closed for a brief moment.

Just as the tension was building, coiling tight in your lower belly, a sound from the apartment's entrance made you both freeze.

"Armin? You home?" Connie's voice carried down the hallway, followed by the distinct jingle of keys.

"Shit," Armin whispered, his eyes widening in panic. He glanced at the door—which, you realized with a jolt of adrenaline, neither of you had thought to lock.

Before you could process what was happening, Armin's hand clamped over your mouth, his body still buried deep inside yours.

"Yeah, I'm here!" he called back, voice remarkably steady despite the situation. "Just working on some stuff in my room. Don't—don't come in, I'm changing!"

His eyes met yours, a silent question in them—okay?—as he remained perfectly still, his cock pulsing inside you.

You nodded against his palm, heart racing with the thrill of nearly being caught. To your shock, instead of pulling out, Armin began to move again—slower now, more deliberate, his hips rolling in shallow thrusts that maintained the pressure against your sweet spot without making the bed creak.

"We brought pizza!" Sasha's voice called. "Extra pepperoni! You want some?"

Armin bit his lip, stifling a groan as you clenched around him again, the danger of the situation somehow heightening every sensation.

"Maybe—ah—maybe later!" he called back, his voice hitching slightly as you deliberately tightened around him. He shot you a warning look that only made heat pool lower in your belly.

"Suit yourself," Connie replied, his voice thankfully moving toward the living room. "We're gonna watch that new anime you were talking about. The one with the monsters."

Armin's hips stuttered at the mention, and you couldn't help but smile against his palm, imagining him trying to focus on serious conversation while balls-deep inside you.

"Go ahead!" Armin called, then lowered his voice to a whisper meant only for you. "If you make a sound, I'll stop."

The threat—not truly a threat given how desperately you both wanted this—made you shiver.

The moment he was satisfied his roommates were settled in the living room, Armin's hips snapped forward with renewed force, his hand pressing harder against your mouth. His eyes were wild, a mixture of arousal and danger as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

"Gotta be quiet now," he breathed, his voice trembling slightly as he picked up the pace. "Can't let them hear how fucking wet your pussy is for me."

You whimpered against his hand, feeling yourself clench around him at the unexpected dirty talk. This was a side of Armin you'd glimpsed before—the way he'd whisper filthy praise against your ear when you sucked him off, how he'd gotten bolder with his words each time you hooked up—but never quite this raw, this uninhibited. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting seeming obscenely loud in the quiet room.

"Look at you," he continued, watching your breasts bounce with each powerful thrust. "Fuck, you're so perfect."

His free hand moved to cup one breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple before pinching it lightly, causing you to arch beneath him. Your muffled moan was captured by his hand, which pressed more firmly against your lips.

"Shh," he warned, but his eyes were dark with satisfaction at your reaction. "They'll hear you."

The position shifted slightly as he leaned more weight on the hand covering your mouth, his cock driving impossibly deeper. You could feel his heavy balls slap against your ass with each thrust, adding to the obscene symphony of skin against skin.

"You're dripping," he groaned quietly, glancing down at where your bodies joined. "Soaking the sheets, fuck—"

Despite his assertive words, Armin was falling apart above you—his composure cracking with each thrust. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he tried to stifle his own sounds. A whimper escaped him when you deliberately clenched around his length, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment.

"Do that—do that again," he pleaded, voice breaking slightly as you obliged, squeezing your inner muscles around him. "God—feels so good—"

His rhythm faltered briefly before he found it again, driving into you with precision that belied his trembling thighs and stuttered breathing. The head of his cock hit that perfect spot deep inside you with each thrust, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

You tried to say his name, the sound muffled against his palm as your hands clutched at his back, nails digging into the smooth skin. Armin hissed at the sting but didn't slow down—if anything, the pain seemed to spur him on, his hips snapping forward with increased fervor.

"You like this?" he whispered, sweat-dampened hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at you. "Like me keeping you quiet while I fuck you? While my roommates are right outside?"

You nodded frantically, eyes wide as pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with each precise thrust.

"Such a—fuck—such a dirty girl," he continued, voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust. "Getting off on this—on me—ahh—holding you down and—and fucking you while—"

He couldn't even finish the sentence, too caught up in the sensation. His expression was a beautiful mess—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glazed with pleasure. When you clenched around him again, he let out a whine that he immediately tried to muffle by burying his face in your neck.

"Close," he gasped against your skin, his rhythm growing erratic. "So close—need you to—need you to come with me—"

His hand slipped from your mouth just long enough to slide between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease. The sudden stimulation made you gasp, and his palm clamped back over your lips instantly.

"Quiet," he reminded you, but the command lacked authority as his own breath hitched. His fingers worked your clit in tight, fast circles as his cock continued to pound into you, the dual sensation rapidly pushing you toward the edge.

"Come on my cock," he urged, words turning desperate as his control slipped further. "Want to feel you—feel you squeeze me—God—squeeze me when you come—"

Your orgasm hit without warning, crashing over you in intense waves as your body clenched rhythmically around his length. Armin's hand barely muffled your cry as pleasure flooded every nerve, your back arching off the bed.

The feeling of your walls pulsing around him was too much. Armin's hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering completely as he buried himself deep inside you with one final thrust. His whole body tensed, a choked whimper escaping his lips as he came, his cock throbbing within you as he spilled into the condom.

For a long moment, he remained frozen above you, trembling with the force of his release. Then, slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips in a gentle, almost apologetic kiss.

"Sorry," he whispered against your lips, still catching his breath. "Got a bit... carried away."

You smiled, reaching up to brush sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "Don't apologize. That was... wow."

A flush that had nothing to do with exertion spread across his cheeks, the shy, sweet Armin returning now that the heat of the moment had passed. The transformation was as endearing as it was fascinating—how quickly he could shift from filthy-mouthed confidence back to soft-spoken tenderness.

"Yeah?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice despite what you'd just shared.

"Yeah," you confirmed, pulling him down for another kiss. "Definitely wow."

Armin carefully pulled out, both of you wincing slightly at the sensitivity. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before climbing off the bed and padding to the bathroom. You heard water running briefly before he returned, condom disposed of and a warm washcloth in hand.

"Here," he offered softly, gently cleaning between your thighs with a tenderness that made your chest ache. When he was done, he tossed the cloth into his hamper and climbed back onto the bed, immediately pulling you against his chest.

His fingers combed through your tangled hair, pushing sweaty strands away from your face. "You okay?"

You nodded, nestling into his warmth. "Perfect."

Armin reached toward the nightstand, grabbing a half-empty water bottle and offering it to you. "Drink something."

You took a few grateful sips before passing it back, watching as he drank deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. The care in these small gestures was somehow more intimate than what you'd just shared.

After a comfortable silence, you traced a finger along his collarbone. "So..."

His eyes met yours, a hint of vulnerability in them. "So?"

"You said something. During." You bit your lip, suddenly shy despite everything. "About falling for me."

A blush immediately spread across his cheeks, but to his credit, he didn't look away. "I did."

"Did you mean it?"

Armin exhaled, his hand finding yours, fingers intertwining. "Yeah. I did. I am." His thumb stroked the back of your hand nervously. "Falling for you, that is."

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you smiled up at him. "Good. Because I'm falling for you too."

The relief that washed over his face was almost comical—like he'd been genuinely worried after everything you'd shared. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"Does that mean... I mean, would you want to..." he trailed off, then took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet your eyes. "Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?"

You couldn't help but laugh—not at him, but at the endearing formality of it all, asking you to be his girlfriend while you were both naked and sweaty in his bed.

"Yes, Armin," you said, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "I'll be your girlfriend. Officially."

His answering smile was brilliant, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made your stomach flutter.

"Great," he said, voice soft but steady. "That's... really great."

A loud burst of laughter from the living room reminded you both that you weren't alone in the apartment. Armin glanced toward the door, then back at you.

"We should probably..."

"Join civilization?" you suggested, already reaching for your scattered clothes.

"Yeah," he chuckled, climbing off the bed and searching for his boxers. "Plus, there's pizza."

You both dressed quickly, stealing glances and sharing small smiles as you put yourselves back together. Armin ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame it back into something presentable while you straightened your clothes and checked for any visible marks he might have left.

When you finally emerged from his bedroom, Connie and Sasha were sprawled across the couch, an open pizza box on the coffee table between them and some colorful anime playing on the TV.

"Well, well, look who finally emerged," Connie said, giving you a knowing grin as he paused the show. "Thought you said you were changing, Armin."

Armin froze for a half-second, his ears turning bright red as he fumbled for words. "I was—I mean, we were just—"

"Uh-huh," Sasha smirked, grabbing another slice of pizza. "Changing."

Armin's shoulders straightened suddenly, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. "Well, I have a girlfriend now, so..." he trailed off defensively, the statement hanging in the air like he wasn't quite sure where he was going with it.

Connie and Sasha were silent, amusement on their expressions at Armin's words.

"Yeah, I have a girlfriend now, so what does it matter if I change in front of her?" Armin challenged more confidently, chin lifting slightly despite the blush still coloring his cheeks.

Connie rolled his eyes dramatically, throwing a wadded-up napkin in Armin's direction. "Yeah, yeah, just rub it in our faces, why don't you? Some of us are still single and suffering."

But there was no real bite to his words, just good-natured teasing as he scooted over to make room on the couch.

Sasha couldn't seem to stop smiling, her eyes darting between you and Armin with barely contained delight. "About time," she said, pushing the pizza box toward you both.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Armin asked, guiding you to the spot Connie had cleared.

"Dude, you've been talking about her non-stop for weeks," Connie snorted. "Pretty sure Sasha and I could recite your astronomy project by heart at this point."

"That's not true," Armin protested weakly, but the way he avoided eye contact made it clear Connie wasn't exaggerating.

Sasha leaned forward, stage-whispering to you. "He's had a crush on you since like, the second week of class. It was painful to watch."

"Okay," Armin interrupted loudly, reaching for a slice of pizza. "Can we please just watch the show now?"

You couldn't help but laugh at his embarrassment, settling comfortably against his side as Connie hit play on the remote. The anime resumed—something about giant humanoid creatures that seemed equal parts fascinating and terrifying—but you found yourself more interested in watching the easy camaraderie between the three roommates.

Despite their teasing, it was obvious how much Connie and Sasha cared about Armin. The way Sasha would occasionally glance over with a soft, approving smile, or how Connie had immediately made space for both of you, accepting you into their little circle without question.

As the show continued, Armin's arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you closer. You leaned into him, enjoying the warmth of his body and the comforting weight of his arm. His fingers traced absent patterns on your shoulder as he focused on the screen, occasionally leaning down to whisper explanations of characters or plot points you might have missed.

It felt natural. Easy. Like you'd always belonged here, nestled against Armin's side while his friends bickered good-naturedly over the last slice of pizza.

When Armin's phone buzzed with a text from Eren asking how the date went, he simply smiled, typing back a quick response before tucking his phone away and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Good?" he asked quietly, and you knew he wasn't just asking about the anime or the pizza.

"Perfect," you confirmed, settling more comfortably against him as the next episode began to play.

#armin smut #nerdmin #nerd armin #smut #aot x reader #aot x reader smut #aot #aot smut #armin arlert #armin arlert x reader #armin x reader smut #attack on titan

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hoe4hotchner · 1 month ago

Note

Hi! I just read you blurb about Hotch with gen z reader and I absolutely love it, it's hilarious! ♡

Can I please request Hotch struggling with technology/apps and gen z reader helping him?

Thank you so much ♡♡

Terms and conditions | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Gen-Z!reader | WC: 1.7k | CW: Fluff. I feel like I might have made hotch into a whump in the second part of the fic (he's a little pathetic)

A/N: Tyyyyyy 💕💕

You could sense it the second you walked into the bullpen, something was wrong.

Not murder-in-Mississippi wrong, but Hotch-is-glowering-at-his-phone wrong. Which, all things considered, was still code red. You paused by your desk, coffee in hand, watching your unit chief stab at his screen through the open blinds of his office, like it owed him money.

Hotch’s jaw was tight, his brows drawn into a furrow that could’ve doubled as a trench. You’d seen him face down unsubs with less venom.

Rossi sauntered past with a file tucked under his arm. “He’s been at it for ten minutes,” he murmured, his lips twitching with a barely concealed smirk. “Try not to laugh too loud.”

You snorted softly, already knowing that it was a losing battle. Hotch’s technological struggles were the tales of BAU legends – whispered about in the break room like campfire stories.

The man could profile a psychopath in his sleep but ask him to navigate an app store, and he looked like he was defusing a bomb with a paperclip.

Adjusting your grip on your coffee, you strolled up to his office with the casual confidence of someone who’d grown up with a smartphone practically grafted to their hand.

“Morning, sir,” you said, popping your head through his open door. “Everything okay?”

Hotch didn’t look up. His voice was a low growl, clipped and precise. “No. It’s not.”

That stopped you. Aaron Hotchner didn’t admit weakness, not to unsubs, not to bureaucrats, and certainly not to his team. For him to let that frustration slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed facade was as rare as a sunny day in Quantico without a murder call.

You tilted your head as you moved closer to his desk, catching a glimpse of his screen, and had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning.

“Are you… trying to download an app?” you asked, keeping your tone as neutral as possible.

He finally looked at you, and for one glorious, fleeting moment, Aaron Hotchner – elite profiler, veteran federal agent, and the BAU’s resident stoic leader – looked utterly, hopelessly lost.

His eyes held a mix of exasperation and something that might’ve been embarrassment, though he’d never admit it.

“I’m attempting to install the airline app,” he said, each word measured as if explaining a tactical maneuver. “We have a connecting flight through Dallas next week since the jet is still out of commission, and the travel department suggested I… ‘check in on mobile.’” The air quotes were practically audible, laced with disdain for the very concept.

You pressed your lips together, fighting the urge to laugh. “Okay. What’s the issue?”

He turned the phone toward you, revealing the problem in stark white and gray: Your Apple ID password is required to proceed.

“Oh no,” you said, unable to stop the grin now. “You don’t know your Apple password.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed into the patented Hotchner Glare, the one that could make a hardened criminal confess in under ten seconds. “I didn’t realize it required a password just to check into a flight,” he said.

You nodded like you were diagnosing a patient. “Well, technically, it’s for downloading the app. It’s a security thing, two-factor authentication, biometrics, the whole deal.”

He blinked at you, slow and deliberate, like you’d just recited quantum physics in Klingon. “Two-factor… what?”

You couldn’t help it, you beamed. “Don’t worry, sir. I got you.”

Dragging a chair over to his desk, you plopped down with the enthusiasm of a tech support guru about to perform a miracle. You rolled up your sleeves dramatically.

“Alrighty, let’s start from the top. Do you know your email?”

“Yes,” he said, with a hint of offense, like you’d asked if he knew his own name.

“Great. Baby steps. Do you know the password for it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Why would I need that?”

You froze, coffee halfway to your lips. “Oh boy.”

What followed was a twenty-minute odyssey through the labyrinth of modern technology. You guided Hotch through resetting his Apple ID, navigating the recovery process, and answering security questions that seemed designed to torment him (“What was the name of your first pet?” “I don’t remember.” “Okay, what’s the name of your favorite book?” “Why does this matter?”). By the time you’d successfully reset his account, installed the airline app, and added three others he grudgingly admitted might be useful (calendar, notes, and a weather app, because “it’s practical”), you felt like you’d earned a medal.

“Now for the fun part,” you said, leaning closer to show him Face ID. “You just look at the phone, and it unlocks. No typing required.”

He squinted at the screen as it scanned his face, then unlocked with a soft click. “You mean I don’t have to type anything anymore?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief like you’d just revealed the secret to eternal youth.

“Welcome to 2025, sir,” you said, leaning back with a grin.

Hotch stared at the phone for a long moment, then looked at you. His voice softened, just enough to catch you off guard. “That’s… actually impressive.”

You raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. “Careful, Hotch. That almost sounded like praise.”

The barest flicker of a smirk crossed his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You tapped his screen one last time, double-checking the airline app. “Okay, you’re good to go. App’s installed, accounts are logged in, and flight alerts are on. You’re officially a digital native.”

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, a rare moment of visible relief.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know how you all keep up with this.”

You shrugged, deadpanning, “Years of trauma, TikTok, and depression memes. It builds character.”

He gave you a look that was equal parts amusement and fond exasperation, the kind of look that made your stomach do a little flip. “I worry about your generation,” he said, but there was no real bite to it.

You smirked. “That’s fair. We worry about you too.”

Two weeks later, the BAU was airborne again, returning from a case in Arizona. The jet was quiet, save for the hum of the engines and the occasional murmur of conversation between Reid and Prentiss across the aisle. You were seated next to Hotch, who was, predictably, staring at his phone like it was a live grenade.

“Okay,” he muttered, almost to himself. “So if I press this…”

You leaned over, peering at his screen. “You trying to check the weather?”

He nodded, his expression a mix of determination and mild panic. “The app says there’s a storm on the way, but it won’t load the updates.”

With an easy grin, you reached for his phone. “I got it.”

He handed it over without protest, and that small gesture hit you harder than it should’ve. Hotch didn’t trust easily, not with cases, not with people, and definitely not with technology. But here he was, letting you take the reins, watching you in a way that made your heart skip.

You showed him how to refresh the app, toggle the alerts, and even sign up for text notifications so he’d get updates without wrestling the app into submission. “That should cover you,” you said, handing the phone back.

He studied the screen for a moment, then looked at you, his gaze lingering longer than usual. “You’re very good at this,” he said, his voice low.

Your brows lifted. “Tech stuff?”

“Yes,” he said, but there was something else in his tone, something heavier. “But… also, you’re patient with me. Most people aren’t.”

You softened, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “It’s because you’re trying,” you said, matching his tone. “That’s all that matters. I mean, yeah, you kind of suck at it–”

He shot you a look, one eyebrow raised in warning.

“–but you’re learning,” you finished, grinning. “You don’t give up. That’s admirable.”

He didn’t respond right away, just watched you with that unreadable expression he wore so well. Then, quietly, “You remind me of Jack’s babysitter.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wow. Romance me, why don’t you.”

His eyes widened slightly, a rare crack in his composure. “That wasn’t-”

You laughed, waving him off. “Relax, Hotch. I know what you meant.” You nudged him with your elbow, lightening the mood. “Next lesson: memes. You’re way behind.”

He groaned, but it was more theatrical than genuine. “Do I have to?”

You grinned, undeterred. “Terms and conditions, sir. You want my help, you’re gonna have to suffer through at least three ‘Vine’ references a week and the dog of wisdom.”

He sighed, long and suffering. “I have no idea what that means.”

“And that’s how I know we’ll make a great team.”

Later that night, as the team disembarked the plane and shuffled toward the parking lot, Hotch fell into step beside you. Not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence in the chilly air outside the private terminal the jet had landed at.

The rest of the team was ahead, somehow still bickering about who’d lost the rental car keys back in Arizona (it was definitely Morgan).

“I looked up what Skibidi Toilet was,” Hotch said, his voice low, like he was admitting to a crime.

You gasped, delighted. “No. You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“And?”

He shook his head, his expression a mix of horror and resignation. “…I regret everything.”

You cackled, loud enough to earn a glance from Rossi up ahead.

“Welcome to my world, old man.”

But then he turned to you, and his voice softened. “Thank you,” he said, “for not making me feel stupid.”

Your heart tugged, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his words. “You’re not stupid, Hotch,” you said quietly. “You’re just… analog in a digital world.”

That earned you a smile, a real smile. “I suppose I could stand to be a little more digital,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “If it means I get to keep up with you.”

You stopped walking for a fraction of a second, your breath catching. Then you grinned, nudging him again. “Careful, sir. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes said more than words ever could.

And as you walked side by side, you couldn’t help but think that maybe the gap between analog and digital wasn’t so wide after all. Not when it came to him.

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