#..i feel like calling that a sketch is a stretch its more of a thumbnail. waddles away

[cuteiemonster]

sweaters your stress

[pookalukaa]

Paint Me

A Spencer Reid Fanfic

your friendly AroAce brings you a fanfic that is so self indulgent

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GenderNeutral Artist!Reader

Warnings: sexual innuendos but no actions further than kissing, and Spence is shirtless

Word Count: 1.9k

Your short nails grazed his goose-bumped covered back.

You envisioned what you would do to it as if it were the canvas that you usually painted, which were now forgotten, leaned against the wall of your living room.

You now sat on the floor with your boyfriend between your legs, with his back facing you.

You can feel his muscles tensing as you drag your hand along his back, no doubt was he thinking about something inappropriate. 

But you were simply there to paint.

And Spencer had offered to be the canvas.

---------------------------------

“paint on me?” he asked with puppy-like eyes

You were startled by his question. Did I mishear him?

You looked up from your sketchbook, coming up with ideas and thumbnails for your next exhibition, your large canvases were prepped and ready for paint

“you mean paint you?” you asked with a tilt of your head 

You knew he probably said what he meant; the genius would not mess up his grammar that bad; but you needed to be sure.

In reality, you have always been interested in body painting, watching Skin Wars for hours, but never had a partner who brought it up; and you would never mention the interest

“I’ve painted you plenty, you’re my favorite model” you add with a wink

“If my favorite handsome model wants to pose like a French girl again, I have no problems with tha-” you continue, flirting before your rambling is cut off by your boyfriend cupping your face in his large, veiny hands, bringing his bottom lip to a pout

“you know that’s not what I meant silly” he answered with his pout becoming a playful smile, unconsciously licking his lips

You know he always did it without thinking but god, his habit of licking his lips when you got close was hot and you hated getting distracted by it

You tore your eyes away from his lips, wanting to tease him more

“Do I?” you ask with a faux confused face, tilting your head once more

“Maybe the doctor has to explain it and-” you stop, as Spencer licks his lips again, at the mention of you playfully calling him doctor

“-and the doctor should quit licking his lips before I act up” you say in a voice just above a whisper while looking at his lips 

You look up immediately, regretting the words that you just said, cheeks no doubt turning to a deep red

Spencer looked surprised at first but quickly regained composure enough to lean closer to you, slowly licking his lips, when he knew you were looking at him

“what should I stop doing sweetheart?” he asked, narrowing his bright hazel eyes, never breaking eye contact

“sorry I did not mean to say that. I really don’t mind it at all. I know you do it unconsciously. It can just be really distracting at times. And its really hot sometimes so I just- I mean- it’s just-” you pause, stumbling on yours words, speaking too fast for your brain to even catch up on, similar to how the man in front of you rambles

Spencer just continues to look at you with all the adoration of the world, tilts his head, as you did before

“Do I?” he teases, echoing what you said before

Obviously teasing was only for one partner in this relationship you thought giggling

Spencer’s eyes softened at the sound of your giggle, it’s one of his favorite sounds, right after the way you moan his name

Now he craves his favorite sound, so he leans into you just a little more and plants a soft kiss on your lips

You smile into the kiss and can feel him doing the same when your eyes pop open and pulling back suddenly, placing your hands flat on his chest

Now he was really surprised, wondering if he did something wrong, he brought his hand to your upper arm, looking at you with worried eyes

“I want to paint on you” you quickly blurted

Just as he relaxed, realizing you had remembered the beginning of this conversation, and started to open his mouth to say something when you cut him off suddenly

“This has been something I have wanted to do forever! I’ve never had the guts to ask someone to be a model for me, but I’d love if I could paint you! It’d be so much fun, I even have paint for skin, so it won’t cause any rashes or anything!” you quickly ramble, so excited your practically vibrating, moving to stand up to gather the paints, but you stop in your tracks right when you were about to leave the living room of your apartment.

“At least…if you’re sure you wanna?” You ask with a shy glance

“It might take a while; I don’t want you to be uncomfy” you add

Spencer looks up at you with an excited smile (licking his lips again) reaching for your hand as he remained seated

“I would love nothing more sweetheart” he answered

With a hop in your step, your smile widens as you gather the paint from the other room

You rush back into the living room as you see Spencer unbuttoning his shirt, with his sweater vest discarded on the couch, neatly folded

You immediately blush a little at the sight but quickly regain composure; he’s your canvas for the day, he has to be blank

You think this as you leave your paints on the ground and walk up to him, placing your hands on his and undoing the rest of the buttons

Your hands fall on his chest as you motion the shirt off of him

You plant a quick but warm kiss on his soft lips as a thank you, and he received the message perfectly

---------------------------------

That is how you ended up in this odd position with no sexual intent, even though your very good-looking boyfriend of a few years was sitting in front of you shirtless

You smacked your cheeks in frustration telling yourself to get into the zone

You look at naked models on the daily. 

To be fair, none of them were your handsome genius boyfriend, but there is a certain headspace you get in when you’re doing your art, where nothing else is important than getting the sketch or painting done

Finally getting into the headspace that you needed, you placed your hand flat on Spencer’s back, feeling him quickly tense and relax under your touch

“Can I tie up your hair a bit?” you ask softly

“of course, love” he quickly replies

So, you get one of your clips that was on the table in the living room and loosely put up some of the longer strands, so it did not get messy with paint

“I’m going to start laying some paint down” you say softly, warning him

“It’s probably going to be a little cold, sorry” you add with a soft laugh

You know he’s smiling without having to see his face, “Go for it love”

You nod and lay down a light lilac color. It was one of your favorites on him, and though he would not admit it was his favorite color, you could see the smile that came to his lips every time you wore it or had a painting with it being the primary color

You did not know where you were going with this painting, but like your other ones, you never really did

You would always try to plan them out, but they always turned out a different way than you imagined

Instead of being discouraged, you loved the change, saying that if it happened that way, it was meant to be

You laid down a sunflower yellow along with the lilac, and an idea struck you

You had always been obsessed with flower language, with purple lilacs representing the pure first emotions of love and yellow sunflowers representing pure happiness, you knew exactly where you were taking this masterpiece on your masterpiece of a boyfriend

---------------------------------

There were few words exchanged in the hours as you enjoyed each other’s warmth and the comfortable silence between you. Occasionally there would be a giggle from Spencer as your brush or hand grazed a ticklish spot, or you absentmindedly talking about how sexy his back was or how you loved certain colors on him.

You would then see his neck and ears turn a light pink, another color that looked absolutely stunning on his skin

Almost 2 hours pass by Spencer remaining still other than to get up and stretch his legs a bit carefully and to get some water

“Alright I’m almost done Spence” you sigh happily

He breathes in quickly, excited to see what you painted on him

He loved the close proximity you have been to him these past few hours; he had placed a hand on your left leg that was on one side of him and softly rubbed it, your thighs were one of his favorite spots of your body; he was always leaving kisses and the occasional bruise there.

You take a deep breath, looking over your work one more time

“I’m done!” you say almost a bit too loud for it being nearly midnight in your apartment with thin walls

Spencer turns around, excited and before he can say anything you cup his face in your hands and place an excited kiss on his lips, once again relaying your thanks

Spencer smiles into the kiss and once you break the kiss he smiles gently, “take a picture so I can see your masterpiece”

You immediately pull out your phone and take a picture of his face, now with a few smudges of paint from your hands and his brown curls messily around his face, with some part still in the hair clip and giggle at the sight of a messy Spencer

He looked at you with confusion, his smile still planted on his face

“You’re my masterpiece” you would normally cringe at that cheesy statement, but it fit so well, and you knew that picture would end up as your wallpaper soon after this anyway

He laughed, which was one of your favorite sounds, right after how he moaned your name

You put your hands on his shoulders and turned him around so you could take a proper picture of his back and instead of him turning around again to look at you, you stood up and sat down on his lap, his body conforming to cradle you and fit yours perfectly

“Look at it!” you motioned

It was a beautiful bouquet of flowers all over his back all pointing back to the pure feeling of love, adoration, passion and above all: happiness.

You knew Spencer had extensive knowledge of flowers with his eidetic memory and just by being around you and hearing your rambles about your new research

His grin deepens and you can see his eyes moving all over the picture, taking in every detail so he would remember it forever, even if he did not have his unbreakable memory

“It looks amazing love” he softly says, eyes not leaving the phone. He is now looking at the individual flowers, seeing all the different meanings and how you wanted to show your love and adoration

You swear you see him trying to hold back a tear, “I love you so much, I cannot believe I am dating someone as talented as you love” finally looking at you, cupping your face in his hands and giving you the passion that was in the flowers in a kiss

After staying in that comfortable position for a minute longer, you stand up, offering him a hand, “Alright it’s time for a shower babe, the paint is made for skin, but shouldn’t stay on too long; besides, I wanna go to bed”

“I’ll go to the shower as long as you’re with me” he instantly replies with a smirk

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, I gotta wash your back anyway” you reply

You both walk hand in hand to the shower, and you can look forward to the long shower and night after that.

Spencer Reid may be your masterpiece, but tonight he wanted to show you that you were his.

please let me know if you liked my first fic and if you would like a second (smut 👀) part or just more in general (i do love me some Hotch👀👀)

💕💕💕💕💕

also huge props to @spenciebabie for being a huge inspiration when it comes to this. take a look at their page (only 18+ please~) and their amazing writing, the community they've built on their page is adorable!!

[pollylynn]

Blackwing 602: Chapter 7—A Season 2 Caskett Multi-Chap, Now Complete

A/N: End of Saga. It’s only taken nearly two-and-a-half years, and the gift didn’t end up being quite what I thought it would be. I will, I think, eventually post this as a stand-alone multi-chap on AO3. For the moment, though, Chapter 1 is on AO3  and the other chapters are here on Tumblr  If you don’t want to read the first part, all you need to know is that in “A Chill Goes Through Her Veins” (1 x 05), Beckett pockets what turns out to be a very expensive pencil when she’s in Castle’s office. This part is set at the end of Sucker Punch (2 x 13)

Title: Blackwing 602, Chpater 7 WC: 1500

“Just so you know,” Vincent begins, “I am under strict orders from Lanie to give you grief for not giving in to her hard-sell tactics over the summer.” 

Kate silently opens and closes her mouth at the other end of the line. 

“. . . or–orders discharged?” she stammers when she finally finds her voice again. 

“Due diligence done.” Vincent, far more merciful than their mutual friend, laughs. “So tell me about the material. Lanie said it’s a 602?” 

“It is.” The response comes out with a little more starch in it than is reasonable, but she hears the skepticism shading the artist’s voice. She hears, and she can’t help being childishly offended. “Genuine, not a reproduction.” 

There’s a minute pause. Vincent is a stranger to her, but it doesn’t take an experienced Detective to pick up on the fact that her pushback has provoked the aural equivalent of an eye roll. “Could I get a few pictures of it? Phone camera snaps are fine.”

“Sure. Of course. Just a second.” 

The blush of embarrassment catches up to her. It’s a ridiculous thing to get defensive about, and she’s glad enough to have some busywork until she recovers herself. She retrieves the pencil from where it rests, safely back in its magician’s box now that it’s back at home with her, and sets up the shot. The pale wood of the desk is a good enough backdrop for the first shot, but she takes the barrel in hand for the second, wanting to bring the bevel with the lettering into sharp focus. 

“Coming through now,” she says, quickly hitting send before any self-consciousness about the curiously intimate image of the pencil resting lightly between her fingers can overtake her. 

“Yes, I see the thumbnails. The lettering does look vintage. Just let me—” There’s an abrupt silence on the end of the phone. She thinks for a second that the call has dropped. When Vincent speaks again, he sounds something more than surprised. “It’s used.” 

“Yeah.” A feeling of dread settles on her. “Yes. It’s—is that a . . . a problem?” 

It might be a problem. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, and in that moment, she’s suddenly aware just how attached she’s grown to this scheme of hers. She’s suddenly aware what a blow it would be to have to give it simply back to him, as is, minus half a dozen strokes in her own hand. 

“No,” Vincent says slowly. “It’s not a problem for me. And it does seem to be an original. Based on lettering and some of the details on the ferrule, I’d say it’s most likely on the early end of the Eberhard years.” There’s another pause that just might kill her. “I’m just curious how much a used one of these set you back. Purely professional curiosity. If you’re not comfortable—” 

“It’s not mine,” she blurts. “It’s—it belongs to a colleague.” She cringes at the word, but she’s not about to spend any amount of time trying to find a better one with Vincent, The Artist She Is Not At All Interested In on the line. “I wound up with it by . . . mistake, and I didn’t realize—and now it’s been so long, I feel like I can’t just . . .” 

She trails off, but Vincent, The More Merciful Than Lanie, steps into the breach. “You can’t send the casserole dish back empty.” 

“Exactly.” She laughs a little too hard, a little too loudly, but it’s genuine. “That’s exactly it.” 

****************************

The process takes forever, but it’s also done in no time at all. It starts with sketches Vincent sends her of the various options. She thinks, at first, that the most dramatic is the obvious choice—wings spread to their maximum extension, one capacious ear rotated far away from the other. But she’s drawn, suddenly and certainly, to something far simpler, the wings wrapped tightly around the body, the ears perked up, and the gaze straight on, bearing the suggestion of a secret joke. 

After the sketches, there’s the hand off. Vincent is easy going and cute. He’s funny, and skews decidedly nerdy at the prospect of working in such a prized medium. He vibes decided interest in her, but rolls with it when she projects Not At All Interested back at him. 

And she hands it off in its plain, stiff-sided box—this thing she has held on to and ostentatiously forgotten about without ever forgetting about it—and it’s hard. It takes forever. And it’s done in no time at all. 

It’s exquisite. Vincent shows it to her with pride and there’s no need to manufacture even a scintilla of her appreciation. It’s simply exquisite. 

She transfers the careful bed of gauzy packing material back to the magician’s box. She flips up the four sides and taps the lid in place. She ties an intricate bow, and the whole thing makes one last trip in her bag and back into her desk drawer. 

She’s calm about it now that it’s done—now that it’s perfect. She doesn’t try to map out the perfect moment to give it to him. She doesn’t even really wonder when that might be. She simply tucks it into the drawer and knows she’ll know when the moment arrives. 

She does know. 

Dick Coonan is dead. Dick Coonan has been dead and no one but her—no one but him—seems to remember where on the scuffed tiles the blood of her mother’s killer pooled. No one but her—no one but him—seems to think her hands look any different. 

She’s been on desk duty while the shooting clears. He has been . . . not quite absent. He calls. He texts her things. He comes by for flying visits, and when he’s there, he talks nonstop. He keeps his eyes averted from the exact spot on the scuffed tiles that Dick Coonan’s blood pooled. He keeps his eyes averted from her hands. 

And then the shooting clears and there he is, laden down with bags and cartons and containers full of every food imaginable. There he is, talking nonstop until she quietly tells her it wasn’t his fault—until he solemnly tells her that he is going. 

But he isn’t going. He can’t go, and she tells him just that. She tells him that this job is hard—that it was hard long before there phantom blood stains on the tiles, on her hands. She tells him that she’s used to him, that he has to stay. And he says he will. He’ll stay. 

She doesn’t give it to him right then. They share a meal first. They share several meals, mixed and matched. But she does give it to him later, not with a flourish, but with a simple, matter-of-fact push across the stretch of her desk that they’re sharing. 

He gives her a curious look, but he’s too much the kid to delay satisfaction with questions. He studies the watered-silk oblong for a moment, then tugs at the ribbon.Delight spreads over his face as the magician’s box sides fall away. He takes a long moment to appreciate the artistry, then reach eagerly for the gauzy packing material. 

She sees realization dawn even as as he pulling the gleaming ebony barrel free. His eyes go wide, and the tip of his thumb finds what is obviously the still-familiar bevel on the eraser. His fingers roam, eager to familiarize themselves all over again, but their movements hardly last half a second. 

They stop absolutely when he spies the sculpture, the minute, painstakingly detailed figure of a bat, with its wings wrapped tight around its own body, peering straight out of an intelligent, mischievous face as though it would like to share a secret joke. 

“This is amazing,” he says in the end—he says simply as he folds his palm gently around it and brings it close to his heart. “Kate. It’s amazing.” 

He doesn’t ask . . .  anything. He just holds it close to his heart, and she sees the threads of more stories than she can count spinning out between them. 

She sees herself punk-ing him, faking him out with harrowing tales pencil adventures that never, ever happened. She sees him falling for it, wanting to fall for every word. She sees him leaning forward, eager, with his knuckles pressed against his lips as she doles out the whole story—eventually doles it out—in minuscule increments.  

“Is there—?” He trails off, enraptured with the gift. It’s an effort of will to bring his attention back to her, but she’s fine with that. She’s absolutely fine with the way his fingers open so he can take quick peeks at the little bat, then close greedily around it again. “Did I miss an occasion?” 

“No,” she says, smiling to herself—smiling at him like she has a secret joke she’s willing to share. No, he hasn’t missed an occasion. He won’t miss any. 

He’s staying.  A/N: Thanks for reading. I’m sorry—especially at this moment in time—that I wrote something like 8000 words about a pencil.