#..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!!

[nitewrighter]

Hiya Mun! |o/ its me birthday today! And I was hoping for some short Reidan drabble about anything if thats alright and possible? (Sorry for the ask 😅)

Ahhhh happy birthday!!! I was working on some Tommy Andromeda Reidan for that batch of prompts so yay!!!

---

50. “You’re the only one”

Band Mission! Band Mission! Band Mission!

-----

Backstage was always too warm, the curtain trapping in heat and roadies and venue staffers looking on suspiciously. There wasn’t really a dressing room so much as an offstage area with one might-be-pre-Crisis makeup mirror whose lightbulbs radiated heat as everyone crowded around it.

“Glitter me,” said Rajeev, flicking his finger up and down the fringe on his leather jacket. His head was tilted to accommodate his eyepatch.

“No!” Samir’s voice was muffled underneath his hard-light helmet as angry emoji eyes blipped up on his visor, “You’re going to be shedding that shit in our room for weeks!”

“Marti, tell him to glitter me,” said Rajeev.

“I told you guys, this is all Aedan’s vision, which means Aedan is in charge of our glitter budget,” said Marti. She was dressed in lavender-toned iridescent plastic overalls over a black bodysuit, her hair up in twin buns with a thin braid snaking over her shoulder. She had on silvery-purple lipstic and a temporary tattoo of three thick black rectangular lines over her right eye. She glanced over at Aedan, pacing back and forth in front of the mic, “Aedan? Does Rajeev need more glitter?”

Aedan was muttering to himself, chewing his thumbnail as he paced in front of the curtain. He wondered how quickly he was sweating off his makeup.

“Aedan,” Marti said again.

“What?” Aedan glanced up.

“You’re the expert, Tommy Andromeda,” said Marti with an eye roll.

“Right--okay--what was the question?” said Aedan.

Marti sighed. “Glitter,” she said flatly, “Should Rajeev get more glitter?”

“Oh--no, but you could use some more,” said Aedan, smoothing his hair. He had bleached it at the tips, creating a fiery ombre with his natural red hair. It nearly matched the gold sash at his hips and the copper spirals on his glittery blue one-sleeved unitard. It had cutouts on his opposite hip and with one slash at the thigh, showing off temporary tattoos of eyes and stars.

Marti shot the twins a dirty look before heading over to the makeup table and brushing glitter on her cheekbones.

“Mic check,” Aedan jerked to awareness at the sound of Rei’s voice coming over the speakers, “One, two three.” There was a tap on the microphone before Rei slipped back through the curtain to the stage. She was dressed in ripped jeans, a trucker hat, and flannel over a Velvet Underground shirt borrowed from Aedan. With her messy ponytail and aviator sunglasses, she looked every bit the part of a roadie and she flashed Aedan a smile, “5 minutes to showtime, Rocketeers,” she said, looking at her clipboard. She gave a thumbs-up to Marti and firmly readjusted the brim of her hat as a signal to Marti that she had established visual contact with Jaime. Marti gave her a single nod and Rei grinned and moved to walk off. She hesitated next to Aedan, those deep gray eyes flicking up and down at his outfit.

“...this probably all seems very silly, doesn’t it?” said Aedan glancing down at his outfit.

“I like it,” said Rei, “It’s very... you.”

Aedan snorted. “Well, if we ever get a chance to head onstage again, we could use a bassist, and the role of Celestial Priestess Oneira is still--”

“Hey. Personal Space Invader,” Marti called, catching them in the makeup mirror, “The Roadie still has a job to do.”

Rei gave him a smile and flicked a lock out of his sleeked-back hair so it hung in his forehead like a superhero spit curl, “Break a leg out there, Andromeda,” she said with a grin before slipping off.

“’Celestial Priestess Oneira?’”Marti repeated incredulously.

“If you read ‘The Andromeda Saga Cliffnotes’ document I sent you, you’d know that Oneira is a vital foil to Tommy Andromeda and his---”

“Oh my god only you would have an eight page document on lore for a band that isn’t real,” said Marti.

“No one appreciates concept albums anymore,” muttered Aedan, his shoulders slumping.

“We’re literally only doing covers,” said Samir.

“Again, I would like to stress that we just have to be competent enough to buy Rei a few minutes,” said Marti.

“That’s right, Rocketeers!” said Rajeev, strumming a note on his guitar, “Get your heads in the game! Or my name isn’t Dorado Crux!”

“Your name isn’t Dorado Crux,” said Samir flatly, “And also you’re wearing your eyepatch over your real eye.”

“...Prosthetic looks cooler,” said Rajeev with a shrug.

“Guys! Focus!” said Marti, hurrying over to her soundboard as Samir looped his keytar awkwardly over his oversized helmet. Aedan took his place at the blue masking tape-marked x at the part in the curtain.

“Okay. Tommy Andromeda. Here to save the multiverse with the power of rock and roll,” he muttered under his breath, hopping in place and rolling his shoulders.

“Or... here to create enough of a distraction so Rei and Jaime get the mission done?” said Marti.

“...sure,” said Aedan, “That too.”

The rest of the team, well, band, took their positions. Marti at her soundboard, Samir with his keytar, Rajeev on guitar, and Aedan on vocals. Rei on extraction. Jaime on lookout. Aedan took a few calming breaths.

“Hello Santa Fe, how’s everyone doing this evening?” he listened to the MC through the curtain. A lackluster swell of claps rose up from the audience.

Stay calm, Aedan, It’s just a jam session, just think of it as a jam session, he thought to himself.

“For your opening act we have some funky unknowns who claim they’re from outer space--We’ll have them send our regards to the apes at the lunar colony. Santa Fe, I give you, the Tommy Rocketers!”

The jumpsuit already felt like it was riding up by the time the curtain parted. The lights were too bright for Aedan to see the audience. He squinted, hoped his eyeshadow wasn’t melting under the lights

“Actually we’re Tommy and the Rocketeers--I’m Tommy--They’re... they’re the Rocketeers,” Aedan’s own voice seemed swallowed by mic feedback for a second as he readjusted the mic to his height.

“Like Bennie and the Jets?!” someone yelled from the crowd.

Aedan drew in a calming breath through his nostrils. If that was Jaime I’m going to kill him, he thought.

“We don’t get them back in the Andromeda system, are they good?” he asked, tilting his head with ingenue-wide eyes as he got into character. A snicker rippled through the crowd and Aedan smiled as Marti laid down a beat on her soundboard and brought in a warbling theremin note as Samir started accompanying her beat with organ from his keytar and Rajeev soon strumming alongside his brother. Aedan rolled his neck and stretched out his arms with that dancer posture before taking hold of the microphone, drawing in breath, and singing. He had agonized over the setlist, of course, and then there was the matter of what songs they could get down with only a little over two and a half weeks of practice. They warmed up the crowd with “Final Day,” definitely more New Wave than glam, but it fit their minimalist instrumentation and their spacey aesthetic with its semi-innocent, semi-prophetic lyrics seemed to placate the crowd into accepting them as semi-competent, with the “Woah-oh-oh” allowing them to transition into the more high energy “Senses Working Overtime,” a song just weird and well-known enough to let Tommy Andromeda feel more settled in.

 And, with a few hip shakes, suddenly he was coming to Aedan--every extra few seconds Aedan had taken to emote at himself in that character in the bathroom, every performance he had alone in his lab, every vivid fantasy he had had listening to music on long orca rides and quiet nights back at Talon was suddenly surging out of his heart and throat. He was in every swing of Aedan’s hips. Every stomp of his platform red and gold boots. He was the exiled magical space messiah who was a reincarnation of the prince of a fallen space kingdom who had to fight against the ancient order of his alien father’s--Okay, Marti was probably right about the unnecessarily convoluted backstory, but what mattered was that he was Tommy Andromeda.

---

Rei had her finger to her ear as she ascended the stairs to the VIP lounge. “Security cams are still down, right?” she said.

“Yup,” Jaime spoke over her earpiece, “You’ve got three loud songs in the set.”

“I only need one,” said Rei, reaching the door 

 Admittedly when Marti said they would be going undercover as the band and it turned out Aedan was the best singer out of all of them, no one expected him to suddenly heft up a cardboard box of costumes and notebooks of sketches, but ‘outlandish’ fit the role for this mission. It was an odd little side project Aedan had talked to Rei about it before, but it seemed so intimate to him she couldn’t imagine him putting it on the line for a mission. As Rei reached the door to the lounge, she could hear the band’s music muffled up through the stairs. She pushed the door open as “Because the Night” came on, Samir’s keytar was muffled in the walls as Rei scanned across the room. There was an interior window looking down at the stage and Rei tried not to get too distracted by Aedan’s brightly-colored figure swaying and dancing below before she glanced at the people in the room. There were a handful of Deadlock members laying about the room in various states of drunkenness and boredom. One of them glanced up at her, a burly biker with his boots propped up on a scuffed up coffee table. 

“Oh! Hey!” Rei rubbed the back of her head sheepishly, “Don’t mind me, I’m just looking for another extension chord.”

“...yeah we don’t have any of those,” said an Omnic picking dirt from his joints with a knife and barely glancing at her.

“Ah okay,” said Rei, “You know, while I’m up here, you wouldn’t happen to have a Null Sector Data Lamprey that you’re currently extorting interpol with, then?”

 Both Deadlock members glanced up sharply at her and Rei smiled. “I can go look downstairs---” she said, turning around before she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. 

“Oh, mosh pit?” said Rei.

“What--?” said the deadlock member gripping her shoulder before she took hold of the biker’s forearm and flipped him over her, slamming him into the floor before pivoting and catching another Deadlock member in the stomach with a kick.

----

The Venue was your typical grubby-but-big bar show that had a handful of would-be music journalists trying to look casual in the audience. Jaime sipped at his ginger ale with resignation at the bar as the set started. All things considered, Aedan and the team weren’t that bad. Marti was probably carrying them, instrument-wise, but Aedan had decent pipes and seemed to be so caught up in.. whatever the hell kind of interpretive dance shit he was doing while singing that it kept the audience’s attention. Jaime kept watch on the whole venue from a corner opposite the VIP lounge overhead, and he glanced up to see the venetian blinds of the VIP lounge drawn, and rustling. He kept an eye on the window, watching the blinds sway before they stilled. He sipped his ginger ale again and suddenly the blinds were being drawn back to the side. Rei gave him a thumbs up from behind the glass and he gave a thumbs-up to her before she moved out of the window. He turned his attention back to the stage. Even if Marti, Aedan, and Rajeev were all coated in enough makeup to screw up facial recognition software, Samir was probably the smartest out of all of them by covering his face up altogether with that cute emoji-eyed helmet. Part Daft Punk, part ‘Danger Will Robinson!’ Jaime smiled a little. Samir was all business even as his twin was feverishly hopping around the stage, restrained only by his guitar’s chord.

“What did I miss?” said Rei, breathlessly stepping up next to him. She had ditched her flannel and trucker hat and shaken out her hair so that the Ziegler volume could pass for 70′s shagginess. She was still wearing Aedan’s ratty Velvet Underground shirt. 

“Rei--mission,” said Jaime.

“Oh, right,” said Rei, handing him the data lamprey from under her shirt, which he unceremoniously stuffed into the interior pocket of his jacket. Jaime drew a lighter from another pocket and lifted it over his head, making eye contact with Marti on the stage. She gave him a single nod. “So what did I miss?” Rei said again, now rolling up and tying off Aedan’s shirt into a sleeveless crop top.

“...Pelvic thrusts?” said Jaime, glancing back at the stage as Aedan was practically using his mic stand to pole dance to “Black Tongue.”

“Dammit,” Rei muttered under her breath.

Jaime snorted. “Don’t worry, he’s still in full bird-of-paradise mode.”

“Yeah,” said Rei, leaning her elbow on the bar and leaning her hand on her cheek, “Isn’t he amazing?”

Aedan was contorting himself on stage as he sung, letting his body shift and stretch with the sound.

“He’s... certainly... leggy?” said Jaime. He nudged Rei’s shoulder. “You should get closer to the stage.”

“I shouldn’t,” said Rei, “ I don’t want to distract him.”

“Oh come on, when are we going to get another band mission?” said Jaime.

“Well, you’ve been keeping lookout, it’ll look more natural if you go see Samir,” said Rei.

Jaime made eye contact with Samir and the emoji display on Samir’s helmet flashed up hyphen-closed eyes with a sweat drop.

“...I think he’s embarrassed enough without me rubbing his nose in it,” said Jaime with a snicker. He motioned with his head. “Come on. You’re Tommy Andromeda’s number one fan, right?”

Rei blushed and elbowed him. “I’ll be right back,” she said, hurrying into the concert crowd.

“Don’t throw your bra at him!” Jaime called after her.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Rei yelled back, jumping so he could see her over the crowd.

---

Aedan wasn’t really sure how he had managed to get himself into a glute bridge pose while covering “Love is the Drug” but he stretched an arm up to the overhead lights as he vocalized. He was still lying on his back on the stage when they transitioned into the next song. The finale, “Baby It’s You,” by Promises. Aedan assumed all the foppish melancholy of Tommy Andromeda as he sang, letting his arm limply fall against the stage, his hand hanging over its edge. 

“You're here with me now but you're saying You don't want me any more You're holding me now but you're saying You can't see me no no more You whisper good-bye then cling tighter to me I can't take no moooooore---” Lower to the floor of the stage, he could make out more faces in the crowd, including one figure with dark hair in a Velvet Underground shirt. His eyes flicked open with sharp awareness as he brought himself upright on the floor. “Woo--oo---oooahhhh!” He clutched his spare fist to his chest before flinging his arm out to Rei in an imploring motion as he sprang to his feet and Rajeev slammed down on the C chord on his guitar, “Baaaaby it’s yooooou!”

Rei apparently didn’t anticipate him being able to pick her out of the crowd so quickly and her hand went over her mouth and she went beet red and a nervious laugh fell out of her as he started strutting around the stage, occasionally throwing her a wink or a hip gyration. A side-eye emoji flashed up on Samir’s helmet display as he looked at her and then looked to Marti, but Marti just smiled and kept working at her soundboard. They finished the mission after all, they might as well finish the set. She got a few glances from the crowd, but none of them seemed to recognize her as the roadie with her hair down and jacket off.

Aedan threw his head back as he dropped to his knees again with the chorus, glitter-saturated sweat gathering in the dip of his collarbone as he raised one arm up to an unseen night sky before gesturing back out at the audience--well, Rei, to be honest--as he hit that final high note.

“Baaaby it’s yoooooou!”

[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.