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bookishofalder · 4 years

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Rainy Days

Spencer x Reader

Request: @starwithoutdarkness - Hey! I heard you were looking for requests! Maybe Spencer Reid x reader fake dating fluff? Combined with Request: @paulaern - Hello! What about Spencer Reid x reader when they realizes they love each other? Like reader makes something for Spencer and he thinks like "I can't deny anymore, I'm completely and hopeless in love with her" or something like that (G!neutral if you want)

A/N: Thank you so much for sending in requests! Hope this makes you smile!

Warnings: Swearing, moderate BAU violence, creepy men, fluffiest fluff, intense headache description. Set randomly post prison Reid but Hotch is still there because he should have been! WC-2,488

Spencer was staring at the geo-profile he had been working on all day, very glad to be inside. The weather in Seattle had stayed consistently rainy for the two days the BAU team had been in town assisting in catching a killer, who had been committing serial robberies/murders with no apparent rhyme or reason. And while Spencer didn’t mind the rain, he did mind loud, busy cities. Combined, they usually led to a headache that would take a day or two to recover.

The door to the conference room he was working alone in burst open and slammed shut so suddenly he nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to see-

You.

Spencer hated it when you appeared without warning, catching him entirely off guard and presenting the risk that you would notice the visible effort it took for him to compose himself around you.

While he’d noticed how beautiful and hilarious and empathetic you were the moment you joined the team, he’d fallen in love with you when you had your first case with them. Spencer had begun to ramble about the specifics of casinos, and how ‘beating the house’ was nearly impossible, when the rest of the team had tuned out. A temporary member, Agent Seaver, had sneered ‘I’m sorry I asked.” Effectively shutting him up. But then you had turned in your seat next to him and, after shooting Seaver a look had asked him to continue. And though he didn’t have that much more to say, and it wasn’t all that interesting, you listened to every single word and thanked him.

It had been years since that had happened, your friendship had blossomed into best friends, something Spencer cherished immensely. This was partly why he shoved his feelings down. The relationship did not need to change for Spencer to remain happy; as long as he got to spend time with you at work, or watch movies and make tent forts in his living room. And visit his mom (who adored you and always gave you book recommendations that you would be sure to read the moment you could), or go to comic conventions and museums...yes, as long as he could always do those things with you, he was happy.

No need to risk changing a perfect thing.

Now though, you were shutting the door and giving him your most panicked look, wide-eyed, with your hair damp from the rain you no doubt had run through to get inside, accounting for your breathlessness. If it weren’t for the worry that had sprung up inside of him upon seeing your expression, he would have fixated on how beautiful you looked at that moment.

“Spencer, you’re my boyfriend.” You whisper yelled at him, quickly stepping closer and setting your bag down on the conference table.

“Wha-“ He began, but you cut him off frantically.

“I’ll explain-just, oh fuck-“

Spencer stood frozen to the spot as the door reopened and one of the senior detectives sauntered in, a friendly smile somewhat overshadowed by the almost predatorial glint in his eyes. You awkwardly stepped closer to Spencer, raising a hand in hello.

“Agent (Y/L/N), great to see you’re back, I was hoping to catch you before the end of the day!” He said merrily, placing two hands on the back of the nearest chair. Something about the way his hands gripped the chair made Spencer feel...on edge.

You gave the fakest little giggle Spencer had ever heard from you, “Oh, nice to see you too Detective! Just had to catch up with Agent Reid here...”

When his eyes moved from you to assess Spencer briefly, he felt a protective force rear up, instincts entirely at alert. Without hesitating, he casually draped an arm over your shoulder, brushing some hair back as he did, and replied, “And you promised we could get some coffee from the Starbucks down the road, hon.”

He enjoyed the way your cheeks flushed and noticed the pulse in your neck pick up. You glanced up at him, trying to look coy but he knew you too well and could see you were partly surprised, and also trying not to laugh.

“Um, of course, I nearly forgot, babe, let’s go in about 5-unless, did you need something specific, Detective?” She broke off to glance back at the now scowling man, who gave an annoyed jerk of his head before stomping back out of the room.

Once the door banged closed behind him, you let out the biggest sigh of relief, raising a hand to your face in dismay.

Spencer hadn’t removed his arm yet, “I’m assuming I just helped you avoid being asked out, but why-?”

“Uhg, Spencer, I’ve already turned him down TWICE since we’ve arrived! He’s literally the kind of dude who doesn’t take no for an answer unless another man has some fucking misogynistic claim over the woman!” You exclaimed, before moving to stand right in front of Spencer and lean just your head to his chest, staring down at the floor, “I hate everything.”

Spencer laughed, patting your back softly, but internally making note that he wouldn’t be letting you go anywhere alone for the rest of this case-that detective gave him the creeps. And while you were beyond capable of protecting yourself, he just knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything if he thought you could be hurt.

“Well, just so we’re clear I would never want to be called ‘babe’ in a relationship.” He joked and the desired effect was his immediate reward when you lifted your head and giggled-your genuine, beautiful little giggle-and then grinned.

“Spencer, you called me ‘hon’ like we were 70.”

Spencer considered a moment, “We could be, you’ll be Gladys and I’ll be-“

“Winston!” You supplied eagerly, and he frowned at you, trying not to laugh.

“Winston?”

“It’s really very dignified, the kind of name where people call you ‘sir’.” You replied cheekily, and while Spencer grinned, a part of him felt a swoop of pleasure when your lips formed the word ‘sir’.

He decided very quickly that he liked the idea of you calling him that. And then, just as swiftly dismissed that train of thought and chastised himself.

As you both stood together and laughed, the door swung open and Hotch and the team followed him in, all in various stages of the results of exposure to the rain, looking equally grim. Spencer and you abruptly stopped when you saw their expressions and launched back into work mode seamlessly.

———

Two days later, the team was closing in on the unsub and everyone was on high alert. Taking the profile and applying it to the geo-profile he had been working on, Spencer had narrowed down this grubby old apartment that sat above a nightclub as the most likely spot the unsub was staying at. Of course, they were arriving at night which meant the club was busy and loud, people lined up out the doors waiting for their chance to enter, pay too much for a drink and grind their bodies against strangers.

Spencer’s headache from the unforgiving rain was thrumming now with the music that seemed entirely unencumbered by the walls of the stairwell, the team slowly climbing. It was bad enough that his eyes narrowed somewhat, but he didn’t lose focus.

You were behind him, watching his six as Hotch and Morgan approached the door ahead and prepared to breach. Spencer slipped a hand behind his back and, on cue, you’re pinky wrapped with his. A brief promise to each other, ‘I’ve got you.’.

They had anticipated violence and heavy arms, so when their announcement was met with silence and the door was kicked open, the tactical response was to secure positions and carefully proceed. Agents and SWAT members lined the building and were, at that moment, securing the club below to ensure the unsub couldn’t flee into a room full of potential hostages.

Spencer and you were the third pair to enter, quickly moving ahead of the others to secure more rooms, eyes peeled for movement. The floor was covered in litter and random spots of dirt and dried substances. It smelled like body odour and axe body spray-which immediately went to Spencer’s headache and caused it to throb in protest.

“Freeze!”

You had shouted right as Spencer noticed the movement from a back room down the hall, as the unsub leaned out and, not abiding by the command, opened fire. Spencer grabbed you and swung you both behind the wall of the kitchen, out of the line of fire while he shouted the unsubs location.

You recovered quickly, dropping to the ground and leaning out to return fire as Hotch and Morgan ran across to the living room to join the battle. It only took a few moments after that before Morgan managed to get a shot to the suspect's shoulder and he fell with a cry of anguish.

You popped up from the ground, watching as Prentiss and Rossi moved forward to secure the man, and barked into your radio for medics to come in.

Spencer, meanwhile, was reeling. When the shots in the room had all joined together in a cacophony, sound and noise piercing his skull, it had converted to pain and panic in his skull, overwhelming him. He had used his own body to shield yours when he pulled you with him into the wall, and the caution he took with you meant he hadn’t caught himself carefully enough, his head bouncing lightly off of the stone wall.

Which, on a normal day would have simply been annoying. But today, with a headache so severe he was beginning to get spots in his vision, it was detrimental. The scene was secure, so he allowed his eyes to shut, a meagre reprieve but at least it was something, at least he didn’t have to see the beams from the flashlights or the pulsing of the neon signs outside of the windows...

“Winston, take my hand.” Your voice was so, so soft. Spencer let his mouth open slightly, a small rush of air all he managed, trying to say ‘I can’t-it hurts, make it stop’ but you grasped his hand tightly and pulled and he followed, his other hand reaching and grabbing that back of your vest, he let you lead him.

He knew from the reduced foot traffic of agents and crime scene workers that you were taking the rear exit, a stairwell that was narrower than the main. He peeked through his lashes to take the stairs, and then suddenly, the cool night air hit him and the door was closing behind you both.

You kept walking with purpose, leading Spencer further away from the loud building. The rain spattered his face but with each step the noise reduced and after a short walk it became relatively quiet.

“Sit.” You murmured, halting. Spencer opened his eyes and saw that you had led him to the farthest spot in the parking lot from the building, where trees lined the lot along a community park that was probably utilized by vagrants and drug dealers more than families. But there was a bench, and you were waiting for him to take a seat. You had pulled out a compact, expandable emergency rain shield from one of the pockets on your FBI utility belt and tossed it on the bench, protecting you both from soaking your underwear.

Spencer sat, setting his elbows on his legs and leaning forward with his hands pressed to his face. He took deep, steadying breaths as you joined him, your hand on the back of his neck. At first, he thought you were just resting it there because his FBI vest would have prevented him from feeling your hand on his back, however, a moment later it was joined by your other hand and a very cold object.

Resisting the urge to pull away, he gasped at the contact, “What-?”

“On-the-go cold compress, Doctor.” You explained, leaving it in place and then rummaging again. Spencer wanted to look but the compress, combined with the quiet, was already doing wonders. He continued to take deep breaths.

“When you’re ready, try this.” You said softly, pressing something to his hand. Opening his eyes, he saw a mini flask that had his name written on the side.

He turned his head slowly so as not to move the compress and met your eyes, which were assessing him with concern. “(Y/N), when did we start drinking on the job?”

You giggled quietly, “It’s just water mixed with this like, vitamin powder that’s supposed to be good for rehydrating you quickly. I did some research on how to help headaches like yours on the go, just in case, and I made this ‘Spencer’ care bag.” You rambled a little when he didn’t reply.

Spencer looked back at the flask and opened it, quickly downing the contents. It tasted pretty fruity and he realized he was thirsty, this taking the edge off.

“Is it okay?” You asked. Spencer raised his head and met your eyes, searching them.

He was overwhelmed, the headache already fading, in its place an intensely warm feeling building inside of him as he considered the time and effort you had taken to care for him. He hadn’t asked you, or hinted, you had just taken it on to find a way to help him and you were right there when he needed you the most.

You had always been there when he needed you. When he had been shot protecting Blake, when he struggled to care for his mother, when he had gone to prison, when he was freed, you were there.

The words tumbled out, unable to be contained a second longer.

“I am hopelessly in love with you.”

Your mouth opened and closed in surprise, taken entirely off guard. Though he worried what you would say, he couldn’t deny the relief he felt having finally said it out loud. He watched patiently as your mind processed his confession, holding his breath.

“I-Spencer,” And then suddenly your lips were pressing into his and the pain from his headache ceased entirely. Spencer was consumed by the feel of you against him, of your hands holding his face and the hum of content you gave when he returned your passion, dropping his flask and sliding his hands up your neck, gripping tenderly.

After what could have been hours, weeks, or years, you both broke apart, pulling back just enough to make eye contact without your eyes crossing. Neither of you let go, your breath puffing out in wisps in the cold night air.

“I love you too,” You breathed, “I could grow old with you, Winston.”

Spencer laughed, relief and happiness swooping through him at your words, “Gladys, I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.”

Did you enjoy this story? Please consider reblogging or commenting to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Likes are basically just a bookmark!

You grinned back at Spencer, and then he kissed you again.

#spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #spencer reid #bau x reader #fluff #fake dating #requested #fanfic #reader insert #friends to lovers #best friend #love #mgg x reader #mgg fanfiction

765 notes · View notes

wwilloww · 4 years

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sugar | ksj

A/N: This story was commissioned by @jamaisjoons through @ficswithluv‘s Changes With Luv project. Thank you so much for your donation. I had so much fun writing this Jin and exploring these characters so—I hope you enjoy it! A million thousand hundred THANK YOUS to @unlikelylittlemiss and @ot7always for beta’ing this!

After many hours of technical difficulties, I’ve formatted what I hope will be the final version of this story. So far I think it’s the favorite one that I’ve written, so if you like this piece, please let me know! It means the world to me when I hear from you all.

|| masterlist || moodboard || ao3 ||

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

Seokjin traces the rim of the crystal glass, absentmindedly watching the crowd around him swell and sway like a tide. His eyes sweep over the sea of faces, but he doesn't find what he's looking for.

He swirls the golden liquid around the glass and takes a slow sip, wetting his lips with his tongue as he relishes in the comfortable burn of peaty scotch sliding down his throat.

Finally, his gaze captures what he's been searching for.

You. Dressed in a slim asymmetrical white number, sheer fabric draping delicately over one arm. You're unmistakable.

Above you, thousands of shards of crystal hang as if suspended in midair, the art piece paling in comparison to the presence you command. The venue is dimly lit, but the blend of candlelight and starshine is enough to illuminate your face and paint your features in a dance of shimmering light.

He watches the million-dollar sculpture light your slight smile and curious eyes with a silver radiance. The pinkish light of a neon sign had bounced off of your features in an almost identical fashion the night you met.

ONE YEAR AGO

It was chance. Two strangers, anonymous in your settings, both searching for an escape. After finishing your first ever commission, you were desperate to get out of your cramped, barely-affordable studio, while Jin wanted to slip away from the pressures and strict culture of his high-end gallery. Neither knew who the other was, but you gravitated to each other nonetheless.

He sees you first as you shoulder through the front door of the dive bar, your rain-drenched jacket slung over your back, your eyes bright and intelligent. But you were the one to approach the tall, broad shouldered man first, riding off the high of a completed project. You buy him a drink—and then a second. You don’t talk about work tonight. Don’t talk about your lives. You’re both so absorbed in the other that you’re oblivious to the scent of tobacco smoke drifting over you, or the sounds of a rowdy pool game behind you. After four hours cozied up at that bar as the rain pours down outside, you invite him back to your tiny, paint and plant addled apartment.

Once you arrive back home, your roommate nowhere to be seen, you quickly offer him a drink. You hurried to the kitchen to dig through the fridge to find something— really, anything—to serve the handsome man standing in your living room and curse yourself for not getting groceries this week.

“Who is this?” Jin asks.

“Huh?”

“The painting. Who is it?”

You turn to find him staring starry-eyed at your most recent project, hanging above your couch.

“Oh, that. Moi.”

“Who?”

“Me, dummy.”

“You? You paint?” He’s looking at you, eyes wide and curious.

“Yeah, if you can call it that.”

“You can definitely call it that,” he says sternly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He reaches out as if to touch it, but freezes, fingers held an inch away from the canvas.

“You can touch it, if you want,” you offer.

He shoots you a flabbergasted look, as if to say really?, and you nod at him as you pull out plastic cups from your sparse cupboard. You pour two glasses of wine and hold one out to him as he comes back to you.

“I was always told not to touch the works of art,” he says, taking the glasses out of your hand and setting them down on the counter. “But this just makes the experience all the more memorable.”

You hiccup at his attempt at dirty talk, not used to men who know what they want, who are willing to spread their desire so plainly before you.

He kicks apart your legs, pressing a thigh against your heated core. He lowers his lips just enough that they almost brush up against yours.

“May I?” he breathes against you. You nod and suddenly he’s captured you in a kiss, the plush of his lips moving heatedly against you. You wrap your arms around his neck and he sighs at your touch. When you break apart, his eyes dark with lust and your breath quickening in your chest, you don’t hesitate to take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.

Before you can step inside, he swings you around and picks you up. Your legs wrap around his waist and you can feel his length pressed hard against you. He backs you against the doorframe, your spine hitting the wood—but you don’t even notice it. All you can feel is the way his cock is jutting against your clit.

“Look at you, grinding yourself against me.”

You groan as he thrusts his clothed cock against you.

“Bed. Now,” you demand.

He walks towards the bed, still holding you, still kissing you, until his knees hit the mattress. And then his grip is loosening and you’re thrown onto the soft surface of the bed, a gasp rushing through your lungs. You watch as he pulls his shirt off, revealing a toned chest. You didn’t think the man in front of you could get any hotter, but as he crawls up the bed to hover over you, you’re proven wrong.

“Please, god, fuck me,” you groan as he kisses you.

It’s all he needs to hear.

The next morning you wake to an unfamiliar arm wrapped around your waist and morning breath tickling your ear. You smile as the details of last night come flooding back.

“Morning,” you grumble, feeling the man shift behind you.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he replies, a heavenly rasp edging his voice.

His hand comes to trace your waist and you let out a quiet moan, your senses softened by sleep. A smile flickers across your lips as his hand dips lower, casting warmth over your hips, your pelvic bone, and finally, your lower lips as his hands explore your body.

“You’re so wet I could just slip right into you, no problem,” he says as he runs his finger along your slick folds. You twist yourself around so you’re on your back now with Jin pressed against your side. Without breaking eye contact, you reach down with one hand to wrap around his length. With your other hand, you grab his hips, pulling him towards you—he takes the cue and straddles you, his hands coming down on either side of your head. You pull him closer so that the head of his cock is pressed against your entrance. “Now?” he asks.

“Now,” you reply.

Despite your wetness and the stretch from last night, he’s still a tight fit as he slides into you. A delightful ache threads through your belly and you arch your back to better accommodate him.

“God, how are you this perfect?” he groans once he’s buried entirely within your walls. He settles his weight against you, giving you a moment to adjust to his girth. “What would it take to get you like this again?”

“Get me into the Whitney,” you joke.

“Done.”

You laugh and roll your eyes. “You’re hysterical.”

“I’m not joking.”

You search his expression for any sign of a joke, but you find none. “Wh-what?” you fumble.

“I’m serious.”

His gaze is calm and collected as if he had just agreed to buy you breakfast—not kickstart your art career.

“Do you not know who I am?”

“Why the fuck would I know who you are?”

His eyes widen for a moment before he breaks out in laughter.

“Oh, well then, don’t worry about it.”

As his chest shakes as he chuckles against you, you’re reminded of your current position. You look down to where your bodies are joined, his cock hard and not even fully sheathed within you.

“You’re not, like, some kind of serial killer right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Okay, well then I literally couldn’t care less who you are.” He smirks at you and you pout. “Can you please just fuck me now?”

He chuckles. “It seems you have to keep asking me for that.” He thrusts into you with enough force that your body slides several inches up the mattress and the two of you groan as you adjust to his girth. He relishes in the tight throbbing of your cunt. and he relishes in the tight throbbing of your cunt.

He fucks you slow and hard, each thrust slamming into your body, making your toes curl and your back arch. You both come quickly, relishing in the feeling of one another and the pleasure rippling across each other’s face.

“I’ll be honest,” you say, as you pull your shirt over your head. “I kinda liked it when you pushed me around last night. We should do that again.”

“After breakfast though?”

“After breakfast.”

A month later, you had been scrolling through your email when you saw a message from an unknown sender.

Subject : Acceptance to Whitney Museum of American Art.

————————————————————-

Thank you so much for your submission to our open call for pieces exploring “identity and landscape.” We are thrilled to inform you that your art has been accepted by our committee and will be displayed in our upcoming exhibit. Your piece explores these themes in a manner that took the committee’s breath away…

Your phone slips out of your grasp and drops to the floor, cracking the screen in the process.

You’d been submitting your art to them for years, and yet why was it that only after that strange comment Jin had made that you got in? Could it be more than just a coincidence?

The rest of the day is filled with half blossoming excitement and half mortification. Had Jin done this for you? You had been frequenting the museum since before you could hold a paintbrush, and trying to get into their gallery since you began painting professionally—but then all of a sudden as soon as you meet this mysterious stranger, your dream was placed right into your hands.

Three days later, you’re standing in front of the biggest art event you’ve ever been invited to, staring at a very large, very expensive banner that features none other than Jin.

CURATOR OF THE YEAR, the text reads.

Oh. Oh.

It all makes sense. Do you not know who I am? he had asked. You should have known. His name was plastered on every major art exhibit in this city. You had heard about him a thousand times before, but never even thought to connect the dots between the Kim Seokjin who visited your apartment several times a week and reorganized your fridge and the Kim Seokjin. He was a curator, but more than that he was a mentor of sorts. His approach to work was one of a kind: he led the artists he took under his wing with a gentle, guiding touch. Instead of shackling them into contracts or monetary and social debt like others in his position did, he gave them the tools they needed and allowed them the space and support they required to flourish on their own. This kind of business structure not only led to artists all over the world adoring him, but came back to repay him a thousand times over.

You never got into the Whitney on your own merit, you think. It was all Jin’s doing.

After you collect your jaw off the floor and enter the building, you almost immediately spot Jin.

Taking a deep breath to calm the swirling emotions in your belly and mustering all the courage you had, you tuck your painting underneath your arm and stomped up to him.

He’s standing, admiring a large mural. His face is painted in contemplation. For whatever reason, it reminds you of the feeling of standing in a spring clearing, in the middle of nowhere, letting a gentle breeze wash over you. You shove that feeling away as you stride up to him, stopping a foot or two behind him.

“Jin?”

“Hm—?” Jin spins on his heel. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise.” His eyes light up. “I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, I was worried something was wrong.”

“I got into the Whitney.”

“Wait, what? That’s amazing!”

“And I figured out who you are.”

His eyes widen.

“Before anything else, I wanted to thank you for your help. I…” You shake your head, trying to wrap your mind around what’s just happened. “I’m not really sure how to thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I didn’t do anything.”

“I’ve been submitting to the Whitney for years and I’ve never even gotten a rejection email from them. And then I met you, and—and then it’s done. I’m in.” You look to him for an explanation.

“Okay, I admit,” Jin says, running a hand through his hair. “I put in a good word for you. But I did nothing more than mention to the board that I had seen your art and that I was very impressed by it.”

“That’s too much,” you frown.

“It’s not. It literally took thirty seconds of my time. And I did it because I genuinely believe in the vision of your projects.”

“If they believed in the vision of my projects, they would have accepted them without your name attached to it,” you snap.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says, looking down. “I didn’t realize it would upset you. I thought it would make you happy.”

You sigh, putting your hand on his arm. You only speak when he looks at you. “I’m upset, but I’m also really excited. I just—I want to do this on my own. I don’t want it to because of someone’s name. I want it to be because of my work. And I know that’s romantic and maybe not super realistic, but I need you to understand that that’s what I want.” You take a deep breath before continuing and he slips his hand into yours. “And more than that, I want to make it clear that I’m not just seeing you because of your status.”

“I understand,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “So you’re seeing me now?”

You flush at your slip of tongue.

“I-I mean—”

“I’d like to see you,” he says. “If you’ll have me.”

Seokjin quickly became a constant fixture in your life. While he stopped involving himself in your work (and immediately after your conversation in the gallery, had quickly excused himself to make several calls to call off different projects and potential buyers) he did insist on buying your art supplies, moving you into a larger studio, and helping you work through the complicated process of finding grants to apply for. And of course, Jin was always ready to take care of your other, ahem, needs as well.

Your relationship quickly developed. You talked about the ins and outs of sex and your roles in the bedroom, but somehow never seemed to move the conversation about what you were to each other outside of your sheets—or the closet in the gallery, or the bathroom of your now-favorite bar.

PRESENT DAY

Jin sets his half-full glass down to make his way over to you. As he stands from the bar, an arm slides into his elbow, forcing him to turn away from you.

Your heart thrums in your chest as you stood at the top of the marble stairs, looking down into the outdoor amphitheater where tonight’s gala was being hosted.

You had arrived solo on your own instances. Even after a year together, you were still hesitant to show up as Seokjin’s date, knowing you were more likely to garner the title “girlfriend” than “artist.” Still, the thought of seeing Seokjin sent goosebumps chasing down your skin and you smiled softly to yourself as you searched the crowd for the tall man. You had come straight from your studio and there was still paint and paper mache stuck beneath your fingernails, a fact that didn’t quite fit into the posh environment you were in, but one that made you feel grounded nonetheless.

"Hello, darling," a deep voice sings into your ear. "You're looking particularly ravishing tonight."

You turn, expecting to see Seokjin. Instead, a strapping young man, unfamiliar but recognizable to you, stands in his place.

"Jeon Jungkook," you address the famous photographer as he takes your hand and presses a kiss to it. You suppress the urge to grimace as his lips meet your skin. The young man is undoubtedly handsome—there's no denying it—and you shyly look down as his eyes rove over you like you are a piece of art to be appraised.

"I've seen you at these events for quite a while now."

"Have you now?"

"Always on Mr. Kim's arm, too. Don't you think he's a little... maturefor you?"

It’s not like we’re together, you want to respond, but you hold your tongue. There was only a seven year age gap between you and Soekjin. And yet, because he carried himself with such discipline and stature, this was a constant question you had to navigate whether it came up in terms of your relationship with, working or otherwise.

“Speaking of Mr. Kim, have you seen him anywhere?” you ask, smiling tightly.

Jungkook takes your arm and turns you, pointing through the crowd.

There he is. Jin is dressed impeccably in a light-colored suit, the cut accenting his tall frame, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. You smile upon seeing him and wave, but he doesn’t see you.

There’s a flash of blonde hair and suddenly you realize what’s occupying Jin’s attentions.

You frown as you watch the woman's arm snake around Jin's. Tonight was supposed to have been a chance for the two of you to spend some quality time together, surrounded by beautiful art and artists, to see each other without interruption — but then again maybe a gala wasn't the best choice for quality time.

"There's something about you," Jungkook muses, oblivious to your distraction. "A light in your eye. Passion. You know, I would love to photograph you some time."

You glance over Jungkook's shoulder to see the woman with her hand gripping Jin's bicep, obviously trying to capture and hold his attention. And yet Jin's gaze is fixed on you. You meet his eyes, only to let a ghost of a smirk dash across your lips, before returning your focus to Jungkook. Even though you know Jin’s attention is only focused on you, you figure you might have some fun with the current situation.

"Oh really?" you say, blinking up at him flirtatiously. "And how would you have me?"

Jeon Jungkook was known for his abstract and mythological concepts. His photos were stunning, portraying story and eroticism at their most intellectual and beautiful.

"Aphrodite. No doubt."

Original, you think, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

"Hm," you hum, as if mulling it over. "Tell me more." Your switch from professional to outrightly coquettish startles him and he stumbles over his words for a moment before regaining his composure and leaning in.

"Pink lighting. Texture? Hm, dove wings. I've been playing with fabric lately—" Jungkook falls into the description of his concept, flowing so quickly through the smallest of details, almost as if he's thought this through before, specifically for you. Instead of listening, you watch Jin out of your peripheral vision. "I can almost imagine the magazine spread now."

Your attention snaps back to the young man in front of you and as an idea flashes across your mind, you do your best not to giggle and to remain serious. "You know, I would love to be spread out for you." You smile innocently and Jungkook gulps.

"I, ah—” Jungkook is stopped mid sentence as a hand is clapped on his shoulder.

"Jeon," Seokjin nods at the younger man, a stiff smile painting his face. "I see you've met my—" Your eyebrows shoot up at the slip, but Jin quickly catches himself. "YN. One of the best painters I know."

Jungkook scoffs. “Uh, yeah, obviously.” When he looks up to find you and Jin staring confusedly at him, he clears his throat. “I mean—what I meant to say is her talent is underrated. Which you probably already know.” He smiles sheepishly.

“Alright, then,” Jin says.

“Aw, thanks, Jungkookie,” you say, swatting his shoulder and you watch as the young man flushes while Jin’s brow raises in question at the use of the pet name.

“Drinks?” Jin says, breaking the quickly rising tension between the three of you. Taking your elbow he leads you towards the bar and Jungkook quickly trots behind. He orders another scotch and you shake your head, “Nothing for me.” As Jungkook leans over the bar, Jin steps behind you, his hand coming to rest gently on your waist.

“Behave,” he whispers.

“Hm?” you hum innocently, brushing your hair over your shoulders.

“At this rate, you’re asking to be punished,” Jin growls.

You smile sweetly up at him, pinching his cheek playfully before realizing where you are and who might see. You quickly snatch your hand back, hoping no one saw.

Jungkook turns back with a martini in hand. Interesting choice, you think.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Jungkook asks you.

“She already said she didn’t want anything.” Jin answers for you.

“I can speak for myself, thank you very much,” you cut in, crossing your arms. “But no, maybe later.”

A long moment of silence hangs between the three of you.

“Well, don’t mind me then. I have a couple of people I need to speak with.” Jin nods at the two of you and turns on his heel. You watch his tall frame, tracking where he’s going. The game is on.

It seems as the night drags on, Jin is purposefully ignoring you, knowing it’ll rile you up just enough. He continues to engage with artists and experts from all over the globe and Jungkook hangs at your side. Beyond the awkward flirtation he keeps throwing your way—which you don’t blame him for, considering you keep egging him on—he’s quite an intelligent young man with a vision.

After half an hour of Jin’s lack of presence, you’re bored and tired. The two of you wander around the gala, looking at the art pieces. When you see Jin hovering near one in the corner, you gently guide Jungkook over. As you approach, you realize why Jin has been spending so much time over here.

The eight by ten piece that you had sold to an anonymous buyer last week is hanging on the wall. The bright oranges and deep blues seem to shimmer and swim within the space compared to the crystal, silver, and gold pieces that pepper the event tonight.

“This is yours, right?” Jungkook asks. “I’d recognize the style anywhere.”

“Uh, yeah, I just didn’t expect it to be here. I sold it to an anonymous buyer last week. I have no idea how it got here.”

Jungkook looks confusedly at you. “Hm. Weird.”

You stare blankly at your own art for a while, puzzling over how it could have gotten to this level of a gala. The buyer from last week had said nothing about the gala. But here it is in front of you, big and commanding—and marked with a $500,000 price tag? The proceeds of tonight’s event were going directly to charity and still your mouth hangs open as you ogle the string of zeros in front of you.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?” Jungkook asks, breaking through your reverie. “I don’t mind getting it for you.”

“That’s so kind of you,” you smile, knowing that tonight’s event hosts an open bar. At that moment you notice Jin’s gaze finally, finallyresting on you. “Actually, your drink is looking pretty good to me right now.” You take a step closer to Jungkook, meeting his gaze and resting one of your hands gently on his elbow. He shudders under your touch. As much as he puts on a confident front, you know your forwardness unravels him just enough. Without breaking eye contact, you reach into his martini glass and pull out a green olive. Opening your mouth slowly, you purse your lips around the round fruit before sucking it into your mouth. You open your mouth just enough for Jungkook to see how it rests on your tongue.

Jungkook’s jaw is hanging open.

“Oh my god.”

Suddenly, a hand is clasped onto Jungkook’s shoulder. He spins around to see a towering Jin. Jin’s features are relaxed and calm, but you catch the hard edge in his tone, even as it slips past Jungkook’s awareness.

“Jeon, I was just talking to an up-and-coming dancer earlier tonight. He’s looking to partner with a photographer for a project. I mentioned your work to him and he would love to talk to you.” Jin turns Jungkook to point to a handsome man standing across the room, a sun-filled smile dancing across his lips.

“Wait—really?” Jungkook looks flabbergasted.

“Of course, I admire your work,” Jin says.

“Wow, thank you. I really appreciate it.” He reaches out to shake Jin’s hand. “Thank you so much, sir.” A smirk threatens to break Jin’s calm demeanor.

“Anytime.”

Jungkook turns to walk towards the dancer but spins back towards you. “Don’t, uh, don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Once Jungkook is out of range of hearing, Jin steps closer to you. "Upstairs. Now."

Because tonight's gala was in part hosted by Seokjin and his company, it took place in the courtyard of one of Seokjin's highrises.

With the ghost of a smirk playing on your features, you turn on your heel, head held high, and make your way to the elevators.

It’s just like him to make you wait.

Twenty minutes after you arrived in the penthouse apartment, Jin was nowhere to be seen. So you kick your heels off and make your way to the fridge, finding an open bottle of your favorite wine that he kept in stock just for you. You pour yourself a glass and make your way to the gigantic kitchen island, leaning over it and scrolling through your phone. You know Jin would expect you to be waiting ready and in position for him, but tonight you feel like pushing the limits.

A gentle ding echoes through the living room. You click your phone off and look up just in time to see the silver door of the elevator slide shut behind him.

Seokjin runs a hand through his hair, loosening the strands from his perfect slicked-back look. You nearly salivate at the sight of him unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt, even as your heart beats like it is ready to jump straight out of your chest.

You gulp as his eyes land on you. Finally.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you say.

“Have I?”

“Are you punishing me?”

“You won’t need to ask me if I’m punishing you when I’m punishing you. You’ll know.” Despite the coldness of his words, there’s a playful glint in his eyes. You know his anger is for show and not genuine. The direction you're headed is a space the two of you have carefully mapped out, experimented with, and discussed over the course of your relationship. When he slips into this role, it's for both of your pleasure, and never as an outlet for his anger. "So no, I'm not. At least, not yet."

"Jin—" you say.

"Sir," Jin corrects.

"—Sir," you repeat, standing up from the island and walking slowly towards him. You bat your eyes and saunter over to him, pressing yourself against his chest as you take one of his hands and guide it under your dress. His eyes widen when he realizes you're not wearing any underwear.

"God, you're wet."

"I wanna cum," you state matter of factly. You thought your directness might startle him, but instead, his composure remains unaffected.

"You misbehaved all night long," Jin murmurs in your ear. "But maybe if you're a good girl for me and take your punishment, we can talk about you cumming."

And just like that, his hand is gone.

"Are you gonna be good?"

You don’t respond. Instead, you smile sweetly at him. You meet his gaze but don’t move. He cocks an eyebrow and pulls you tight against him with one hand as he pinches your chin with the other.

"You thought you could use this pretty little costume of innocence,” he says as he plays with the sleeve of your dress, a sneer painting his face. “Dressed all in white, and so elegant too. You thought you could hide the whore you are beneath a dress like this?"

His grip on your hips tightens as he pushes you forward, turning you forcibly. It shocks the breath out of your lungs. He pulls you back, your ass flush against his hard but clothed cock. His hands grab your shoulders, steadying you.

"I'd like to fuck you in one of these cute little outfits sometime. But not tonight. Tonight I want you entirely bare." The next thing you know, the sound of ripping fabric fills the space and your dress falls down in shreds at your feet.

"My-my dress," you gasp.

"A shame.” He feigns a pout. “You looked so good in it. But you look even better like this."

It briefly flashes through your mind that you're not sure how you're going to be able to leave, as you hadn't brought a change of clothes—and then that concern is quickly replaced by the confusion as he bends down to examine you.

"When was the last time you touched yourself?" Jin asks as he runs a finger over your slit. You shudder at the sensation.

"You were the last one to touch me."

“So you’re telling me you’re ready to flirt with any man who approaches you, make him think you’re gonna let him fuck you, but then it’s all for show?” He slips a single finger into your cunt. “What a tease.”

“For you,” you gasp as he hooks his finger and hits a particularly sensitive spot. “I would never.”

“Never what?”

“Never fuck another man.”

“Your actions tonight tell me something else.”

Your brow furrows as Jin adds a second finger.

“I-I just wanted you to pay attention.”

"That’s all you wanted, hm, little one? My attention?"

"Yes, sir," you mumble back.

"Good. You have it." He pulls his fingers from your dripping entrance and stands.

Your brows furrowed in frustration. "I want more," you say.

"And I want you to behave yourself when we're out in public together. It seems like neither of us is getting what we want, hm?" When you pout, he chuckles. "But I bet you can make it up to me. Take your punishment like a good girl. And we'll see if we can't both have what we want." You nod, eagerly. "Go bend over the couch and wait for me."

You quickly lay yourself over the arm of the black leather couch that stretches across the sprawling living room. Jin disappears into one of the back rooms for a moment, but you soon hear his footsteps echoing on the marble, approaching you from behind. He rests a hand on your bare ass, roving over it in slow circles before coming to kneel down beside you.

"Safeword?"

"Peaches."

His eyes search yours—checking, making sure you're really okay with this before he continues, that same awareness never leaving his eyes. "Good. You'll use it if you need to."

You nod.

“You know why I have to do this right?” Jin asks, his voice calm and clear as he stands and steps out of your line of vision. You can hear the clink of a belt buckle as he doubles it up in his hand.

“I disobeyed you.”

“And?”

“I didn’t listen when you asked me to stop.”

“And what exactly did I want you to stop doing?”

“Flirting with him.”

“Who? Say his name.”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

He chuckles. “I want that to be the last time his name leaves your lips tonight. Understood?” You nod, wholeheartedly. “The poor boy. You left him so hard and eager for your pretty little cunt. I bet he thought he was going to get to fuck you after all that teasing. Tell me, is that what you wanted him to think?”

“Yes,” you admit.

“And yet, after all that work and you were so quick to drop him just for me. I’m going to spank you and you’re going to take it like a good girl. Seven hits. Count for me.”

That’s when the first hit lands. The air in your lungs whooshes out of you in shock. After the initial pain, a soft warmth spreads through your cheeks.

“I said, count.”

“One,” you say, your voice strong.

The belt comes down on you a second time, cracking against your other cheek. “Two.” Your nails dig into the leather of the couch and his hand spreads across your ass, soothing over the spots where he’s hit you. The feeling of his fingertips against your skin brings coolness to the surface of your burning skin and the contrast sends arousal spiraling through your core.

“Good girl.”

Smack.

“Three.”

On four, you realize you’ve been holding your breath. The number comes out as a gasp, a puff of air and you realize you’ve been holding something else in. Shame. Guilt. Upset.

On five, you let out a particularly loud yelp, your cry of pain mixing with emotion and cutting through your pronunciation. Jin's hand immediately brushes across your sore ass to smooth over the most recent hit.

"Color?" he says softly.

"Green—green, please, keep going," you pant, tears threatening your eyes.

“Only two left.”

On six, you feel something split within you. You know it isn’t just about tonight, about your disobedience or your flirtations with a strange man. It’s about holding back. It’s about letting your brattiness build a wall between the warm thing that’s been building in your chest and Jin, the man who keeps showing up for you.

“Seven! M’ sorry!” you call out as seven comes down on your ass. The wall splits open within you, sending a flood of emotion and endorphins through your body. All you want is to fall into this sensation. The one where he’s here for you, and you can let him be here for you.

Jin smoothes his hands over your ass one final time. You wince slightly, knowing it’s going to be painful to sit for the next couple of days. And yet all you can feel is a golden glow, pulsing through your veins, tinting your perception. Your body feels lighter, the space around you more spacious, and the look in Jin’s eyes is glowing.

Jin pulls you up to your feet, searching your eyes to make sure you’re alright. He finds a strange, new warmth in them, one that spills out completely for him. And something close to daze.

“No hands.” Still, you can’t help but reach out to him, lacing your fingers into the front of his shirt. “I said, no hands.” You refuse to remove them. He’s suddenly stepping back from you. "You can't seem to listen, can you, little one? Hands behind your back." You stare blankly at him. "I won't ask you twice."

You bring your hands behind you, clasping one hand around a wrist. He circles around you until he's out of your range of sight. You hear the tearing of fabric and then the cool brush of what you assume must be your dress wrapping around your wrists as Jin expertly ties them together. When the knot is tight and secure, he walks slowly back around you so you're face to face.

"Kneel."

Your knees hit the cold marble floor.

"Suck my cock."

"But—" You attempt to protest, your hands still tied behind your back. Your voice trails off as his eyes harden.

His belt is already open and you take the cold metal in your mouth, leaning your head back as you pull it out of the loops. It's an awkward angle, but you do your best and soon it falls to the floor with a clink. You glance up at him, searching for validation. His gaze is still hard, but there's a glimmer of a smile—pride? delight?—hanging at the corner of his lips.

"Keep going."

Leaning forward, you nudge your nose along the hard length sporting in his pants. His arousal is more than apparent through the fabric of his pants: thick, and long, and impossibly hard. Without breaking eye contact, you stick your tongue out of your mouth and slowly trace it up the length of his covered cock.

His hand tightens in your hair and you yelp as pain shoots into your scalp.

"I asked you to do something. Are you getting distracted?" What was once painful has quickly turned into a delicious pleasure as your face flushes, the hand in your hair teasing tingles down your spine. "Answer me." He grips your hair tighter, forcing your head back even further.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

He releases his grasp just enough that you're able to lean back to the tenting bulge in his pants, but still does not release you fully.

Carefully, you suck the button of his slacks into your mouth, expertly sucking and tonguing the cold metal until you feel it slip through the hole, before moving down to pull the zipper between your teeth and tug it all the way down. You gasp as you realize he's not wearing underwear and your cunt contracts around nothing. You're face to face with his bare cock.

"Sir, may I?"

He nods and you immediately lean forward to lick a broad, wet stripe up from the base of his cock to the tip. Without the use of your hands, you find yourself relying on the movements of your upper body and your mouth to pleasure him.

Slowly, you lick around the angry red head of his cock, teasing a light gasp from him. You continue to do this until you know he’s just on the edge of frustration and before he can say anything, you purse your lips around him.

As you take him into your mouth, you’re particularly aware of the remainder that you’re unable to fit. Usually, you would wrap one or both of your hands around him, stroking him where you couldn’t reach. But now that’s inaccessible to you.

Relaxing your throat, you attempt to take him deeper but choke at the sensation of his thick head hitting the back of your throat.

"You're so good at this, almost as if you were made to have your mouth stuffed with cock."

His praise urges you to take him deeper and press past the urge to gag. Taking a deep breath, you edge forward, allowing him to slip into the tight confines of your throat. He hiss at this and his hands tighten in your hair, this being the first time you’ve deepthroated him. Tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision as you continue to ease him deeper within you.

He begins thrusting into your throat. If you could reach up to wrap your hand around your throat, you would feel the protrusion of his cock pressing forward through the skin of your throat, visible and bulging.

You choke around him and he audibly groans at the sensation.

Jin looks down to find tears streaming out of your face, chin wet with drool. The sight of you, so lost in your actions, strikes something in his chest. As you meet his gaze, your lips so pink and pouted around him, the glaze in your eyes filled with adoration, his hips buck and he thrusts into your throat.

“I’m gonna cum,” he growls. “And I want you to swallow every last drop of it.”

He grabs your head as he fucks up into you one last time, pushing your nose against his pubic bone. You can feel his cum, hot and bitter, sliding down your throat. He doesn’t release you until he’s done. Finally, he pulls you off of him, your lips releasing from his spent cock with a pop.

Air comes rushing back into your lungs, replacing the black spots that had started to pepper your vision with starshine as you look up at Jin clearly. His forehead is shining with sweat and his cheeks are flushed in pleasure. He’s never prettier than he is now, spent with passion.

Jin quickly regains his wits as he pulls you up and takes his thumb to wipe the combination of drool and cum from your chin.

Something gleams in his eye.

“Up against the window,” he orders.

“Wha—”

Before you can finish your sentence, Jin is walking you backward until your back hits the cold glass. You gasp at the sensation of your heated ass cheeks mixed with the cold spark of the smooth surface.

With your back against the glass, hips pushed towards him again, he kisses languidly up your stomach. There is a gentleness in the way his lips whispered against your skin that shoots something through your chest and leaves you wanting more of whatever it is.

You gather yourself enough to look down and see his plump lips pursed around a nipple. As your eyes meet, he bites down around the swollen bud, and you whimper. He continues to bite and suck your breasts, drawing increasingly lewd sounds from you.

But then his lips leave the tender flesh of your breasts and kiss their way upwards to your neck. For a moment you think his gentle side might return, only to squirm beneath him as his teeth graze the delicate skin. Before you know it, his lips are pressed against you and he's sucking the skin in between his teeth.

"You'll leave a mark!" You exclaim, bound hands struggling to escape from where they’re still tied behind your back But he's quicker and stronger than you and he holds you down, stilling your movements, before continuing to suck and bite at your neck.

"Good." He moves his mouth to the hollow of your throat, sucking a bruise to the surface of your skin. "I want everyone to know exactly who you belong to. I want you to wear me, so no one even has a doubt in their mind whose slut you are."

As you look down, you realize he’s hard again. It’s not uncommon for him to be up and ready to go for a second or third round. His cock is red and rock-hard, and as he realizes what you’re looking at he smirks.

“Like what you see?”

“Yes, sir.” You swallow. “Want it—want you.”

“Do you think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You took your punishment well,” he muses languidly. “And you sucked Sir off so well, too.”

He drags a finger through your slit, forcing you to buck up into his touch.

“Please—” you gasp.

“Since you asked so nicely—” abruptly, he spins you around so you’re facing towards the window. “I’ll fuck you. But I want everyone to see exactly the kind of slut you are for this cock.”

“But—”

“Color?”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. From this far up, you can see the gala, still in full swing. Even from this height, you can see their individual faces and you know if any of the people in sparkling gowns and tailored suits were to look up and squint, they would see your fucked-out form pressed against the window of the penthouse, your hands bound behind your back thrusting your chest forward obscenely. The thought sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“Green.”

“Good.”

At that, you feel the head of his cock brush against your dripping entrance. Jin looks down to see his huge cock resting against your red cheeks. You look tiny compared to him, and the sight makes him even harder. As he grips the base of his dick, he pushes gently against your entrance, the bulbous head slipping inside. His cock twitches as he hears you moan.

Jin is undoubtedly the biggest cock you’ve ever fucked. Even after months of him filling you, he was still a tight fit. While you often used lube to ease the slide in, tonight you were dripping wet, your arousal coating your swollen lips and beginning to run down your inner thighs. Slowly, he pushes into you. The sensation of being filled, of being stretched by him has you moaning, the sound filling the spacious apartment.

“You’re such a good slut for me, you take this cock so well,” Jin says as he presses the last inch of his length into you.

Kim Seokjin is a man of control. Despite the painful ache in his cock and the burning desire to pound into you, he isn't done drawing out your pleasure. Torturously slow, he slides his cock in and out of your tight cunt, his thick head dragging against your walls. You whine wantonly, pushing back against him.

He stops.

"Please. Sir," you nearly sob. "Need you."

"And I need you to use your words. This is mine." He reaches down to spread his palm over your sore ass, spreading you even further open for him. The sight of you impaled on his thick cock is one he’ll never get used to. "And I'll do what I want with it."

He can feel you shudder at his words, knowing that his possessiveness affected you just as much as it did him.

"You like that?" he growls. "Knowing you're mine? You're stuffed full of cock and still you want more. What a greedy slut."

"Please, Sir. Need you to fuck me," you beg. Still, Jin makes no indication of moving. "Please. Need you to show them who I belong to."

That does it.

“You. Belong. To. Me.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust, his cock spearing through the tightness of your walls.

“Fuck,” you hiss as he lifts your leg. The head of his cock begins to hit the knot of pleasure that’s tightly wound within your cunt. “Sir, you feel so good.” It’s all you can think about.

“He’s down there, isn’t he?” For a moment you’re not even sure who he’s talking about, so lost in pleasure and the sensations he’s teasing out of your body. “He could look up at any moment and see you like this, tits out, pressed up against the glass, letting me ruin you like this.” You moan at his words. “I bet you would like that, slut.” He punctuates the final word with a particularly hard thrust.

Your pussy clenches around him and he moans as he feels your tight walls grip him tighter.

“I think there’s a part of you that loves the idea of the world watching you get fucked.”

"Gonna—gonna cum," you gasp, your words stuttered out of your mouth by Jin's rough thrusts. "Sir, please, can I come?"

"No."

"Sir, please."

"Did you not hear me?" he growls. "Listen, or I'll stuff that pretty little mouth with something less pleasant than my cock."

You throw your head back, squeezing your eyes shut and clenching your abdominal muscles in an attempt to hold back the waves of euphoria that threaten to wash over you any moment now.

“Please, sir, need to come. I’ll do anything.” The tears that have been threatening to run down your face finally spill over as you’re split in pleasure and discomfort. “Please, anything.”

Jin releases your leg with a grunt and pushes your legs together, making it a tighter fit for both of you. With one hand he pushes down on your lower back, arching it for you. His other hand comes to wrap around your bound wrists, using the grip to power his thrusts into you. Somehow the new angle makes him seem even bigger than he already is and you mewl.

“Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, Jin,” you force out, trying to find your words through the pleasure that he’s pounding into you. “Only you.” Too late, you realize that you had used the wrong name for him and you gasp, ready for whatever correction he deems fit for you.

But it seems that’s exactly what he wanted you to say.

“Good girl. Cum. Now.”

As soon as the sound has left his lips your orgasm barrels through you.

“Jin!” you cry. You throw your head back, white overtaking your vision. Your cunt pulses around his hard length, spasming for what feels like minutes. Your breath freezes in your throat as sparks of pleasure flood your body.

Watching you come unraveled around his name is what does it for him. He groans as his orgasm washes over him, sending waves of pleasure throughout his whole body. He shudders against you, releasing ropes of cum into your still-pulsating cunt. You can feel his cock twitch against your oversensitive walls as he empties himself into you. His breath is heavy against your neck as his arms tighten around you. As much as you love the Jin in control, these moments when he releases all pretenses are precious to you.

Even as he stays sheathed within you, you can feel his cum begin to drip out of your cunt, running down your thighs. When he finally pulls out, the mix of your combined orgasms gushes out of you and you frown at the proceeding sensation of emptiness.

As you slump against the window, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure and exhaustion, you feel Jin’s large hands ghost down your arms, releasing the fabring binding your wrists together. When he’s done, his hands come to rest on your hips, turning you as he kneels down in front of you. You gasp as you feel him swipe two of his fingers through the swollen folds of your cunt, as he collects his own cum. The sensation splits you in overwhelm.

"Open," Jin commands, standing up. You open your mouth and he slides the two cum covered fingers past your lips. "Suck." Dutifully, you press your lips around him, swallowing around him until he pulls out, not a drop of cum left on his fingers. His eyes burn in desire, and if it weren't for the exhaustion apparent in your posture, you know he would be ready to go for a second round. "Good girl."

You smile softly up at him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He holds you close and the two of you simply breathe together. You feel comforted against his large frame, his breath flowing easily and freely through him, your own body finding solace in the soft rhythm. He holds you like that for what feels like forever before he tips your weight into his body and leads you to the sleek leather couch. There, he sits down, pulling you into his lap. You curl up against his wide chest, nestling your nose into the crook of his neck.

"How are you?" he asks as he brushes the hair out of your eyes.

"Feel so good," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut in the afterglow that radiates throughout your whole body. Every muscle in your body feels warm and stretched.

"Do you want me to bring you to bed?" After all this time, Jin knows how sleepy you get after a scene like this.

"Mm, surprisingly not sleepy. Just... happy."

He holds you for a while, and you bask in the feeling of his arms wrapped securely around you and the light brush of his steady breath against your hair.

“Earlier,” you begin slowly. “You slipped. You started to call me ‘my’—and then you stopped. What were you going to say?”

Jin is quiet and for a moment you wonder if you misspoke.

“Honestly?” he finally says, his voice brushing over you like a soft breeze.

“Honestly,” you repeat, twisting into him to look him in the eyes. There’s something desperately gentle in his gaze. You could fall into it.

“Honestly, I don’t really know where my mind was going in that moment.” He pauses, chewing over his words. “But, I would like to call you mine—in some way.”

“Yours?”

He nods, shyly. “Mine.”

“Sure, I’ll be yours,” you grin, snuggling into his chest.

“Yeah?”

“But only if you’ll be mine, too.”

“I think we can arrange that.”

Seokjin pulls you tighter and just holds you like that for several minutes before he stands up and disappears into the bedroom for a moment. When he returns, he's holding a slim black box, which he hands to you.

"Put this on," he says.

You open the box to reveal a small black number.

"We're going back?" you ask.

"Only to get our winnings," he grins back to you, pushing his hair back again. "And to show everyone just exactly how much I won tonight."

“What do you mean, winnings?”

“I made a purchase tonight.” He presses a kiss to your lips. “The most colorful piece in the whole building.”

“—You?”

Jin smirks and comes behind you to zip up the beautiful piece of clothing. He traces over the bruises blossoming on your shoulders and neck with a gentle touch before pressing his lips to each and every one of them.

"Only if you're comfortable," he adds softly as you melt against his touch. There's no doubt you're tired. But still, the idea of finally walking into an event with Jin—no pretenses, no questions, no secrets—just together, has a thrill sparking in your core.

“I’m always comfortable with you,” you grin, taking his hand and leading him to the elevators.

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angst-fairygodmother · 3 years

Text

Dreams (Oliver Sway x Reader)

A/N: I wasn’t going to write Ollie. In fact I was so sure, that I deleted this request after deciding that neither of the Nikolai prompts moved me. But luckily I had a screenshot, because I couldn’t stop thinking about the Ollie one. It was too perfect not to write. Word Count: 2036 Rating: G - I’m pretty sure this one is warningless, other than references to nightmares and references to The Song of Sway Lake.

Like many from the area, you had grown up hearing stories of the mighty Sways and their dominion over the lake. But you had never met one, almost believing them some story told just to increase the romantic draw of the area. Until the day Oliver and his friend stopped into your bookshop.

It was raining pretty heavily outside, the kind of days where locals stay home and tourists leave, driving out of town and off to museums and malls. The shop was empty, almost sleepy, and you were in the back fixing a cup of coffee to keep yourself from napping on the front desk when you heard the door chime. With a sigh, you put on your best customer service face and walked out.

“Hi, welcome to the Papermill,” you called before you had even fully circled the stacks. “I’m Y/N, I’ll be right with you.”

The two boys dripping on your welcome mat looked about your own age. One, tall with curly hair and blue button-up plastered to his skin, grinned at you, shamelessly looking you over. The other, long hair practically a matted mess, looked more sheepish, tugging at the ends of his shirtsleeves.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “We were just...out running errands for my grandmother and it started pouring. You were the closest place to duck into.”

“Oleg, you cannot tell a beautiful girl that,” his friend said, his accent shocking you. You were used to tourists, sure, but never one from...so far away. “You must pretend that it was she alone that called you in.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Do you also pretend she’s deaf?”

The Russian shrugged, still grinning.

Your eyes fell back to meet the other boy (Oleg, or Ollie, apparently), actually feeling drawn the way his friend said he should pretend to be, and your smile softened.

“I don’t mind being a refuge,” you said.

He looked startled, blue eyes widening.

“From the rain, I mean,” you rushed to clarify. “Actually, I think I’ve got a couple towels in the back, for emergencies. Let me grab them.”

You scurried back off, feeling flustered, before they could answer.

“You Americans, always so courteous,” the Russian said as you practically tossed an old, striped beach towel at him.

“Actually, I just don’t want you ruining my livelihood.”

You turned, holding out the other to Ollie, fingers brushing together as you passed it over, and he gave you a small smile.

“Once you don’t look like drowned rats, you’re free to look around,” you shrugged. “Or...there’s some chairs and stuff in the biography section if you want to just sit somewhere to wait things out.”

“Will you sit with us?” Ollie blurted out, surprising all three of you.

“Oh. Um…” you bit your lip. You wanted to, but you really should be working. Then again, there wasn’t likely to be any other customers. “Sure, I can do that, for a bit at least. Do y’all uh...coffee?” you gestured a thumb over your shoulder, as if that explained anything.

His friend glanced between you with a raised eyebrow and a devilish smirk before shaking his head and wandering off toward the back, where you didn’t feel like pointing out he’d mostly find children’s books.

Over the next hour, as the storm increased in intensity and rattled the windows, you found yourself falling into easy conversation with Ollie while Nikolai prowled the stacks. You suspected the odd Russian was up to something, but were surprised to find that you didn’t care as much as you probably should.

“You know,” you said eventually, shifting the way you were sitting with your knees tucked up under you, leaning closer to Ollie in the next chair, “I feel like I know you…”

“Well, it’s been a long time but my grandmother owns a place on the lake, and I sort of grew up here, it’s just been a while since I’ve been back,” he said reluctantly, as if he were somehow ashamed of his background.

“Oh!” you were surprised, expecting at most that he was a seasonal visitor. There hadn’t been that many other kids around growing up, so you started racking your brain for who he might be.

“Yes,” Nikolai piped in from somewhere in what you hazarded a guess was the science-fiction section. “Don’t you know? He is a Sway.” The pronouncement was made with the same level of gravitas and pomp as one might announce that someone was the king of Spain.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Like, your name is attached to the lake, Sway?”

Ollie was tugging uncomfortably at his sleeves again, like he was trying to disappear within his sweater. “It's no big deal.”

You studied him for a moment. He seemed somehow both proud and ashamed of his heritage, and uncomfortable talking about it. You already liked this boy a lot, more already than you cared to admit. So despite your questions, you shrugged.

“Cool,” you said casually, changing the subject back to music, where he seemed like he shined and you were content to sit back and just listen.

Before you knew it, you had whiled away the entire afternoon and the weather was finally letting up. You were reluctant to say goodbye to Oliver and found yourself impulsively giving him a hug before he left.

Since then, he had seemed to find any excuse he could to come back. Sometimes Nikolai would come too, but as much as you enjoyed the company of the wild Russian, you preferred the quiet days when it was just you and Ollie. He was sweet, and pretty hilarious once he came out of his shell (or maybe stopped being overshadowed by larger personalities?)

Until one day he came into the shop, looking sullen and lost.

“Ollie?” you asked, circling the counter, frowning. “Are you alright?”

He shook his head, and your frown only deepened. Bending back over the counter, standing on your toes to do so, you dug around for something. Finding it, you slapped the “Be back soon” sign on the desk and led him over to your usual chairs.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, leaning over to take his hands.

He stared, unblinking, at you and the silence was starting to unnerve you.

“Oliver?” you lifted one of your hands to wave in front of him. “Hello? You’re starting to scare me…”

That seemed to finally shake him out of the odd funk he was in and he blinked owlishly.

“Sorry, I just...I had a weird dream last night,” he said slowly.

You nodded, tilting your head curiously. In all your long conversations, his nightmares had come up a few times, and while they seemed more strange than sinister to you, you understood how much the loss of his father haunted him, sometimes it seemed quite literally. He confessed that he’d hoped that finding the record would quiet his father’s spirit, and that the longer he struggled to do so, the worse the dreams had been getting, to the point where there were nights he woke up more tired than he’d gone to bed. So you understood, to a degree, why he might look haggard, but this seemed different. You waited patiently for him to go on.

“It wasn’t about my dad this time,” he explained.

His eyes drifted down to your still joined hands, and your face heated guiltily.

“Sorry, I wasn’t...I just...I thought...I’ll…” you stammered, finding yourself at a total loss for how to explain why your instinct had been to comfort him with physical touch.

You moved to pull your hands back, thinking he was upset by the contact, but he curled his own around you to stop you. You made a small noise of confusion, but relaxed back into it.

“So, if it wasn’t about your dad, what was your dream about that has you so...off-kilter?”

“I was leaving the lake, alone, and then I kept seeing a face everywhere.”

“Like a creepy serial killer's face?”

He shook his head, hair swinging across his face as he moved, and you itched to reach out and comb it back.

“No, it was like I was trying to catch up to someone, or find them.”

“And did you? Or at least figure out who it was?”

He shifted nervously. “It was...you.”

“What?” your heart was racing, and you frowned, almost not believing what Ollie was saying.

“I dreamt about you last night, Y/N.” He seemed stunned, almost awed, as he said the words out loud, blue eyes wide and watching you for a reaction.

You felt rooted in your chair, mouth falling open in shock. Your eyes flickered over his face, so open and earnest that it almost hurt.

“Ollie…” you breathed, more because you felt like you needed to say something than because you had any clue what to say.

It would have been one hell of a pickup line, if it had been said by a stranger at a bar, or with the kind of cocky charm that Nikolai oozed, or in almost any context but this one. Now it felt intense and a little bit frightening, because you knew Ollie and you knew how much stock he placed in dreams and all the possible meanings of him telling you this were...a lot. But you didn’t necessarily want to pull away, and you certainly didn’t want to run. You just wanted your mind to process it all.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a good dream, and this one wasn’t great, because I was still alone and feeling like I was always a few seconds too late, but it wasn’t a nightmare, and I didn’t wake up in a cold sweat,” he carried on, trying to explain more, or rationalize, or something.

The sound of a bell disturbed your thoughts, as one of the old tourist bitties that had been slowly perusing tapped it repeatedly, demanding you return to work immediately to serve her.

“If you want, we’ve got some stuff about dream interpretation in the Spiritual section,” you suggested as you got up to return to work.

About halfway across the shop, you turned back to flash him a wink. “But I’ve got a pretty good guess what this one meant, without needing a guide.”

Intense and a little weird or not, you liked Ollie a lot. If he was really dreaming about you, or pretending he was, you’d play along, and maybe something would move forward, or at least a door would open so you could make a move.

He shot up from his chair and trailed you back to the counter. As soon as the lady was out of the way, a bag of rather scandalous romance novels in her arms, he leaned his elbows on the tall wooden surface, pretty far into your space. Normally such an action would have annoyed you, but strangely, because it was him, you didn’t mind so much.

“What does it mean then, Y/N?” he asked, a curious expression on his face, his eyes betraying a hint of teasing that you were pleasantly surprised to see.

You rolled your eyes, leaning your chin in your hand and tilting your head to look at him.

“Are you ever going to ask me out, Ollie?”

He rocked backwards, stunned by your bluntness after so long dancing around each other.

“Or are you going to keep waiting, find your treasure, and leave, regretting that you never shot your shot?”

“How about dinner then?” he asked hurriedly. “Tonight?”

You leaned closer, as if you were going to kiss him, and smiled at his sharp intake of breath. “Sounds perfect. But make sure Nikolai knows he’s not invited.”

“What? Why would you even--” he trailed off as you nodded your head to where the Russian was smirking at you both through the display window, flashing Ollie an approving gesture when he caught your gaze.

Ollie groaned, rolling his entire head dramatically, and you pressed your hand over your mouth to hold back a laugh.

“I’ll see you at seven, Sway,” you teased. “But for now, shoo, I’ve got more customers.”

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Taglist: @misskittysmagicportal (I doubt I’m going to write this character again, but let me know if you want to be tagged if I do)

#everyone else: I write for these Robert Sheehan characters #me: I write for...their best friends?#(this is not a dig at anyone but myself. For constantly falling into a predictable pattern of behavior like I don't expect it)#I should write an Alfie x Reader fic (since I sure as heck aint writing Malachy) and just round it out #fuck. I said it. Now it’s gonna happen...#anyway...enjoy!#Oliver Sway x Reader #Song of Sway Lake fic #fluff

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spencersawkward · 4 years

Text

switchblade faith // spencer reid - chapter 3

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

word count: 4k

content warnings: mention of rape and victim-blaming (talking about Clea's previous job in sex crimes— not her personal experience).

masterlist

this chapter is drawn from the season 1 episode 17 episode "A Real Rain," which is supposed to be in New York, but I didn't wanna write about New York so I changed it to Boston.

I drop a second sugar packet into my coffee before taking a tentative sip. my face twists in discomfort. previous to working here, I would bring my own thermos from home and it would last me all day, but I've had to up my caffeine intake to two or three cups.

"you get used to it." JJ walks over to me, steeping her tea. despite the fact that it's early, she's perfectly put together. her hair is tied up and her eyes are sparkling.

"how?" I laugh. she points to the coffee pot, which is fresh and yet somehow tastes slightly stale.

"when you've been up for twenty four hours, you won't care how it tastes."

I avert my widened eyes at this.

"you could do what Spence does and just add a bunch of sugars." she tilts her head towards Reid, who is rocking back in forth in his spinny chair with a huge volume open in front of him. he doesn't even notice us staring at him.

"ew, what?" I giggle. JJ nods.

"hey, Spence!" she calls across the office. his head pops up to frown at us.

"yes?"

"how many sugars do you use?"

"five. occasionally six." he says this without a hint of the shame it deserves. my eyebrows shoot up and I take another sip of the bitter drink, trying to ignore the taste. it coats my tongue.

"see?" she smirks. "just so you know, we have another case. meeting in five." she sashays away to the conference room, leaving me standing there with an overwhelming urge to sweeten my drink. I keep it at three and add a splash of creamer to drown out the bitterness, then walk briskly to my desk to grab a few of my things.

"we have a meeting, Reid." I say across the divider between our spaces. he holds up an index finger, slams the book shut, and grabs his things. I wait for him to get collected before we head up.

"what were you reading?" I ask, peeking at his workspace. books are lined up against the divider, loose papers scatter the surface, and there are three uncapped pens littered about. his disorganization surprises me.

"War and Peace." he replies, checking his watch.

it's not even nine am.

...

I'm staring out the window of the jet while Morgan and Prentiss battle out yet another card game with Reid. there's not much to see until we slice through clouds and fly over Boston, which is glittering in the early light. I sigh and turn back to my book, tucking my legs up beneath me.

"this is not how I planned to visit." Morgan notes, looks through his cards.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Boston." Spencer smiles softly. at this, all of us look up.

"you've never been?" Morgan asks doubtfully. Emily snorts.

"we've never had an unsub there." Reid doesn't seem to think this strange at all. Morgan and I share a glance before he speaks.

"Reid, it's an hour-and-a-half flight."

"I'll show you around if we have some time." Emily smiles reassuringly at the boy genius.

"it's an easy trip, man." Derek chuckles. Spencer isn't bothered by our teasing. instead, he draws another card from the deck and focuses on his game.

"I've never been either." I state. the team turns to me with surprised expressions, causing my cheeks to flush.

"you, too?" Morgan makes a face like I've disappointed him.

"I've been meaning to go." I shrug. "there's an exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts that I wanna see."

"what exhibition?" Spencer doesn't look up from his hand.

"uh, Titus Kaphar." I haven't had the opportunity to travel much, so a lot of the art I've seen has been from a computer screen or in class in college. it would be nice to actually get some experience seeing things face-to-face.

"Shifting the Gaze!" Spencer's face snaps up to beam at me, referencing the piece so vehemently that it makes me laugh.

"yeah, exactly."

"I went to his talk a couple years back."

"no way. really?" I shut my book and lean forward while he nods. Prentiss and Morgan are watching our conversation like a tennis match. while Reid rambles about all the things he heard at the lecture, I listen intently. it's good, because I don't really feel like talking right now; my head is pounding all over again, and this is distracting.

"do you ever go to the art museums in DC, then?" I ask once he's finished. Reid gets this crooked smile on his face like he wants to say a bunch of things, but is holding his tongue. his face is animated when he tells me about the other exhibits he's seen at the Smithsonian and apparently abandons his cards. Prentiss and Morgan have lost interest in our conversation; they start their own game and let us talk for the rest of the flight.

when we touch down, I immediately feel overwhelmed by the crush of people around us. our first crime scene is a taxi cab in Hyde Park, where the driver has been blindfolded, shot in the chest, and stabbed right through his ear. the blade, broken off from the handle, is lodged in his brain.

despite the fact that his kills are violent and seemingly random, the unsub definitely isn't disorganized. he carries his MO out the same way each time, which makes all of us question if we've missed a connection between victims.

"it's possible he's a sort of serial killer groupie." Spencer notes as he examines the inside of the cab, which is splattered with a mix of rainwater from the night before and blood. I shift where I'm standing to try to follow his line of sight.

"what do you mean?"

"Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris drove ice picks into their victims' heads and broke off the handle." he explains.

"well, if he's doing that, then he's presenting a mixed profile." I frown.

"exactly."

"mixed profile?" the police officer next to me asks.

"yeah. the fact that this guy is shooting his victims first suggests that he needs a quick and effective means of controlling the situation, which means that he probably doesn't think he can overpower them." I say.

"he could have a physical problem-- or maybe he's just not confident because he's small." Reid is still examining the taxi for any further evidence, but it seems sort of pointless.

"plus, he's organized and hunts at night. that tells us he most likely has a steady job."

"so," the cop stares between us with a perplexed expression. "we're looking for a small, angry white guy with a day job?"

the sarcasm in his voice makes me smile a little.

"I know it doesn't narrow down a lot right now, but we know that this guy isn't blitz attacking his victims. it's more of an execution."

the officer nods at this and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I turn to Reid.

"we gotta go."

Spencer nods curtly, straightens, and starts to immediately walk back to the car. I shake my head at his behavior, then follow after.

...

we get called to visit a new crime scene in the morning, this time in a church. Hotch holds the door open for me and I walk in to see a body laid out in front of the pews. an older woman sits towards the back, comforted by a nun.

"how'd they find him?" Prentiss asks the police chief as she leads us to the victim.

"night janitor." she nods to a man being questioned by cops in the corner.

"did he see anything?" I ask her.

"no, but he remembered a parishioner who was here earlier," we walk past the older woman. she stares at us expectantly as the chief talks. "so there could be a potential witness."

we stop at the body of a priest, his eyes covered and a blade lodged in his skull, unsurprisingly. Emily and I stare down at him, realizing the same thing.

"first public killing." she notes as she bends down to examine his wounds. "he's getting bolder."

"the presentation is just as important as the kill." I join her on the ground, snapping my gloves tighter on my hands and turning his head to the side to get a better look at the blade. semi-dried blood coats the tied fabric around his eyes.

"I'm gonna go talk to that woman." Emily leaves. the crime scene agent crouches down on the ground across from me, and I bite my lip before making a strange request.

"would you mind... sliding that thing out of his ear?"

the agent blinks at me in disbelief, probably not wanting to pry a knife out of someone's head, but nods and does so carefully. I squint down at the wound. then I realize something.

"Reid?" my voice carries across the room. Spencer is talking to an officer when he hears me and walks over.

"this doesn't look like a normal blade, but I don't know what it is." I point at the now half-buried weapon. it sits unpleasantly out, the blood catching warm light. Spencer gets down next to the crime scene agent and examines it more closely.

"this is flint." he says slowly, turning to me with a concerned expression.

"like the stone?"

"flint is the symbol for protection and retribution in Egyptian mythology. with hieroglyphics, they used to display dangerous animals like scorpions and snakes being cut with flint knives in order to render them powerless."

"oh." is all I can manage while I process what he's saying. Spencer waits for me to say something else, but instead I bend my head down to pull back the silk tie.

"there's no way that using flint is a coincidence." I reason. the blood is all on the inside of the tie as well, which gives me pause. Reid recognizes this a second later, his eyes lifting to mine. they look almost brown in the candlelight, flecks of gold sparkling in them while his mind whirs endlessly.

"I'm gonna call Garcia to see if any of the victims have been charged with a crime." he tells me.

"good idea." we both stand, the crime scene agent scurrying off to do something else. I head back over to Emily and hope that we're right about this. flint is too specific of a weapon for it not to be intentional, right?

...

we deliver the profile by the end of the work day, our unsub a serial vigilante with a personal edge to all of his killings. my body is slightly shaky from downing cups of coffee without any actual food, so the promise of eating out after we finish makes my stomach eager.

we go to a Chinese restaurant by the station and keep talking about the case, despite having promised ourselves not to do so. I sit between Prentiss and Reid while I dig into my dumplings. I like listening to them swap theories and past cases, how they weave together all their stories.

"you forgot to add something to the profile earlier today, Aaron." Rossi says as he piles more noodles onto his plate. our attention immediately focuses on the Italian.

"what did he forget?" Prentiss has a ghost of a smile on her face. I've noticed that she tends to speak like she's on the inside of a joke that other people don't understand. the intonation of her words feels like a secret.

"I didn't mention the possibility of our unsub being a cop." Hotch takes a sip of his ice water. there's a moment where we all reflect on this information before Morgan breaks the silence.

"I mean, they do know the system."

"they could easily take matters into their own hands, given what they see every day." Prentiss adds. I nod.

"when someone like our victim is killed, police refer to it as a public-service murder." Reid struggles to get the noodles onto his chopsticks, which I notice but don't say anything about. he tries again, the food slipping back onto his plate. Morgan notices this shortcoming of Spencer's and I see that he's about to start teasing him, so I change the subject.

"I saw a lot of rapists walk when I was in sex crimes," I put down my dumpling while I talk. Hotch watches me intently. I haven't spoken much about my previous job with anyone on the team, especially not him. in fact, he barely knows anything about me. "a lot of the victims didn't feel safe pressing charges, or the juries said they were asking for it. it's enough to make you wanna explode."

"it's a long way from feeling like that and actually committing a murder, though, don't you think?" Emily asks.

"not really." I turn my gaze back to my plate and start to feel nauseous. there's a clinking of plates and silverware as we continue in silence. Emily nudges my arm gently with hers and offers me a supportive smile.

I hear Spencer next to me, getting the attention of a passing waiter.

"excuse me," he says in a low tone. "can I get a fork, perhaps?"

Morgan snickers as the waiter takes off to get the utensil. at this point, there's a palpable tension as we wait to see who makes fun of Reid first. he drops his chopsticks into his bowl with a defeated clatter and Derek gently pushes his knuckles against Spencer's cheekbone.

"having some trouble, kid?" he asks. Spencer smacks his hand away.

"don't be mean." I giggle, reaching onto my wrist to grab a hair tie. "here, try this." I wrap the thing around the end of Spencer's chopsticks so that they're easier to use, handing them back to him.

Spencer tries again and it works-- if not somewhat clumsily. he gives me a little appreciative smile and I smile back before returning to my food, listening to the stories that Rossi doles out. he even pays for dinner despite our half-hearted protests.

the entertainment for the evening is pretty nice, but when I've stuffed myself with Chinese food, Emily leans over to me.

"do you wanna go to that museum you were talking about earlier?" she whispers. I peek at my phone to check the time.

"I doubt we'd have much time before they close, but yeah, definitely." excitement bubbles up in my stomach as I realize I might actually get to poke around for a while. Prentiss throws her napkin on the table abruptly.

"Clea and I are going to the Museum of Fine Arts. anyone wanna join?"

I look around to gauge some reactions.

"I'm interested." Morgan nods.

"I've already been several times." Rossi takes a sip of his drink as he politely declines. Hotch shakes his head.

"I have some paperwork I need to finish."

"again?" Prentiss complains.

"I'll go." Spencer sits up straighter as he looks at his brunette friend, folding his napkin neatly on his plate. my eyebrows raise a little, although I'm not surprised that he'd be interested in visiting any museum. we stand and get ready to go; Hotch warns us to be ready to go at seven in the morning tomorrow. a little weight is lifted off my chest as I realize that there will be some reprieve during this case, and then we're wandering out into the evening air.

we ate dinner sort of early, so the sky is still slightly aglow with a bruised shade, preparing to sink into its favorite darkness. after finding the route to the museum, we hop on the train.

Boston is lovely in the kind of way that aches of neat corners and airy lights. stores crammed with antiques and novelty products line the sidewalks, people wander about as they take in a pleasant night. somehow disjointed and cohesive all at once.

whatever bit of conversation we had on the way dissipates into breathlessness once we get inside the enormous entryway. it's cavernous, extravagant, gorgeous. we flip through brochures advertising different exhibits. Emily raves about Impressionism and decides that that must be our first stop, so we head off with the rest of the museum stragglers who have decided to feed themselves with art until they're forced to leave.

my head is constantly spinning to admire something else in the enormous white rooms. it's a bit overwhelming at some points, what with the gargantuan canvases that greet me at every turn. but it's impressive, too, and I find myself hungrily reading all the small plaques. I venture out of the Impressionism vein and into Korean art, my feet carrying me away from Morgan and Prentiss. Spencer broke off a while ago; to where, I have no idea.

I check out vases and pottery, sculptures, renderings of historical events. images from the crime scenes fill my head intrusively. there's no use in trying to shut them out; they've been in my dreams for a while now, the kind that wake me up in a cold sweat. I haven't told anyone about them— I'm sure others get them, too— and I don't want to seem like I can't handle it. every time I close my eyes, I begin to feel the pressure of a knife against my temple.

"a lot of these are from private collections."

the voice causes me to jump, my skin erupting in goosebumps as Spencer stands beside me. he holds his bag against his side and follows my line of sight to the 18th-century bookshelf screen.

"that's interesting." I reply. what else is there to say to that?

"really makes you think about what other art pieces won't ever be seen by the public." he turns and starts walking onto the next work, seemingly done with this conversation. my brow furrows while I watch him go, his posture miserable as a result of his skinny build. he's quite tall.

"what do you mean?" my voice comes out quiet, but it carries in the otherwise empty exhibit. Reid turns around and stops in his place, allows me to catch up briefly. we start to read another plaque by a silver basin.

"you could have a Cézanne just rotting in your attic and it would never be examined by the right scholars." he shrugs.

"I really doubt there's anything nearing that value in my attic." I laugh.

"you ever seen 'Antiques Roadshow'?" he asks non-sarcastically. I balk.

"sure."

"you never know." he's not a man of many words, apparently. I get his message regardless and we continue to walk, him setting out facts for me in neat rows, simple and easily taken in. he's definitely a know-it-all, but not in the way that makes me want to escape his presence. it's sort of comforting, having someone around who just understands everything. his absolute lack of social graces makes him easy to be around, too; I don't need to force conversation because he doesn't care.

we wind up in the mummy section, where the walls tingle with an energy that could only be described as magical.

"spooky." I nod to the domineering sarcophagus lid of Kheperra. a spotlight illuminates all of its intricacies and I make a beeline for it. Spencer trails behind me and we fall into silence as we peer at the exquisite details. it's intimidating, for sure, hulking and made of carved black stone. "you feel that?" I whisper to Spencer, who is enthralled in the image.

the way the spotlight spills over onto him is interesting; it emphasizes the shadow below his jaw and the delicate quality of his bone structure, his cheekbone prominent at the place where his ear meets his face. his lashes are long and lovely, his Adam's apple poking out of a slender throat. he turns to me with a curious expression.

"feel what?"

"the energy change," I smile. "from the ancient dead bodies."

"it's probably just the dark lighting and the media associations you have with mummies." but his eyes begin flitting about the room in a slightly panicked manner. I feel a smirk tug at my lips as I step closer to him.

"are you scared?"

"no," he scoffs and makes a face like I've made the world's most absurd accusation. "why would I be scared?"

"because we're all alone in here..." I use a lower tone to freak him out a little. "who's to stop them from coming out and... snatching us?" when my hand snakes around behind him to pinch his arm, he jumps.

"what the--" he catches sight of the devilish grin on my face. "don't do that!"

"sorry, Einstein." I laugh and turn in the other direction, him following me to the next piece. Spencer doesn't seem to have more thoughts to give on the exhibition, probably still a little creeped out. part of me begins to feel guilty for startling him, even though he constantly does that to me. his footfalls are weirdly soft.

I wonder what Spencer is like outside of work. what he does when he gets back to his apartment. how could someone like him entertain themselves? maybe he just reads books until his eyes glaze over. he definitely doesn't go out often, but maybe he has other nerdy friends. I hope he does. there's something in his eyes that's too viscous for me to grasp, something swimming and pocketed. I'd like to understand it, although that doesn't seem like a great idea to pursue. he barely gives his closest friends information about his life.

we end up at opposite ends of the room, him still examining an entombed husband and wife couple while I check out a canonic jar. the silence in this room is tangible. I wasn't lying when I felt an energy shift— it's like gold and clay and it smells like cracked cinnamon.

I'm trying to get a better look at the detailing when I feel a cold hand wrap around my forearm, easily encircling it. I jolt.

Spencer stands behind me with a playful smile, like he's quite pleased with himself.

"Reid!" I yank my arm away from his long fingers and see him let out that rare laugh. it's pleasant and fills the room with a warmer light as I rub my arm where his fingers held me. I'm surprised he was willing to touch me at all; it's pretty obvious that he's got a problem with germs, which is understandable.

"who's scared now?" he tries to defend himself with his palms when I reach out to gently smack his shoulder.

"you know, I was starting to feel bad for you." I laugh. he smiles brightly and keeps walking into the next room. I realize that the way we move is like two weighted ends of a string. he drifts out on his own, I follow, and vice versa.

I appreciate that he's beginning to loosen up around me, so much so that he smiles at a joke I make in the English Regency section. we walk quickly to absorb as much as we can before the museum closes, but we still don't get through all of it. Spencer isn't much of a conversationalist, and he doesn't really need to be. he listens to me talk, I listen to his erudite observations, smiling when he uses certain terms that sound like they're from someone much older.

by the time a curator tells us we have to go, we've completely lost Prentiss and Morgan and end up meeting back at the entrance. it's pitch black outside; Boston is still bustling, except my legs are tired and I'm ready to crash in bed. we have another packed day tomorrow.

#spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #dr. reid #criminal minds #mgg #fanfic #fanfiction #wattpad #friends to lovers #BAU #slow burn

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