#reid is actually super romantic once hes confident in the relationship

[cmincorrrctquotes]

Reid's flirting: If I were a painter, you would be my muse. Although, even with all the talent in the world, with the highest quality paint, the most luxurious brush, the best canvas, I wouldn't be able to capture your beauty. Most of your grace would slip through my fingers, and even then, scholars hundreds of years in the future would marvel at your likeness. They would debate whether you were real or an idealized sketch of perfection. Divinity out there, if there be any, could not create anything out there that rivals your allure if it were given millenia to prepare."

Morgan's flirting: Damn, did you suddenly developed healthy eating habits? Your ass is looking more and more irresistible everyday!

[goldentournesol]

Operation Make Believe

(Spencer Reid x Reader)

The one where Spencer and Reader go undercover as a couple at a fancy restaurant to catch a prolific unsub.

Length: 5k 

A/N: enjoy this lil fic while i take a short break from my series :D

masterlist

“Okay, so we’re looking for a guy who targets rich heterosexual couples.” Morgan stated from his seat at the round table. Looking at the photos almost made Y/N sick, she nervously twirled one of her rings around her pointer finger.

“He’s quite violent, too. Removing the men’s fingernails and chopping off the women's’ hair? That’s a pretty specific signature.” Emily spoke, glancing at the file.

“So let me get this straight, this man has killed 7 couples and we’re hearing about this just now?” Rossi questioned with indignance.

“Unfortunately, local PD has found it incredibly difficult to track this unsub down. That’s why we’re being called in.” Hotch replied, without even a twitch to his brow.

“So the guy’s good, how are we gonna get him?” JJ asked, leaning back in her chair.

“We know he frequents the local high-end restaurants because that’s where he picks his couples, he almost always picks victims who have just gone to dinner together, judging by the contents of their stomachs thanks to the autopsy reports. We should canvas the restaurants first and ask waiters if they find anyone suspicious. After that, we are sending in two undercover agents to try and lure him out.” Hotch explained and then a short silence ensued.

Y/N looked up from her file to find most of the team’s eyes on either her or Reid, “What?”

“You and Reid are the obvious candidates.” Hotch put it simply. Y/N glanced at Reid nervously, who happened to look just as nervous as she felt. He cleared his throat.

“Can I ask why us?” Spencer inquired.

“You two are the most compatible, considering your friendship and how close you are in age, and it would look the most realistic. We need to be as realistic as possible with this unsub, he is extremely picky. Make it believable. Wheels up in 30.” Hotch answered, straightening the files on the table and promptly leaving the conference room.

Spencer and Y/N both flushed and avoided each other’s gazes until they were on the jet.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay with this? I’m sure Hotch would understand if you’re not.” Spencer leaned over to ask softly once the briefing had ended and everyone settled in for the flight. Y/N looked from the window to him.

“No, yeah, yeah, I’m totally fine with it. I was just a little nervous because I haven’t gone undercover before, but how hard can it be, right?” She sent him a small smile and a shrug, hoping it would hide the nerves.

It turned out to be very hard.

Standing in front of a gross bathroom mirror in a police precinct, she analyzed herself in her fancy dress and elaborate makeup and some part of her found herself wishing it was real. All of it. She wondered what it would be like to actually go on a romantic date with Spencer. If she was being honest, it wasn’t her first time wondering that. Not long after she’d joined the team, she found herself growing more and more attracted to a certain endearing genius. At first it started as a normal friendship, but then he got too sweet, too good to be true. She found herself living in daydreams with him too often. Those daydreams never quite disappeared, they just seemed to permeate other aspects of her life.

Love made you stupid, she was aware. There was not a single moment that passed by that she wasn’t thinking of Spencer. She couldn’t help it, she was like a moth drawn to a flame. Except the flame was Spencer, and she’d never wanted to be burned so badly before. But she’d learned to suppress her feelings. They were coworkers and close friends after all. A romantic involvement could ruin both those relationships if it ended badly.

But now her team was depending on her to act extremely in love with Spencer and she wasn’t sure she could do it without actually raising suspicion to the fact that it was real the entire time. So it’s safe to say she was panicking a little.

“Y/N? We’re ready, you feeling okay?” Emily stuck her head in through the door to ask.

“Huh? Oh yeah, totally ready. I’ll be right out.” Y/N checked her makeup, made sure her earpiece was well hidden, and adjusted her fancy dress to hide her firearm one last time before stepping out. Across the room, Derek immediately finished up his conversation with one of the local officers just to walk over and provide her with a whistle of approval.

“Damn, Y/L/N! Looking good!” Derek outwardly announced, making her cheeks redden immediately.

“Oh shut up, Morgan, I’m still armed.” Y/N snapped back, although he was unable to take her seriously with her flushed features. He sent her a signature dazzling smile and she found it hard to keep one off her own face. 

She turned a little to see Spencer staring at her with wonder. He was dressed in a black three-piece velvet suit with a bowtie. He looked simply exquisite. They both smiled wide as they neared each other, Spencer extending his hand to her in the most gentlemanly of ways. She let her hand slip into his, somewhat glad for the support he gave her because of her high heels while simultaneously getting butterflies at the slight touch of his hand.

“You look beautiful, Y/N.” Spencer smiled and spoke quietly to her, proud that he wasn’t a stuttering mess just yet.

“And you look...expensive.” She let her eyes roam over his outfit before letting out a harmonious laugh. Spencer couldn’t help but grin in response as he adjusted his waistcoat with his free hand. They’d decided that Y/N would be the one carrying a firearm instead of Reid because her dress hid it better than his suit could have.

“Alright, kids, settle down. Now, let’s go over the plan. You’re going to go into the restaurant, sit at a table where you can be sure our unsub, George Mendoza, has a perfect view of you. You’ll have to make it super believable, he has to believe you guys are head over heels for each other.” 

Shouldn’t be hard, they both thought, sharing a glance even though they didn’t mean to. 

Morgan was really selling this. Y/N wondered if he knew…

But then again, if Garcia knew, Morgan knew. She also may have been forgetting that she was on the A team of profilers and just maybe the heart eyes she often gave Spencer gave her away already.

“Now, we know he corners his victims in the parking lot. We have to make sure he follows you out. Prentiss and Morgan will be by the door to follow you two out and hopefully ambush Mendoza.” Hotch explained and the two of them nodded.

“Got it.” She said, already shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the heels making her feet ache. Spencer noticed and dropped her hand, only to wrap his arm around her waist in hopes of steadying her and giving her the extra support she needed. JJ and Emily shared a knowing glance as they watched the subtle interaction between the two lovebirds. Y/N smiled to herself but avoided looking at him in order to keep the redness of her face at a minimum. 

Spencer led her to the black SUV parked outside and they both hopped into the backseat, with Morgan and Emily in the front.

 “Ready?” She asked, looking over to see a nervous-looking Spencer beside her as the car came to a halt in front of the restaurant.

He took a deep breath and nodded, “Ready.” He got out of the car and jogged around it to open her car door. She mirrored his actions and took a deep breath as well before plastering a huge smile across her features as she stepped out of the car. Morgan and Emily drove off to keep from blowing their cover. She and Spencer walked towards the greeter behind the podium, her arm tightly wound around his.

“Reservation for Dr. Reid.” Spencer spoke confidently. Y/N had to keep from biting her lip at how much she loved the sound of that. 

The greeter smiled, “Right this way.” he led them to a table and Y/N was in Mendoza’s direct line of sight.

“I’ve got eyes on Mendoza. He’s sitting with a woman and two bodyguards are guarding his table.” She spoke with a smile to Spencer and also to the team through her earpiece.

“I’ve got him.” Morgan confirmed from wherever he was, apparently he could see inside the restaurant.

Spencer turned to look ever so discreetly and pretended to be looking for the waiter. He noticed Mendoza ogling Y/N and it made him feel sick to his stomach.

“Do you wanna switch seats with me?” Spencer asked, visibly uncomfortable.

“What, why? Are you okay?” She replied.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m...fine, I just thought you might be more,” he cleared his throat, “comfortable if he wasn’t looking at you.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered in her chest for a moment before glancing over to Mendoza, “Well, I’m fine, besides I think it’s better this way..that I’ve caught his eye.” She said with a slight roll of her eyes, making Spencer break into a grin.

“Don’t switch seats, that’ll look suspicious.” Emily spoke into their ears, “Now, don’t be so stiff. Relax, order some food or some drinks, whatever.”

“Alright, alright...relaxing.” She spoke mostly to herself and looked up at Spencer. Somehow looking at him made her feel at ease. His soft brown eyes brought her the reassurance she needed. Her gaze was intoxicating and Spencer could feel his hands starting to sweat as he wiped them on his pants. 

 “So this place is really, really fancy.” She said as she looked over the menu, which she could barely understand, “Wonder why he likes it.”

“He has an intense fixation on rich couples. Perhaps he sees his parents in the couples he chooses.” Spencer said, looking over the menu as well.

“Stop talking about the case!” Morgan’s voice boomed into their ears.

“Right, right! Sorry!” She whispered, “Okay, okay. Spence, tell me about these dishes, I have no idea what to order.”

“Um, okay. Well, I think you’d really enjoy the gnocchi in roasted red pepper sauce, Rossi’d made the same sauce and you’d really enjoyed it then when it was paired with pasta. Also the flavor of gnocchi is pretty neutral so it pairs really well with pungent sauces. Did you know that gnocchi originated in Northern Italy because the climate was better suited for growing potatoes rather than grain?” he continued to speak about gnocchi and all the different sauces one could eat it with.

Morgan had every intention to interrupt Spencer’s ramble but then Emily noticed the heart eyes Y/N was giving him, “Wait, no stop. Look at her, she’s into it.” Morgan chuckled and shook his head at the couple.

“Sorry...you should have stopped me.” Spencer ended his spiel, shyly taking a sip from his glass of water.

“Stop you? Why would I ever do that, you know I love your little tangents. Being with you makes me feel smart, actually. Except when you go on about quantum physics, I cannot keep up with that no matter how hard I try, I’m sorry.” She laughed and Spencer felt his confidence returning, “I can’t believe you made gnocchi sound so good. Now, I have to try it!” She grinned at him and Spencer swore he saw her eyes twinkle.

“What will you get?” She smiled at him, playing with her earring, a nervous tick of hers. Was she really that nervous? Why did she look so good doing it?

“Spence?” She noticed him zoning out slightly but he zoned back in.

“Huh? Oh, sorry um, I was a little distracted.” He blushed a little.

“Oh, by what?” She glanced over her shoulder to see if there was anything distracting behind her.

“Nothing, you just look very pretty.” Spencer complimented and she could not control the intense rush of blood that raced to her face. 

Morgan and Emily both drew in breaths through their teeth, “Daaaaamn, pretty boy’s got moves.” Derek whispered to Emily, their mics off.

Y/N giggled bashfully and looked down at her menu, shaking her head. This is all an act, Y/N. Get it together! Spencer reveled in her flushed cheeks for a moment before glancing down at his menu again, “I’ll probably just get the steak.”

For the next hour, they both made small talk with more encouragement from Emily and Derek. When the food came, she leaned closer to him and he fed her a piece of his steak, completely overlooking the fact that he’d just shared his fork with someone else. The sight of the two of them acting so hopelessly lovesick nearly made Emily and Derek sick themselves. During dinner, Spencer had migrated closer to her and they could barely keep their hands off of each other without any prompting from their earpieces. Y/N now had one hand on Spencer’s thigh and the other was intertwined with his as he draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer ever so slightly. 

Hey, he was probably never going to get to do this again, might as well enjoy it.

They giggled together over stories of their pasts, “I’m serious, my leg was on fire and Morgan had to put me out!”

“Oh come on, you expect me to believe that?” She laughed, her head leaning onto his shoulder.

“Yes!” He exclaimed, laughing. In the midst of her laughter, Spencer felt the overwhelming need to press a kiss to her wonderfully flushed cheek, so he did. He placed a soft kiss to the side of her cheek and made sure to linger enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. The feel of his lips on her cheeks almost sent her in a spiral but she refused to meet his eyes, knowing that her eyes would most definitely give her away. Give away the longing and yearning she felt. She almost didn’t want to catch Mendoza because she knew that meant she’d have to give this up.

“Okay, lovebirds, Mendoza is losing interest. You have to up the ante somehow.” Derek spoke into their earpieces. Y/N was a little confused as to what more they could do to get his attention back to them, but she could practically hear the gears turning in Spencer’s head. She suddenly felt him separate himself from her and get up to walk around their table to be on her other side.

“What is he doing!” Emily whispered to Derek and he shrugged.

“Spence, what are you doing?” Y/N asked as he stood before her, offering his hand just like earlier in the evening.

“Y/N, do you trust me?” Spencer whispered as she put her hand in his. She felt him tug on it for her to stand with him and she finally nodded.

“Of course I do.” She whispered back, glancing around at people’s gazes who were now stuck on them.

“Then just go with it.” He smiled mischievously as he knelt down onto one of his knees. Y/N immediately caught herself hoping that it wasn’t the knee he injured before she realized what was happening. Her hands flew to her mouth in genuine shock. He was proposing, well, not actually proposing, but still! In his hand, Spencer held the ring she usually wore on her pointer finger, he must have taken it off without her noticing.

“Y/N, I have never doubted for a second that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. From the moment I met you, you consumed every piece of my mind, body, and soul. And at first I was afraid at how willingly I’d give it to you, but then I realized that there is not another person on this planet that I’d rather have my soul. You are the light of my life, Y/N. When I wake up in the morning, you’re the first person I think of and when I fall asleep, my thoughts are only occupied by you. There are around 170,000 words in the English language, and no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to express to you just how much I love you. Y/N, will you marry me and make me the happiest man alive?” Spencer stared up at her, hoping the weight of his words would somehow reach her through the guise of the assignment.

Y/N stood there, tears gathering in her eyes from the sheer overwhelming-ness of it all. Never had she imagined (because she has imagined it, if we’re being honest) that the day Spencer Reid would propose to her, it would be fake. The tears slipped out, she felt like sobbing at the artificiality of it all. Luckily those tears were in her favor to sway external witnesses. She suddenly remembered that he’d asked her a question.

“Yes! Yes, a million times yes!” A heavy sob escaped her and Spencer quickly slipped the ring onto her finger. Spectators clapped wildly and cheered for them. That definitely caught Mendoza’s attention. 

She threw her arms around his neck while he hugged her waist to lift her off the ground slightly. Spencer momentarily allowed himself to believe that this was real. In a moment of giddiness, he set her down again on the floor and pulled her in for a celebratory kiss by her waist. It took her a moment to realize what was happening, but soon reciprocated the tender kiss. Although it was short, it was unlike any other kiss she’d had. They pulled away from each other when the clapping and commotion had died down. Spencer had smiled graciously at people who were congratulating them, while she was still completely dazed from the kiss. They both went back to their respective seats, Spencer now back across from her rather than beside her.

Emily had lowkey been hitting Derek’s arm as they kissed, a moment she and JJ were surely going to tease Y/N to the ends of the Earth about.

Y/N had just barely composed herself enough to wipe the remnants of tears from her cheeks which resulted in a low whisper coming from Spencer, “Are you alright?” She nodded and flashed him a smile, one that told him just how not fine she was, but Spencer decided to let it go for a moment. He hoped he hadn’t crossed the line with the kiss.

“Good job, kids. You are definitely back on Mendoza’s radar.” Morgan spoke into both their earpieces.

They waited another 10 minutes before making their exit, their meal already paid for. Spencer had his arm tight around her shoulders as they walked out of the restaurant and pretended to wait for the valet. Derek and Emily still had eyes on Mendoza inside, who waited exactly one minute before he and his bodyguards were on the move.

“Mendoza’s on the move. Y/L/N and Reid, get ready for the signal.” Emily spoke, still in their hiding position.

Y/N took her gun out of her thigh holster and kept it out of view. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand as Mendoza approached them from behind.

“Congratulations to the lovely young couple. Can I just say how well you two suit each other?” Mendoza’s slimy voice began and it made their skin crawl.

“Now!” Emily spoke and both she and Morgan emerged with their firearms raised at the three men.

Y/N swiveled around and aimed her gun at him, “FBI, hands up, now!” She yelled and Mendoza’s men came forward to attack the two of them when they all heard the clicks of Emily and Derek’s guns from behind them.

“Uh-uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Derek taunted. Mendoza visibly deflated and Spencer was quick to cuff him and read him his rights.

“George Mendoza, you are under arrest for the murder of 14 people…” Spencer went on as Emily and Derek cuffed the other two men. Y/N took a deep breath as she watched her teammates stuff them into police cars. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Hotch.

“Nice work, Y/L/N.” He gave her an approving nod and led her back to one of the SUVs. She immediately relaxed back into the seat and took off her heels.

On the jet back to Quantico, Y/N was teased quietly by Emily and JJ but they could tell that something was off about her. She wasn’t as bright as she usually was. Her eyes didn’t shine with the triumph that came with solving another case. Instead she was reserved and proceeded to retreat into herself when the teasing had stopped.

Oh how she wished it was real. She found herself keeping the ring on her ring finger rather than returning it to its rightful place on her pointer finger. She wanted to live in the daydream for as long as she could. Spencer’s words swirled around in her head with no shame or trepidation. She didn’t have an eidetic memory, but she would remember those words forever. Hearing them over and over seemed to have cracked and broken her heart and she was frantically trying to piece it back together. On the far side of the jet, Spencer was in a pool of regret. He wouldn’t have kissed her if he knew it’d make her uncomfortable. She has barely spoken to him since they closed the case and it didn’t seem like she would be talking any time soon. 

Hotch had given them two days off to cool off from the case and get some much needed sleep. Y/N thought that spending time away from Spencer would somehow heal the cracks in her heart, but they only seemed to make it worse. She knows she shouldn’t have cried into that tub of ice cream, but she couldn’t help it. She thought back to her friend who’d just gotten engaged the previous month and while she was never the jealous type, she found that feelings of envy were inevitable. She wondered if Spencer had meant anything he’d said. What did it mean if he did? No, no, she wasn’t even going to entertain the thought that he might feel anything for her. That would only lead to false hope and possibly deeper heartbreak.

But…

The way he’d looked at her when he said he loved her. That couldn’t be faked, right? She was a profiler for goodness’s sake, she should have been able to tell, but it was abundantly clear that her feelings for Spencer got in the way of her profiling skills.

Going back to work was relatively easy, except for the fact that she couldn’t look Spencer in the eye without hearing the words he’d said to her. It was ridiculous of her to even consider the fact that he might have not been just acting. She’d spoken barely two words to him and Spencer was itching all day to speak with her, but he just couldn’t. They were both avoiding each other for the wrong reasons. Unfortunately, their coworkers noticed the obvious shift in behavior. It was so unlike the two to be so awkward around each other. JJ had even caught Spencer doing a 180 and returning to his desk as soon as he saw Y/N at the coffee machine.

Something must be done.

They’d all decided to leave quietly 15 minutes early, minus Hotch and Rossi who were already cooped up in their offices. They hoped the empty bullpen could give them the privacy they needed to talk about whatever they needed to.

“Hey, Em, could you look at this for me? I think--” Y/N trailed off as she glanced up from her paperwork to see an almost completely empty bullpen, “Oh, where did everybody go?” she asked herself and technically Spencer, who also seemed to be totally engrossed in his work.

“Hm, I think everyone left already.” Spencer stood from his desk, bones cracking as he did so.

“That’s weird…” she shrugged and tried to get back to work.

“Um, so what did you need Emily for? I could take a look at it if you want.” Spencer offered, walking over to her desk and leaning on the side of it.

“Uh..y-yeah, sure.” She stammered as she looked for the file she just set down, having him in close proximity was making her mind go numb for a second, “Here, um...I think it was filed in the wrong folder. I’ll just--uh..give it to JJ tomorrow or something.” She swallowed, avoiding his eyes as she showed it to him. 

“Hold on a second, I think...this...goes in here with this case…” he trailed off as he grabbed a folder from his own desk.

“Huh, someone must have accidentally placed it on my desk instead of yours.” She nodded.

“It was probably Anderson.” They both said at the same time, making them both laugh.

 It felt right to laugh with him again. Spencer’s heart skipped a beat when she finally looked up and grinned at him. He felt like the air was somehow restored to his lungs. He watched as she shyly looked back down and tucked some hair behind her ear. He cleared his throat and fumbled with the file in his hand.

“Hey, I--uh...never got the chance to apologize...for uhm, how things went when we were, y’know undercover.” 

Wow, real smooth Spence. Great job.

He watched as her brows furrowed together, eyes lifting to meet his, “What do you mean?” 

“I...shouldn’t have...kissed you, I’m sorry. I just thought...I don’t know, it seemed like most couples usually kiss after proposals and I thought if we didn’t kiss it would have looked weird. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Y/N.” He apologized and Y/N’s heart might have definitely exploded in her chest. Here was this sweet, sweet man who was apologizing because he felt like he made her uncomfortable, as if that’s the reason she’d been acting weird.

“No, it didn’t make me uncomfortable at all!” She laughed it off, shaking her head. My God, Spencer Reid, there really is no one else like you. 

He fought off a relieved smile, “Oh, it didn’t?” She shook her head, laughing wholeheartedly now.

“No, on the contrary, I quite liked it, Dr. Reid.” She rolled her eyes, still giggling.

“Why have you been avoiding me and acting all awkward then?” He laughed with her.

“God, Spencer, did you really think I was being awkward because you kissed me?” She spoke, her arms lifting up and coming back down in disbelief.

“Yes!” he nodded, crossing his arms and shifting as he leaned on her desk, “I thought I’d made you uncomfortable…”

“No...Spencer, that’s not it at all…” She smiled softly but it began to fade as she stared at him.

There are around 170,000 words in the English language, and no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to express to you just how much I love you.

“Then what is it, Y/N? What’s going on?” He pursed his lips, wanting to absorb any and all the pain she’d ever felt in her life.

She had to know.

“The things you said...while you were uhm...proposing. Did--did you mean any of them?” She looked up at him with the largest doe eyes he’d ever seen. Her eyes began to shine with tears as her shoulders tensed with anticipation.

He shifted again uncomfortably at the question and her unfaltering gaze, “I--uh, I did, actually.” The heat rushed to his face and ears, “I definitely did mean them, Y/N. Does--does that make you feel weird?”

“No, no, not in the slightest,” her face broke out into another grin, this one with hints of relief, as she stood up from her desk chair to be at eye-level with him, “actually, if I’m being honest, I wanted you to mean them.”

Spencer smiled as he uncrossed his arms, “Is that right?”

“Mhm.” She hummed, placing both her hands on the sides of his neck, his hands now resting comfortably on her waist. She watched as his gaze never left her lips.

“Can I kiss you?” His eyes briefly flickered upwards to hers for permission.

“Please do.” She smiled before he connected their lips.

It felt right this time. She knew it did because she could finally savor the feeling of her stomach doing somersaults. She knew because she could finally know the feeling of his large hands roaming the expanse of her back in efforts to pull her closer. She knew because she could finally feel the incredibly soft tufts of hair at the base of his neck as she weaved her fingers through them.

In the distance, Hotch and Rossi simultaneously checked the bullpen through the blinds of their offices at the suspicious silence. Both of them shook their heads and laughed at the blooming of young love.

[specialagentsergio]

love, in ink

summary: Spencer wants to do something special to commemorate your relationship. (or, reader and spencer get a couples’ tattoo)

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: fluff

content warnings: tattoos & tattooing, one very light sexual reference bc i'm a hoe

a/n: i recently got my first tattoo and i’ve been absolutely obsessed with tattoos ever since, so here you go. location and design was purposefully left vague so you can imagine anything you want, but i do write reader as already having at least two tattoos.

word count: 2.9k

masterlist

Spencer’s been thinking about it for years.

Two years, eight months, and twenty days to be exact.

Looking back, four months and ten days was pretty early to be thinking of something so permanent. But he couldn’t help it—contrary to how he thinks people perceive him, he’s a romantic. A bit of a hopeless one, really.

In any case, he had been right. Almost three years after your first date, you’re still together and absolutely in love. You live together, your lives are inseparably entwined. Every day has been an affirmation of the conclusion he came to three months into your relationship—you’re the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

So really, four months and ten days wasn’t all that early to think of getting a tattoo with you.

He doesn’t have any, but you do, and he’s always loved them. He likes running his fingers over them, pressing kisses to them, rubbing moisturizer into them, and aiding you in making sure they’re all well covered in sunscreen before you’re going to be outside for a while.

He’d never really considered getting a tattoo until he saw how much you loved yours. It’s one of your favorite forms of self-expression, you’ve told him. You say the body art helps you feel more confident, comfortable, and at home in your body. Confidence in your body—that’s definitely something he could do with. But above everything, because it’s something you love, and Spencer loves you, it’s an experience he wants to share with you.

He brings up the idea over dinner forty-five days before your three-year anniversary. You’re reading while you eat—a common occurrence in your home for the both of you. He spins his fork in his hand a few times, then carefully sets it down and says your name.

You hold up a finger to ask him to wait; he watches your eyes move across the page as you finish the paragraph you’re on. Your attention is on him as soon as you’re finished. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” He’s nervous—he knows you love him, but what if you say no anyways? What if you don’t want to get a tattoo with him? They are permanent, after all. “It’s… I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits.

Your eyes widen when you pick up on his anxiety. “Oh god, are you breaking up with me?”

He nearly chokes on the water he’d nervously sipped. “Wha—no, no!” he rushes to assure. “I—I love you. I don’t—I don’t ever want that.”

You take in a deep breath, carefully putting your book aside. “Alright. Okay.”

“Why would you think I was breaking up with you?” he asks, concerned about the conclusion you’d jumped to. “Are… are you not happy? Are things not good between us, for you? I thought—well, think, they are. Maybe I’m wrong? I could be. I’ve never been the best at reading social clues. Have I missed something? I’m sorry if I have. I--”

“Spence, Spencer.” You interrupt his nervous rambling and reach across the table, placing your hand on top of his. “Things are great between us for me. I love you, too. You were just so serious when you said you wanted to talk, it caught me off guard. It’s… not an uncommon way for a conversation about breaking up to start.”

“Oh. Sorry. I—I didn’t realize it could come off like that,” he says quietly.

“It’s okay. As long as we’re not breaking up, I’m happy.” You give his hand a squeeze before leaning back in your chair. “So, what is it you want to talk about?”

“Right.” He squares his shoulders and wipes his damp palms on his pants. “Our three year anniversary is in forty-five days, and I was thinking to celebrate, maybe we could… get a tattoo together?”

Immediately you break into the most beautiful smile—he’s happy to have an eidetic memory when it comes to moments like this. “Really?” you ask, body tense with excitement.

“Yeah. Really,” he confirms. “I, um… I guess you’re on board, then?”

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Yes, yes, yes! Oh, Spencer this is so exciting! Your first tattoo!”

He doesn’t bother to correct you about calling it his first. He’s got no plans to get more, so this could very well be his only tattoo. But he doesn’t want to dampen the moment, so instead he says, “I don’t really have any ideas for it. I just want to do it with you.”

“Wait here.” You disappear into the bedroom and return with a folded piece of notebook paper. It’s worn and wrinkled, the edges curled in. He unfolds it carefully to find the page covered in your handwriting. Some of the writing looks more rushed than other parts. Some sections are in blue ink, some are in black. It’s clear you’ve been compiling this list for quite a while.

He reads it at his normal, rapid pace, but it takes him a few moments to understand it. “Is this a list of…?”

You nod. “Tattoo ideas.” He looks up at you in… well, in awe, and you shrug. “I don’t want to just get your name on me, as nice as it is.”

“How long have you been working on this?”

“Um.” The answer seems to embarrass you a little. “A… a couple of years.”

“Years?” he repeats. “But you never said anything.”

“I didn’t want you to feel pressured into getting a tattoo,” you say. “Since they are, you know, permanent.”

“Relatively.” He looks back to the paper, running his fingertips over the indents left by the pressure of the pen. “They naturally fade with age, and can age prematurely through sun exposure.”

“Yeah. Listen, it’s okay if you don’t like any of my ideas.”

Spencer shakes his head—he likes a lot of them, but he already knows which one he wants—he knew as soon as he read it. He points. “This one.”

You bend down to see it and smile. “I was hoping you’d pick that one.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, and presses a kiss to your cheek.

---

You handle pretty much everything, contacting one of your favorite artists and pitching the idea. You’ve been tattooed by her before—specifically, she did his favorite of your tattoos. So he’s happy to have her do this one, too, putting down the deposit without hesitation. The artwork she sends back is everything he pictured and more. She’s taken the idea and brought it to life better than he could ever hope to. A few tweaks here and there, then the date is set. You’ll be getting tattooed the Friday before your anniversary.

Yours will be done first, near the end of his work day—when he arrives, you should be just about done. It’s not exactly how he imagined it happening, but you said it would be better this way. If he sits and watches you get the entire thing done, you think he’ll end up psyching himself out about his own tattoo.

“Is it really that bad?” he had asked.

You shrug. “Well, it’s pain, so it’s obviously not super fun, but it’s tolerable. You overreacted when I stubbed my toe last week, so I think it’s probably best if you’re not there watching me the entire time.”

“I don’t like seeing you in pain,” he defends sheepishly.

“Exactly. I’ll keep you updated with texts and pictures, though, okay?”

He agrees, because honestly, you’re probably right.

Getting into bed with you the night before he asks, “What does it feel like? Besides it just hurting.”

“It’s different for everyone. It also depends on where you get it.” Spencer bumps your arm with his nose, silently requesting for you to adjust your position in a way that allows him to press as much of his body as he possibly can against yours. You place your hand in his hair once he’s settled, as usual, then continue. “It does kind of… vibrate. That’s something I didn’t expect going into my first tattoo.”

“Vibrate?” he repeats. “That’s… well, I guess it makes sense, considering how tattoo machines work.”

“Mm-hmm. But I wouldn’t worry about that part if I were you. Last time I checked, vibration isn’t a sensation that bothers you.” A very slight tug on his hair. “The opposite, actually.”

The squeak he makes is involuntary. “I, um… okay. I’ll—I’ll keep that in mind.”

He’s treated to a little laugh, but then your tone changes. “Seriously, though, Spencer. It’s okay if it ends up being too much, or just not for you, and you can’t finish the tattoo. Or if you just don’t want to finish it. I won’t be mad.”

He’s taken by surprise at first. It is a worry that he’s been harboring, that all the sensory input will be too much, but he’s never said anything about it, so how did you know?

Then again, it’s you. Of course you know. You always do.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

---

“Hey, how can I help you?”

Spencer looks up from his phone to the woman who’s just come into the front of the shop from the back. As promised, you’d kept him updated on your tattoo process with texts and pictures.

“Um, I—I have an appointment?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but he’s really nervous—you were definitely right to have him come in later than you so he doesn’t have enough time to get really worked up.

“Who’s it with?”

“Megan.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Megan is currently with someone. I can go ask her how long the wait will be.”

“No, it’s okay, she’s working on my partner. We’re—we’re getting tattoos together,” he explains.

“Oh, fun! I’ll lead you back, then.”

He follows her to an open doorway. Your body is still and unmoving; Megan is hunched over your skin. You smile when you see him. “Hi, Spencer.”

“Hey. Um, how’s it going?”

You sigh. “Well, to be honest, I think this is going to be my last tattoo.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Megan says without looking up.

The little angry huff you make before replying with “I know” makes him smile, and his nerves settle a little. “Why do I do this to myself?”

Spencer can tell it’s just a rhetorical question, asked in good humor, but he can’t stop himself from answering it regardless.

“There are many different reasons that could drive someone to get a tattoo despite the pain, including the adrenaline and endorphins the body produces in response to pain, stress relief, and the need for creative expression.”

“Stress relief?” you repeat. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

“It is a strange concept at face value. An example, though, would be getting a tattoo to mark the end of a difficult period in your life. Some people get them to symbolize personal difficulties or trauma, or to memorialize people they’ve lost. It can be a form of catharsis that helps them process painful emotions, memories, or other stressful feelings.”

Your head tilts as you take the information in. “That’s interesting.”

“Alright.” Megan leans back. “It’s done. Go take a look.”

Spencer follows you to the full length mirror. “Oh, wow,” you breathe out as soon as you see it. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Spencer.” You touch his arm. “What do you think?”

It takes him a few moments to answer because he’s been overcome with emotion. He’s overwhelmed with just how much you love and care for him to have permanently embedded a reminder of him into your skin. “It’s perfect,” he whispers.

“It is,” you agree.

You return to Megan and she takes a few photos of the tattoo, promising to text them to you, then gets started on the aftercare. “You know the drill,” she says, but still gives you the instructions for what to do as the artwork heals. He only barely registers what she’s saying—his eyes are glued to the tattoo.

“Okay, let me get everything switched out and cleaned up, and then we can start on yours, Spencer.”

“Hmm?” He tears his gaze away to find Megan looking at him. “Oh, right. Okay.” He sits off to the side with you while she disposes of supplies, replaces them with new, sterile ones, and wipes everything down.

She works fast—before he knows it, Megan has shaved and cleaned his skin, and has him in front of the mirror as she places the stencil. It takes a few tries to get it just right. He apologizes when she has to print the stencil again, but she waves him off. “It’s your tattoo and it’s going to be on you forever. I want you to be one-hundred percent happy with the placement.”

His nerves spike back up when he’s settled down and all ready to be tattooed. You sit in a chair on the opposite side of him than Megan, and when you offer your hand, he grabs it immediately.

“Breathe, baby,” you say gently. “Try not to tense up too much.”

He does try, but still jumps a little when Megan’s gloved hand touches him. “Sorry,” he says breathlessly. “I’m a little nervous.”

“Oh, no, you’re fine,” she reassures. “I won’t start until you’re ready.”  

“I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay. I’ll start with just one small line.”

It’s a strange sensation, unlike anything he’s felt before, but it’s… not horrible. He’s been scratched by cats in the past, and it feels kind of like that, but hot. There’s the vibrating you had mentioned, too.

“How was that?” Megan asks.

“Not so bad,” he answers honestly.

“That’s great. I’ll keep going then. Settle in. Just let me know if you start feeling funny or if you need a break, alright?” At his nod, she goes to work, and he switches his attention to you. He knows he shouldn’t, that it’ll probably come back to bite him in the ass, but he can’t stop himself from teasing you.

“I don’t know why you were complaining earlier,” he says in his best innocent voice, with his best innocent expression. “It’s not that bad.”

The way your mouth drops open just a little bit is adorable, and so is the noise of disbelief that follows. “Yeah, okay. Tell me that again at the end.”

“I will,” he replies, mentally adding probably not to the sentence.

You roll your eyes and let go of his hand to sort through your things. You give him a lollipop when you find it.

“What’s this for?” Suckers aren’t really his favorite candy.

“Your adrenaline is probably going to drop now that the tattoo has started and I don’t want you to pass out,” you say. “The sugar will help prevent you from getting lightheaded.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

The tattoo goes well overall, he thinks. It’s definitely painful, but like you said, it’s tolerable. He’s certainly felt worse. Near the end, though, he really starts hurting, and a grimace slips across his face.

“She’s almost done,” you reassure. He hasn’t been looking at it, but you have. “Also, what was that you saying earlier?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “It’s not even the needle, you know. It’s the paper towels.”

“A lot of people say that,” Megan says. “Just a few more minutes left.”

He spends those last few minutes questioning every decision he’s made in his life that has led him to this moment, and swearing to himself that he’s never going to do this again. But then it’s over and he’s looking at in the mirror, and it’s suddenly like the past five minutes never happened.

Spencer loves it. He absolutely adores it. Not just the art itself, but how it looks on his body and how it’s making him feel.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you ask, making him jump a little. He’d been so fixated on the tattoo that he didn’t notice you joining him.

He ponders for a moment to find the right words. “I’m beginning to understand why you like doing this so much.”

You grin. “It’s great, huh?”

“It is, yeah. I kind of want to touch it; is that weird?”

“No, but don’t,” you reply. “It’s an open wound.”

“I know.” He looks back at Megan. “This is perfect. Thank you so much.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she says. “Thank you for trusting me with your first tattoo.”

When he drags himself away from the mirror, she goes over aftercare with him, and he listens more intently this time. A few things are going to be a little inconvenient, he thinks, but it’s more than worth the trade off.

You take his hand as you leave the shop. “I’m so happy that I got to do that with you.”

He squeezes your hand back. “Me too.”

You reach the car, but before he can move towards the passenger side, you pull him in close. “I love you.”

His free hand comes up to cradle your cheek. “I love you, too.”

You kiss him, soft and sweet. “Happy three years,” you say when you pull back.

“Here’s to three more?” he offers, a little nervous, but mostly hopeful.

Your smile leaves no room for doubt. “I like the sound of that.”

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

hit up my inbox if you wanna talk tattoos bc i fucking love them. what do you see spencer getting with his partner?

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor​ , @spencerreid9​

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Sharp Edges

Sam Winchester x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~4880

Warnings: BDSM. Pain play and impact play (hands only, no tools) and discussion of sadism/masochism. The working title for this was “Reluctant Sadist Sam.” Memories of a time Sam pushed the limits of a previously negotiated BDSM scene. Very brief non-explicit masturbation. No actual sex, but it’s very sexy... or at least I think it is? 

A/N: This pairing just, like, snuck up and made itself my OTP when I wasn’t looking, and I’m kinda obsessed with it. Big thanks to @mskathywriteswords for a super helpful edit, to @stunudo for an early read and characterization cheerleading (plus this whole Spencer Reid Thing, which is pretty much her fault), and to @fookinghelljensensthighs, for a brainstorming sesh about crucial jizz-related plot questions. 

Sam hesitates outside the door for longer than he wants to admit. He’s been thinking about this for years, now. It’s not like there’s any doubt left in his mind, but stepping through that door makes it real. Until he steps through that door, he can brush this off; he only acted on the impulses when he didn’t have a soul, right? They’re not his. Not really. 

They are. He knows it. 

Years of wondering, guilt, self-loathing. Months of research, asking around, making connections. Weeks since he got the invitation, weeks of nervous anticipation and doubt. Fuck if he’s backing out now, even if he does feel like he’s choking. 

He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and goes inside. 

He’s not expecting Lindsey to remember him, but she does, and she greets him with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing knee-high boots and a corset that shoves her cleavage up toward her chin, and Sam feels underdressed in his plain black t-shirt, not to mention painfully inexperienced. 

“Want a soda or anything?” she asks brightly, like she’s the head of the PTA instead of the dungeon mistress. “Need me to show you around?” 

“No, thanks,” Sam says, tucking his hair behind his ears nervously. “I think… I think I might just want to hang back for a bit.” 

“Of course, sweetheart, whatever you need.” 

Sam’s good at hiding his fear; he’s practically made a career of it. He puts on his most confident mask and starts walking. 

He’s not really sure where to look, at first. His immediate instinct is to avert his eyes. There’s a startling amount of skin on display, but more importantly, there are scenes being played out all around him that are straight out of Sam’s fantasies - the dark, secret ones - the ones he couldn’t admit to, for most of his life. 

It took losing his soul to ask for what he really wanted. 

The memories from that time, back when something important was missing, are tinted red and foggy. He was selfish, when he didn’t have a soul. It’s the one thing he’s always vowed not to be. 

He met a girl in a bar, somewhere in Colorado, and he took her to whatever grimy motel he was calling home that night. When he asked, she giggled, giving him some stupid line about needing to be punished, but when she realized he didn’t just mean a couple light smacks on the ass, she asked him to stop. He shrugged, fucked her anyway, and told her to leave. 

The next night, he found a professional, and he made sure they negotiated the price before he took her back to the motel. Even then… Sam feels a twist of guilt when he remembers the moment her moans became whimpers of pain,  the look of apprehension in her eyes when she realized she might be in over her head. She never used her safeword, but he knew she wasn’t comfortable with it.

He’d made it up to her, of course, afterward, even before he paid her, but it wasn’t out of any selfless desire to see his partner enjoy herself. It was just ego, just another game. The predator in him just wanted to see if he could make her beg for more after she’d begged him to stop. 

When Sam got his soul back, there was a laundry list of foggy red memories that made him feel slimy and sick with shame, but that little vignette was one of the worst. 

Sam doesn’t want it to be like that. He doesn’t want to be that brutal, selfish person who got what he needed, no matter the cost. 

He wants romance: dinner and a movie, flowers, shy first kisses. He wants those things, but he’s starting to realize that he needs more. He needs that sharp edge of pain with his pleasure. He knows, logically, that there are people out there who need to feel it, in the same way he needs to cause it. It’s a matter of finding the right puzzle piece, is all. 

All around him, now, he hears people asking for more, yes, harder, and there’s a sweet, breathless relief coursing through him. He pauses in front of a couple, watching the dom unclip his partner’s leather cuffs from where she’s chained to a ring in the wall. She’s smiling as he murmurs something Sam can’t hear. 

“Please,” she says, beaming up at her partner with this incredible blissed-out expression on her face. 

Sam’s stomach swoops with such an intense longing that it’s almost painful. He looks away. 

He wants that. 

Sam glances around the room again, and his eyes catch on a man who looks like he should be in a college lecture hall, instead of a BDSM party. The guy sticks out like a sore thumb in this sea of black and red and leather; Sam can’t help but notice him, and once he notices, it’s hard to tear his gaze away. He’s wearing a sweater-vest and a tie, for fuck’s sake. He’s got a mop of long, messy hair that makes Sam want to tug.   

The longer Sam looks, the more he notices the sharp edges. The guy is tall and twig-thin, gangly, all elbows and angles. The line of his jaw looks like it was cut with a razor. 

It’s not just the shape of him, though, that’s making Sam think of glinting steel and the rasp of a whetstone. The guy is on his own, hanging back in the same way Sam is, observing… his eyes dart around the room, glancing back and forth, taking it all in with a bright, clear, whip-smart awareness. He’s not smiling, and there’s nothing about his body language that’s welcoming. If someone handled him the wrong way, he’d slice them open.

Sam’s hands twitch. He wants to fit his fingers to the angle of those bones, thumb along the underside of the jaw, index finger running up to the cheekbone. He imagines it would be a perfect fit. 

Sam shivers and looks away. 

He sneaks a glance again, a few seconds later. The guy’s looking right at him. Sam’s stomach flips. He smiles hesitantly, and gets a blatant assessment in return, an appraising up-and-down. Sam feels like he’s passed some sort of test when the guy starts walking toward him, weaving easily through the crowd. 

He stops abruptly when he’s in front of Sam, and Sam feels off-balance, somehow. 

“I’m Spencer,” he says, in a soft scratchy voice that makes Sam want to lean in to hear better. 

“Sam.” He sticks out his hand. 

Spencer doesn’t take it; he waves instead, an awkward little gesture that’s oddly goofy and endearing, even with the frown line creasing his forehead and the shrewd expression on his face. 

“You’re the new guy Lindsey was telling me about.” He tilts his head, almost birdlike as he blinks and waits. 

“I… guess so? Why would she…” 

“I assumed she meant new here, but you’re new to all of it, aren’t you?” It’s not a question. 

Sharp, Sam thinks again, flustered. He shrugs. 

Spencer’s eyes flick over his face like he’s reading lines of text. There’s something closed-off about the way he’s holding himself, tension in his features, mistrustful or maybe defensive. 

Spencer licks his lips as he thinks, and Sam stares at his mouth. His mouth isn’t all points and angles like the rest of him; it’s plush and pink, wide, expressive. 

“Hey, Professor,” says a woman, brushing a hand down Spencer’s arm as she passes, and Spencer gives her a quirk of his lips that’s not quite a smile. 

“Are you really a professor?” Sam asks. 

“No. It’s just because of the way I dress.” He says it matter-of-factly, but Sam notices the way his eyes drop for a second. He’s self-conscious. 

“I can’t picture you in leather pants,” Sam says wryly. 

“But you’re trying, aren’t you?” Spencer asks, with a flicker of an amused, mischievous smile. It’s gone just as quick as it came, but it leaves Sam feeling warm and pleased. He already wants to see that smile again. 

“I think I missed the memo about the uniform,” he admits. 

Spencer glances around and says, “I can see how adhering to a certain set of aesthetic cues would help members of a subculture identify each other in everyday life, but it does seem unnecessary here. Something about dressing up just to meet expectations seems disingenuous.” 

“You’re really not a professor?” Sam asks, almost unbearably curious. 

“No.” Spencer hesitates. “To answer your earlier question, Lindsey told me to keep an eye out for you because she seemed to think we were here for… similar reasons.” 

“Oh,” Sam manages. He feels hot and cold and panicky, and he wishes he’d gotten a drink, if only to have something to do with his hands. “You, um. You like…” 

“Pain,” Spencer says crisply, with an almost clinical detachment. “I enjoy experiencing pain. And you enjoy inflicting it.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, mouth dry. 

Spencer’s watching him closely, frowning again. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.” 

“I… yeah,” Sam says. “I guess I know that? Just, um, I always thought of myself as pretty traditional. Not big on one night stands, I like… relationships.”

“And you don’t think people who are into BDSM can have traditional relationships?” Spencer asks, smirking slightly. 

Foot, meet mouth. 

“No, not like that, I just - if I’m into someone, I want to treat them right. I’m a romantic.” 

“A beating can be very romantic,” Spencer deadpans. 

Sam sputters out a laugh. “I - I guess. Sure.” 

“So, what, you’ve always been about the Al Green and missionary, and you figured you’d try something new?” His voice is dry and amused, and he’s watching Sam, just waiting for a reaction to the needling. 

“Not exactly,” Sam says, grimacing. 

“What, exactly, then?” 

Sam can’t remember the last time anyone made him feel like this, like the conversation is a fencing match that he’s losing spectacularly; Spencer disarmed him already and is still toying with him, landing one glancing blow after another, just to see if he can. 

Sam stammers for a second before saying, “I’ve always been interested in this, I just - never had an opportunity, really.” 

“Don’t lie. You don’t have any reason to be embarrassed,” Spencer says, frowning. 

Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He forces himself to spit out the truth: “I always wanted to think of myself as a nice guy. The things I want… there’s nothing nice about what I want, when it comes to sex. I couldn’t admit that until recently.”

Spencer smiles, and his whole face is incandescent with it. He tamps down the wattage of the smile with a twitch of his lips, eyes darting around as he thinks. Sam gets the feeling he already knew the answer, and was just waiting to see whether Sam would admit it. 

“It’s not always about sex,” Spencer offers. “Sometimes you just… want to get out of your head, you know?” 

Sam considers that for a moment, and he looks at Spencer, watching his fingers as they tap a silent rhythm against the side of his leg. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and he’s proud of himself for how steady his voice sounds. 

“Maybe.” Spencer meets his gaze evenly. “But you’re very strong, very inexperienced, and very anxious, and that’s not usually a good combination in someone who gets off on being in charge.” 

Sam bristles instinctively before he hears the question in it. 

“That’s not - it’s not like that,” he says with a sigh. “It’s not a power trip thing. It’s not about overpowering someone, I don’t want to tie you up, I don’t - it’s not like that. And I’m not inexperienced.” 

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You said -” 

“I’m new to this,” Sam interrupts, and gestures around them at the party. “I’m not new to… pain.” 

For the first time, there’s a hint of curiosity in Spencer’s eyes, an inkling that he doesn’t have Sam quite as figured out as he’d thought. 

“Why are you here, then? What do you want to get out of this?” Spencer asks. 

Sam thinks about that, trying not to fidget as he figures out how to say it. 

“I don’t want it to be just about… what I get out of it,” Sam says slowly. “I want someone who - who needs it the same way I do, so that it’s not… I don’t want it to be something I do to someone, I want to do this with someone.”  He hesitates and adds, “With you. If you want.” 

He can see Spencer analyzing him, analyzing his words, weighing the odds, calculating the risks. 

“I’m not going to have sex with you. Not tonight,” Spencer says coolly. “You can touch yourself, but I’m not going to touch you.” 

Sam shrugs. “Okay.” 

“No tools, no toys, no restraints, not the first time.” His voice is dispassionate, matter-of-fact, like he’s reading out a grocery list. “Just your hands. You can scratch, but don’t draw blood.” 

“Okay,” Sam says. He’s glad Spencer said it before he had to admit he wasn’t confident enough, yet, to use a flogger on a stranger. His voice cracks. “Safeword?” 

“Lateral orbitofrontal cortex.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes, I’m aware that it’s three words.” 

It startles a laugh out of Sam. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Spencer’s mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile. “Seriously. But I only say ‘stop’ if I really mean it.” 

“I understand. If I didn’t get the joke, would you have called this whole thing off?”

Spencer’s lips twitch again. He just shrugs. “Anything else we need to talk about?” 

“After?” Sam asks. “What can I - how do I help, afterward?” 

Spencer pauses, a strange expression flickering over his face for a moment before he says, “Don’t leave?” 

It sounds like a question. Sam doesn’t think it was supposed to sound like a question. 

“Of course. Is that all?” 

Spencer shrugs. “That’s all. Just. Stay, for a minute. I’ll tell you, if there’s anything else I need. That’s the only thing I… can’t always bring myself to ask for, in the moment.” 

He gives Sam a very practiced, casual sort of smile, nonchalant, blinking up at him innocently as if to say I’m fine! See? 

The protector in Sam is snarling. He just nods calmly. 

“What about you?” Spencer asks. 

Sam frowns, taken aback by that. It didn’t occur to him that he might need to be taken care of. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Is that okay?”  

“Yes. That’s okay,” Spencer says. This time his little half-smile is sweet and genuine. 

Sam looks around nervously. “Is there anywhere more private? This isn’t really...” 

“Agreed,” Spencer says. “There’s an open door policy, I’m sure Lindsey explained, but there are other rooms where there won’t be a crowd.” 

He leads Sam through the living room, heading up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. Sam catches glimpses of scenes through three open doors before they reach the last room. It’s small, some sort of office, he thinks, lit dimly enough to feel comfortable. There’s no bed, just a loveseat, an end table, and a desk with an office chair, but the desk holds an assortment of toys, chains, and condoms instead of a computer. 

It’s quieter, here. It feels warmer, too, but that might just be Sam’s nerves kicking in. He glances at the open door instinctively as Spencer starts to loosen his tie. 

Spencer notices, of course. “There’s an understanding, with the regulars, that this is where you go if you don’t really want an audience.” 

Sam nods and turns to get a better look at some of the implements on the desk, skin prickling with adrenaline. He runs his fingers over the sleek handle of a riding crop, imagining the sound it would make on skin. 

He’s all too aware of his own inexperience, and he’s all too aware of how badly he could hurt someone with a misplaced blow from the gorgeous leather whip that’s lying next to the crop. He’d want to practice, first, and he’d want to be with someone he trusts, but there’s no denying that he wants. 

Someday, he thinks, and shivers. 

When he turns around again, Spencer’s putting a neatly folded pile of clothes on the loveseat. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as he straightens up, tilting his chin almost defiantly to meet Sam’s gaze. He still looks sharp around the edges, from the angular shape of his Adam’s apple, bobbing as he swallows, to the jut of his hipbones. There’s something brittle about the way he holds himself. 

“Where do you want me?” he asks quietly, with a crack in his voice that belies the careful blankness on his face. “Um, bearing in mind that most of this room is probably highly unsanitary and I’m something of a germaphobe. Minimal contact with furniture would be… ideal.” He wrinkles his nose and Sam huffs out a laugh. 

“Over here. Brace yourself against the wall.” 

Spencer walks over silently and settles with his forearms on the wall, his head bowed, and goes completely still. 

Sam lets himself stare for one long moment, taking it all in: the delicate curve of his bent neck, the prominent ridge of his spine, the lean muscles that shift under pale skin, shoulder blades that Sam wants to run his thumb across to test whether they’d cut him as easily as he imagines. 

There’s tension in the way he’s holding himself, though. Sam frowns to himself and steps closer. 

Sam’s been hiding this, his whole life; he’s been burying this sharp, nasty piece of himself, ignoring need in favor of romance, affection, emotion. He didn’t think they could coexist. 

He has a feeling that Spencer’s been doing the opposite: slipping into this formal, scripted exchange of limits and safewords and scientific explanations, being perfectly clear about what he needs but never admitting what he wants. 

The party is still going on outside, but the silence between them is heavy enough to drown out the noise of it. Sam takes one deep breath, then another, syncing his inhales to the steady rise of Spencer’s shoulders, and sidles closer, standing at Spencer’s side where he’s visible.

He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he’s crossing a line, before following his instinct and resting a gentle hand on Spencer’s back, right between his shoulderblades. Spencer doesn’t flinch at the touch, but Sam can tell he’s surprised.  

“You good?” Sam asks quietly. 

Spencer turns his head slightly, looking sideways at Sam through long lashes. 

“I’m good,” he whispers, in that soft, smoky voice.

“Okay.” 

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth crooks up in a shy half-smile. “I’m not gonna break. I’m stronger than I look.” 

“I’d fuckin’ hope so, cause you look like I could snap you with my pinky finger,” Sam says bluntly. Spencer ducks his head and laughs, bright and surprised, and Sam can feel the vibrations of it under his palm. 

“Fair enough,” Spencer says, grinning as he goes still again. He’s not tense any more, though. He’s calm, breathing evenly under Sam’s hand. 

Sam rests his fingertips on the nape of Spencer’s neck for a moment, making his intentions clear. The first drag of his nails is gentle, nowhere near enough pressure to sting. He twists his wrist to drag them back up along the same path, still gentle, and then moves to repeat the process on a new strip of skin, once and then again. He can see the goosebumps running down Spencer’s arms, the way his neck arches, silently asking for more. 

“Are you sure?” Sam asks. 

His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation when he whispers, “Yes.” 

Sam curls his fingers in and drags one knuckle down the knobby bumps of his vertebrae. 

“Okay,” he repeats. 

Every lingering bit of doubt and hesitation and anxiety disappear with the first sharp crack of his palm coming down. Spencer hisses in a breath, shivers, and Sam exhales with him. 

His body goes fizzy and focused, suddenly. It’s like in the last moments of a fight, when Sam knows he’ll win, he knows exactly what to do, he sees what needs to happen with absolute clarity, and all that’s left is to trust his muscles to get the job done. It feels good. It feels like this is exactly where Sam’s meant to be. 

Two more blows, in quick succession, and the next exhale is more like a gasp. The sound sends heat lancing through Sam’s gut. 

He’s careful about it, precise, still holding back, as he moves lower. He knows how to use his hands, how to hit with just the right amount of force, which spots will hurt, which spots he should avoid unless he wants to cause real damage. Sam’s been practicing for this his whole life, in a way. 

He lands a light smack on one thigh, then the other, then harder, on the same spots. Sam’s vision tunnels down to the red flush that’s already blossoming on Spencer’s pale skin. Something dark and possessive curls in his stomach. 

The next impact pulls a rough, gorgeous sound from Spencer’s throat. Sam gives him a second to recover before doing it again, and then again, until his palm is smarting with the force of it. 

He pauses abruptly. He can see the way Spencer tenses, waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. Instead Sam brushes the tips of his fingers over red, heated skin, feather-light, making Spencer shudder, before dragging three fingernails delicately up his spine again. 

“I like the way my handprints look on you,” Sam says quietly. Spencer sucks in a shaky breath. Sam rakes his fingernails down again, digging in this time, and Spencer’s exhale breaks on a low, gravelly groan. 

The raised red lines trail down his back, a perfect set of three all the way down the right side of his spine. Sam takes a moment to admire them before giving him a matching set on the left.  He traces those lines again, smoothing them with his fingertips, fascinated by the feel of raised flesh. 

Spencer is trembling, but he’s still, waiting, ready, and there’s a dizzying level of trust implicit in that stillness. 

Sam’s blindsided by the gut-punch of arousal he feels at that realization. He takes a deep breath, putting it to the side. He’s determined to prove to himself that this doesn’t have to be selfish. 

He brings his hand down again with a powerful snap of his wrist that makes Spencer whimper. His skin must be sensitive now, blood rushing to every spot Sam’s marked, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. 

Sam puts some muscle into the next one, and that’s saying something. He’s strong, he knows he is, and he pauses to gauge the reaction. Spencer lets out another of those breathy, beautiful whimpers, and Sam can see the shudder that goes through him. Sam rakes his fingernails up the tender, overheated skin he just hit, nothing gentle about it, and Spencer arches his back, squirming slightly. 

He’s panting; they both are. Sam realizes that they’re breathing in sync, and he takes another deep heaving breath that matches the rise and fall of Spencer’s shoulders. 

Sam gives in to the urge, finally, and tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair, tugging his head back so Sam can see his face clearly: eyes closed, lashes fluttering, a sheen of sweat on those lethal cheekbones, his mouth slack. There’s a flush decorating the pale skin, patchy, spilling all the way from his cheeks to the hollow of his neck and down his chest. He looks totally relaxed, peaceful, like he could melt under Sam’s hands. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Sam bites out, before he can help himself, and then asks, “You good?” 

“Yes.” It’s a gasp more than a word. Spencer’s eyes are still closed. 

“More?”

Spencer licks his lips and swallows hard, and Sam watches the way his throat moves with it. He whispers, “Please.” 

Heat thuds through Sam’s belly, urgent and overwhelming. He ignores it, ignores how hard he is, ignores everything but the way Spencer’s head lolls forward when Sam releases his hair and the way he moans at the next hit. 

Sam’s not holding back any more. 

There’s a rhythm to it: the sound of his palm, crack, and the choked, rasping sound that it pulls from Spencer’s lips, nnngh, and the steady thump-thump of Sam’s heartbeat pounding in his ears, and it crescendos quickly, until the ragged cries turn desperate and wrecked.  

“Last one,” he warns. 

Crack.

“I need -” 

Sam thinks of Spencer’s “no touching” rule, but he can’t bring himself to move away entirely. He tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair again, tugging gently and then combing through the messy curls, and Spencer leans into it, catlike. He lets out a deep, ragged groan as he touches himself, movements fast and urgent.

“Did so good,” Sam says fiercely. His fingers twist and tug, sharp enough to sting, and he curls the other hand around Spencer’s side, digging his thumbnail into the ridge of his hipbone. That’s all it takes; he can feel the head-to-toe shudder, the last surge of tension before Spencer shakes almost violently under his hands.

Spencer crumples like a puppet with his strings cut. 

“C’mere, I’ve got you,” Sam says hoarsely, getting an arm around him and maneuvering so that they both have their backs to the wall as they slide to the floor. 

Spencer ends up tucked against Sam’s side, folded under his arm like he belongs there. He’s breathing harsh and heavy, and Sam cups the round of his shoulder with one hand, running his thumb in mindlessly soothing circles, waiting for him to come back to himself. 

As for Sam… he’s hard, still, more turned on than he can remember being in a long time, but there’s the strangest sense of calm settling into his body, a bone-deep satisfaction that has nothing to do with sex. 

This isn’t the same vicious, feral sort of satisfaction that he remembers. It’s nothing like crimson-tinted memories of lashing out rough and wild, like some sort of savage animal he’d unleashed. There’s nothing selfish about this.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathless at the wave of blissed-out relief that’s crashing down around him. 

“You good?” he asks, falling back on what seems to be his mantra for the evening. 

“I’m… no, not really, hang on,” Spencer mumbles, and Sam flinches, moving away instinctively. 

“Shit, sorry, what -” 

“No, wait, that’s not - just… can you reach the tissues, or do I actually have to stand up right now?” Spencer asks, with a disgruntled sort of glare at the box of Kleenex on the end table. 

Sam laughs, awkward and self-conscious. Spencer blinks owlishly up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then a smile spreads over his face slowly and he’s laughing too as Sam leans and stretches over to grab the box. 

“The male orgasm is really inconvenient sometimes,” Spencer mutters. 

Sam lets out another snort of laughter, looking away to give him some privacy as he cleans up. He’s not sure what the etiquette of this whole situation is; it’s such a strange thing, oddly intimate, and even though Sam’s still fully-dressed, he feels exposed in a way he’s not used to. 

“Now I’m good,” Spencer says quietly. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, but he tilts his head back against the wall and aims a hazy, heavy-lidded stare at Sam. His lips part and curl up in a barely-there smile, and his tongue flicks out over the pink curve of his lower lip. 

Those edges that Sam first noticed are harder to see, now; he’s all soft eyes and softer mouth, flushed skin, messy hair… all except the line of his jaw. That’s still wickedly, unmistakably sharp. 

Spencer should come with a warning sign: handle with care. Sam’s not sure who that sign would be protecting. It could be handle with care: fragile, or, just as easily, handle with care: sharp edges. 

Either way, there’s a good chance of someone getting hurt here. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sam asks. 

Spencer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with surprise, and his pupils are huge and dark, liquid-looking, hypnotic. He blinks, slowly, and suddenly looks about ten years younger. He’d been so self-assured ordering Sam not to draw blood; that confidence is gone, now, like he’s had less experience with kissing than with telling people how to hit him. 

Oh, Sam thinks, and tries not to let his own surprise show on his face. 

“Yes,” Spencer whispers. He licks his lower lip again before adding, thready and shy, “Please.” 

Sam reaches out slowly. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers curl around the side of Spencer’s neck, sliding through thin, sweat-damp strands of hair. The L-shape of his thumb and index finger slots to the angle of Spencer’s jaw. He can feel the bone under thin skin, the way the pad of his thumb nestles so neatly between the hard edge of jawbone and the soft give of vulnerable throat. 

It’s a perfect fit.

.

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