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fairyysoup · 7 months ago

Text

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again.

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever.

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you.

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world.

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing.

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you.

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you.

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt.

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture.

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough.

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you.

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him.

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else.

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me.

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.”

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?”

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.”

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.”

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.”

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur.

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear.

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.”

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t.

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now.

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected.

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin.

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier.

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate.

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is?

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet.

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window.

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes.

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins.

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?”

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now.

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder.

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again.

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan.

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs.

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue.

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief.

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.”

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.”

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it.

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again.

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you.

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap.

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness.

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head.

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it.

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does.

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down.

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet.

To keep you quiet.

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.”

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table.

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other.

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss.

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear.

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

#eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #a quiet place day one #roses*#eric x reader #eric a quiet place day one x you #eric a quiet place x you #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric fan fiction #eric x you #joseph quinn

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aureatelys · 1 month ago

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nobody does it like you do

pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner/fem!reader rating: explicit w.c.: 10k.... a/n: dbf!hotch party ended months ago but im still here

summary:

You don't mean to start something with your dad's best friend during your summer break.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI PLSSSS, dbf!hotch yippee, no y/n, reader is mid-20s and hotch is mid 40s, reader is kind of a brat and also very sexual and forward :), car sex, handjobs in car, v fingering, dom/sub, dirty talk, light degradation kink, size kink if u squint, light choking at the end!, unprotected sex, tbh some plot to mostly porn

read below or on ao3 here <3

You’re nearly half-naked when you first meet him.

It was the first morning back at home during your summer break in your first year of your Master’s program. You hadn’t been home in several months, blaming your rigorous coursework and the full-time job you had, but luckily you were able to use nearly a month’s worth of PTO to coincide with your summer off.

You had gotten in late after flying across the country, but your body still woke up like clockwork just before 9 am.

Currently, as you make eye contact with the tallest and most attractive man you have ever met while wearing a tank top and shorts that barely covered your ass, you couldn’t tell if that was a blessing or a curse.

You had heard your dad rave about what basically sounded like a crush he had over the phone for nearly a year. Aaron Hotchner apparently works with your father at the FBI, albeit in a different department, and they hit it off at a recent gala by discussing golf, expensive scotch, and being annoyed about the latest budget cuts. One Saturday at the country club’s golf course later, your father was hooked, and Aaron has been over at the house nearly every weekend since.

You remember your dad saying something about how he’s hardworking, better than he is at golf, and much nicer than he looks. He didn’t say anything about how hot he was.

You were stumbling out your bedroom and rubbing at your eyes when you had nearly run into him on the way to the bathroom. You’re still waking up, but you see the genuine surprise and something like want on his face before it’s gone, a neutral expression taking over his handsome features. The clench in his jaw betrays him.

“Excuse me,” he says. His voice is low, deep in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “I was just heading into the restroom.”

You blink at him, your mind still not having not caught up yet. “Uhm.”

“I can just go to the one downstairs,” he says, giving you an easy smile. It makes him look even more devastatingly attractive and you feel dazed. With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back downstairs without another word.

You distantly hear your father downstairs calling your name and asking if you’re awake. You feel rooted to the spot, flustered.

You try your best to go through your normal bathroom routine, but your heart still hasn’t calmed down yet. It’s been a while since you’ve dated and even longer since you’ve slept with someone, thus you’ve had a lot of quality time with yourself recently, so seeing the way this older man reacted to you was enough to have you preening a bit. You weren’t imagining it, right?

You tell yourself that you’re feeling lazy after a long day of traveling and not wanting to change yet as you head downstairs into the kitchen, absolutely not hiking your shorts up a little and shimmying your tank top down.

“Good morning,” you chirp as you step into the kitchen. Your dad is already sitting at the dining table, most likely finishing his second cup of coffee, and his face lights up when he sees you as if he wasn’t the one to pick you up from the airport late last night. Aaron is standing in the kitchen next to the coffee machine, pouring into a travel mug.

You ignore the way you can feel Aaron’s dark eyes rove over you; the top of your breasts nearly threatening to spill out, your hard nipples poking through your top, and the curve of your ass peeking out from underneath your shorts.

“Morning, pumpkin,” your dad says cheerily, clearly oblivious to what’s going on between his friend and his own daughter. “This is Aaron, he works at the Bureau with me, I told you about him?”

You vaguely remember when you stalked through his Facebook profile several months ago after your father was tagged with him multiple times. The pictures of him were always blurry, never giving you anything to go off of.

As you stand next to him in the kitchen and crane your neck up to look at him, you realize the pictures really don’t do him justice. He’s handsome, almost boy-ish with the way his hair is clean and not gelled down like in the pictures, flopping in front of his forehead. He’s wearing a tight red polo, showcasing his broad shoulders and forearms in a way that makes you want to drool a bit. His brow is pinched, jaw tense, and you almost think you can hear his teeth grinding when he attempts to keep his eyes on your face and not on your chest.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hotchner,” you say, giving him an innocent smile. You ignore the mug your dad must have left on the counter for you and stand up on your tiptoes to retrieve one from the overhead cupboard.

You feel a rush of exhilaration when you hear Aaron suck in a breath at the way your tank top hikes up your stomach. When you turn back to him, because he is technically in the way of the coffee machine, you catch the way his eyes sharpen and the way his hand grasps at the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white.

And then it’s gone, just like earlier, replaced with something almost professional, probably the same expression he makes when something ticks him off at work.

Interesting.

“Aaron is fine,” he says, stepping out of the way of the coffee machine and then holds his hand out for you to shake.

You can feel your dad watching you, so you make an effort to tone it down a bit. You put your hand in his, swallowing when you notice just how large his hands are and the way he grips you a bit tighter than what would be considered professional. When you look back up at him, there’s something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron,” you repeat. It’s worth it to see a smile grace his face, replacing that smirk, and causing something fuzzy settle in your chest.

When he lets go and makes his way to sit across your dad at the table, you ignore how your hand suddenly feels like it’s burning.

“We’re about to head to the golf course here in a couple of minutes if you wanted to join?” your dad asks as you pour your coffee and sit down at the head of the table.

You hum and experimentally kick your feet out in Aaron’s direction to where he sits to your left. You make contact with his knee, and you watch almost gleefully as Aaron just barely jumps in his seat. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, just quietly sips at his coffee. It really shouldn’t turn you on the way it does. “I’m okay, I was just planning on hanging out here and catch up on my shows.”

“You sure, pumpkin? I know it’s been a while since you were out on the course but…”

“I think that’s exactly why I shouldn’t come with you,” you laugh. You pull your chair up closer to the table, making it look like you were just trying to get comfortable, when really you just wanted to cop more of a feel of Aaron’s thighs.

“Alright, alright,” your father says, putting his hands up in defeat. “But don’t forget about the retreat later this week with the guys.”

You pause from where you were just about to dig your toes underneath his thigh. “Retreat?”

“I told you about it when I picked you up last night!”

“I think you forgot that you picked me up at one in the morning and I was half-asleep in the car,” you roll your eyes. “But of course I’ll go with you.”

“Great!” Your dad says with that big smile on his face that always makes you feel nostalgic. You don’t really want to go, was honestly just planning on relaxing at home, but if it makes your dad happy and you get to spend more time with him, then you’ll do almost anything.

And if Aaron’s coming too, then well…

Your dad gets up to put his mug in the sink and starts making his way out of the dining room. “You ready to go, Hotchner?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Aaron says, a barely detectable rasp to his voice that has you hiding a smile in your mug.

You’re about to put your foot down when you feel thick fingers circling your ankle and lifting your leg up until your ankle is resting on Aaron’s knee. You nearly squeak in surprise, but the look on Aaron’s face stops you.

He would look calm, composed even, if you didn’t pay attention to the way his eyes have darkened. His brow is pinched, lips pressed into a thin line, as he tightens his grip on your ankle and asks in a low voice “What kind of game are you playing here?”

Not expecting confrontation, you don’t know what to say. Your breath gets stuck in your chest, something about the glare he’s giving you keeps you rooted in your chair.

Because there’s really only two options here. He’s your dad’s best friend, at least 20 years older than you, and you really have no business in sexually riling up this guy you’ve never met before until today. You can apologize, give him a genuine and friendly smile, and go back to your room and pretend this never happened and you weren’t just throwing yourself at some hot older man.

But there’s something about Aaron that you can’t quite put your finger on. You wonder what it would be like to see him without those walls he undoubtedly keeps up all the time, see him come undone. You can tell from his Facebook pictures that he’s a bigshot of some kind, always wearing a fitted suit and not a hair out of place. You can see that now, in his pressed polo and matching belt, that he likes control, his skin nearly thrumming with it. And that’s something you’ve always enjoyed playing with.

You noticed the lack of a wedding ring on his finger, and the way he’s gazing into you now. The hot trail his hand leaves behind as he starts running up your shin, past your knee, and grip at the meat of your thigh says all you need to know.

“What game?” you say, innocently. You even play it up a bit by batting your lashes at him.

His grip on your thigh tightens, and it feels so good, and it’s been so long, you resist rolling your eyes back and instead spread your legs just a bit underneath the table.

“Your father didn’t tell me you were such a brat,” he mutters.

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” you say, hoping you don’t sound as out of breath as you feel.

Aaron doesn’t say anything at that, just hums thoughtfully. You don’t have a chance to backpedal, redirect the conversation if you were reading the whole situation wrong, before he’s placing your leg back on the floor with a gentle hand on your ankle and getting up.

“We can talk more about what you want to do after school later,” he says, raising his voice a bit in an effort to appear like he wasn’t just groping you underneath the table.

You almost don’t hear what he says because your gaze is fixed on the obvious tent in his khakis. Your mouth nearly waters, and just knowing that you’re having the same kind of effect on him as he has on you has heat pooling between your thighs.

You shake your head, resisting the thoughts of throwing yourself on your knees in front of him and taking him in your mouth right in the dining room. You grin up at him and, in an impulsive decision that you’re secretly proud of, you reach over to put a hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.

“Absolutely, Mr. Hotchner.”

Your smile grows wider at the stormy glare he gives you before he heads out of the dining room, imperceptibly adjusting himself in his pants. Your eyes follow him out, cheeks nearly starting to hurt from how hard you’re smiling because damn, does his ass look good.

It’s your summer vacation, you may as well have some fun, right?

Since then, you’ve barely seen Aaron.

You had made Aaron and your father sandwiches, knowing they’d be home by the afternoon. You tried not to let the fact that you were upset, disappointed even, show on your face when your dad came home by himself and told you that Aaron got called for a case.

You knew from your dad that this was a normal occurrence for Aaron and that they’ve both gotten used to it. So many times there would be a gala or a party at the house and he would be called away to chase down a murderer or a rapist or a combination of the two.

You tried not to let it get to you, because seriously, you just met him, but also, it’s not like he owes you anything. But you really hoped that he wouldn’t miss the retreat later that week. Just imagining spending time with him in your lone hotel room was enough to make you dizzy.

So, you distracted yourself. You caught up on your emails, watched those shows that had been piling up in your watch later list, and spent time with your dad at the golf course or whatever else he wanted to do that day. It was nice spending your summer vacation with your dad and catching up on what he does at his boring administrative job and the lack of both of your love lives.

By the time Friday rolled around, there was still nothing but radio silence from Aaron, at least you assumed since your dad hadn’t mentioned him. You almost wish you had asked for his phone number before he left, but it wouldn’t have done you any good to waste a whole week sitting by your cellphone, waiting for a probably dry text from some guy.

A really hot, older guy that definitely has control issues and could toss you around like a ragdoll.

You’re throwing your bag in your car’s backseat and was about to admit defeat, that maybe he really wasn’t going to make it, when a black Range Rover comes skidding down your street and into your driveway.

“There he is,” your dad said in a sing-song voice, sounding about as giddy as you felt.

Your breath catches in your throat when you see him stepping out of his car, because how the hell is it possible for a man to look so attractive doing something so mundane?

And then your eyes nearly bug out because he has his suit jacket hanging from his arm, a duffel bag in the other, and is wearing a white dress shirt so tight that you could see the bulge of his biceps and the softness of his stomach.

“Sorry I’m late,” Aaron says, jogging up to where you and father were. “We just got back a couple hours ago.”

He looks at you then with those pretty brown eyes, looking genuinely apologetic, and the disappointment that you were afraid was going to take a permanent place in your chest gently unravels.

“It’s no problem, Hotch,” your dad waves him off. “We’re still waiting for some of the other guys, so you made it just in time.”

“Great,” Aaron breathes in relief. “I’m going to go change then, I’ll be right back.” His eyes flit towards you again, and you would’ve missed it if you weren’t still staring at him. They’re piercing, undoubtedly beckoning you to follow him, and there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You feel a rush of excitement shooting through you as you watch him head towards the front door, eyes fixated on his hips. There was no clearer sign than that one, though you try not to roll your eyes fondly at the fact that your dad evidently did not notice as he goes back to playing Tetris with his bags in the trunk.

You wait a couple of minutes, pretending to play on your phone, and then exclaim “Oops, I almost forgot my phone charger! I’m going to run upstairs and get it.”

Your dad just gives an “Okie dokie, sweetie,” and then his phone rings with who you assume is one of his friends you’re waiting for.

You try to not sprint to the front door, instead taking a deep breath and walking in what you hope looks like a normal pace. However, as soon as the front door clicked shut, you run up the stairs, hoping Aaron chose your bathroom rather than the one downstairs.

Not spotting him waiting outside the bathroom, your heart nearly drops out from underneath you, however you notice the closed door and the soft golden light from underneath telling you that you were right.

You were right and maybe you weren’t imagining things. He knew you would listen to his unspoken instructions and follow him. You weren’t a profiler like him, not an expert at studying other people’s body language, but there was nothing fake about the fact that he got hard at your dining room table and you had only known each other for 10 minutes that Sunday.

The click of the door opening disrupts your thoughts. You’re about to grin up at Aaron, say something cute like how you’ve missed him or something more playful like asking why he hasn’t called you.

But you don’t get the chance because you’re suddenly being pressed up against the wall, warm hands on your hips, and Aaron’s soft mouth pressing into yours.

He swallows your gasp, his fingers inching up the hem of your tank top to touch the skin of your waist and kisses the life out of you. His lips are chapped and he tastes fresh, like he had a breath mint on the drive here, and the thought that he had that foresight just for you makes your knees weak.

He kisses you deeply, not even bothering to start gentle like so many other boys have tried before, and it’s overwhelming and not enough at the same time. You’re helpless to kiss back, your body finally catching up, and your hands come up to tangle at the soft strands at the nape of his neck.

He hums against your lips at that, his hands starting to move underneath your shirt to trace the swell of your breasts through your bra. It tickles, and you squirm a little and huff a laugh against his mouth before you can help it.

Before you could apologize and tell him to stop tickling you, his hands press your hips harder against the wall and his lips break away from yours. You attempt to chase him, because you were definitely not done making out, when Aaron tuts at you.

“Behave,” he warns lowly, but he has a full-blown smirk now. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, and his lips red and glistening. He looks so unbearingly sexy when he’s reprimanding you, he just makes it so easy for you to tease him.

“Or what?” You ask, smiling up at him. You watch as his smirk falters, brows furrowing, and something like frustration and exasperation blooms on his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aaron breathed, before he’s leaning in and pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He scrapes his teeth against the spot where your shoulder and neck meets and your knees actually buckle this time, something like a strangled moan coming out of your mouth and catching you by surprise. “Looks like you do know how to watch that mouth of yours.”

Any snarky comeback you have dies in your throat because you did not expect Aaron to have that kind of dirty mouth on him. Molten heat starts to pool at the bottom of your stomach, between your thighs, as he slips the strap of your tank top down your shoulder to trace your collarbone with his lips.

“Aaron…,” you whisper, letting your hands fall from his nape to grab at his shoulders, trail down to grope at his biceps. The sleek muscle you can feel even through the fabric of his polo that he changed into, tensing and flexing as he pushes at you, sends your mind reeling.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he mutters against your shoulder, his warm breath and the pet name making you feel paralyzed. “Cat got your tongue?”

Your eyes roll back as you feel him biting a mark onto your chest, right underneath your collarbone, the pain and pleasure tingling all the way down to your cunt. You say something unintelligible, brain feeling muddled, because holy shit.

“Hey pumpkin, did your find your charger? We have to get moving!” You hear your dad’s voice from downstairs and barely swallow back a gasp before Aaron’s hand is pressed over your mouth to quiet you. You hate that that does absolutely nothing to help the growing arousal between your thighs.

Aaron’s eyes meet yours. His eyes have gotten impossibly darker, soft hair falling against his forehead. The wild desire and excitement are clear on his face, but he raises his eyebrows at you to signal you to behave before he lifts his palm off your face.

“Coming!” you yell back at him, hoping the strain in your voice isn’t as obvious to him as it is to you.

Aaron hums, something smug playing at his lips. “Maybe later.”

And it’s ridiculous. Aaron Hotchner, stoic Unit Chief of an FBI unit, best friend of your dad, and 20 years older than you just made out with you so hard that your knees buckled and made a joke about making you come?

You huff a laugh, pushing at his shoulder so you can wriggle out of his grip. He lets go immediately, stepping back to give you several feet of space, and you try not to think about how you already miss the heat and weight of his body against yours.

You’re about to run downstairs, an excuse about realizing you already packed your charger on the tip of your tongue, when Aaron is circling his fingers around your wrist. You look back at him curiously, because as much as you want to, there definitely isn’t time for him to ravage you in your bedroom.

He looks much more composed now, more like his professional SSA Aaron Hotchner self, but you catch the way his eyes linger on the way your shorts ride up high and the soft expanse of your thighs. “I’m serious. We’ll finish this later.”

And it’s the way he doesn’t pose it as a question, but rather a guarantee. Like nothing is going to stop him from having his way with you.

The thought of being completely at Aaron’s mercy has you breathless, feeling a flush rise on your face and your pulse between your legs. He has you stunned speechless, because you’ve never been with someone who has made you feel complete and utter want. You look at him now, chest imperceptibly heaving and making that olive green polo tug across the wide expanse of his chest, you realize that he may just ruin other people for you completely.

Your throat clicks when you clear it, and you only feel a little embarrassed when Aaron doesn’t hide his smirk at you. All words have died in your throat, so you nod instead, hoping that he will take that as an answer.

If possible, Aaron looks even more smug at that.

“Good girl.”

The drive to the hotel where the retreat is being held is only 2 hours away, which would’ve been perfectly easy, if you weren’t stuck in the car with Aaron.

You were planning on driving your own car with the top down, wind in your hair, and music blasting. You wanted to spend at least part of your summer vacation doing girly summery things, such as driving into the night with your hair whipping your face and feeling the humidity making your tank top stick to your back.

You also thought you would have time to yourself to think about Aaron and what the hell you got yourself into.

Instead, because you can’t tell if the universe loves or hates you, you have to take Aaron’s Range Rover because everyone else’s cars are packed full, and your dad wouldn’t let you drive by yourself. You tried not to show the excitement bloom on your face when your dad told you, but by the pointed look that Aaron gave you, you didn’t do a very good job.

So, it’s just you, Aaron, and the incredibly tangible sexual tension between you.

The first 30 minutes was easy. It took a while for everyone to find the correct route and there was a lengthy discussion over the phone about whether anyone wanted to stop anywhere for any reason. Eventually, you and at least 4 other similarly lavish cars made it onto the highway.

Aaron was silent for most of the phone call, saying that he didn’t have anywhere he wanted to stop at, and was just looking forward to the fancy clawfoot tub the hotel advertised on their website. You threw a glance at him at that, wondering if he was trying to tell you that he wanted to fuck in the bathtub, but nope. His eyes were firmly on the road, both arms on the steering wheel like a responsible adult or whatever.

You weren’t sure how he was able to act like nothing happened—like you weren’t about to let him just fuck you up against the wall in your childhood home, because currently, you felt like you were about to jump out of your skin from the nervous energy thrumming through you.

You fully ogle him now since it’s not like you have anything to hide. Even his side profile is attractive, but at this point you’re not surprised. Everything you’ve been noticing about him has been steadily driving you wild; the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint traces of stubble, and the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.

You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he deadpans “You’re staring.”

You grin at him before you could help it. “It’s not my fault you’re so handsome. They should study you in art classes, maybe you can even get naked for it?”

The snort that comes out of Aaron’s mouth is sudden, and by the way his eyebrows pinch together like he’s thinking hard, he notices as well. “You really are insatiable.”

“You say that like we’ve even done anything yet,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, turning your head to the window to stare at the sun setting. It would be nighttime by the time you got to the hotel, but you’re already sleepy and debating taking a nap while Aaron drives.

You jump when you feel his hand on your thigh, large and warm. You’ve had other men put their hand on your thigh while they drive and it’s nice, maybe even comforting at times, but with Aaron, the action feels darker. It feels more possessive, heated, and just the sight of his huge hand squeezing the flesh of your thigh has you unconsciously squeezing your legs, trapping the tips of his fingers between them.

“Can you behave?” he wondered out loud. “Because you’re not showing me that you can until we get to the hotel.”

The challenge is clear in the deep timbre of his voice, nearly condescending in a way that makes your breath quicken. You vaguely thought about what he had planned for you at the hotel, luckily you had a whole room to yourself since none of your dad’s friends’ daughters wanted to come. You don’t necessarily blame them—you probably wouldn’t have come either if it weren’t for Aaron and the undoubtable promise that you will have the best sex of your life.

And you do want to wait, honestly. But right now, watching the way his biceps flex in the golden light and remembering the way he desperately grabbed at your hips has you rethinking.

So, you give him an innocent smile, reminiscent of the one you gave him earlier this week, and take a hold of his hand to intertwine your fingers together. The action is slightly risky, implying something about your relationship that neither have you discussed. You may be overthinking it, worried that Aaron would think you’re jumping to conclusions, but all of your reservations disappear when Aaron’s hand squeezes yours and brings your joined hands to rest in his lap.

He gives you a soft smile, one you’ve never seen before that makes your chest tighten, and turns his gaze back on the road.

The following 10 minutes are quiet besides the soft roar of the engine and the gentle hum of the radio. The sun setting washes the interior of the car with a warm gold, and you can’t help but notice the way both of your hands, still clasped together, just look so good together. Like you perfectly complemented each other.

You blame it on the fact that you’re starting to get bored when you wiggle your hand to free yourself from Aaron’s grasp to run your fingers along the top of his hands. You trace each knuckle before tracking the visible veins with a light touch, your fingers running up his wrist and to his forearm. The dusting of hair is soothing when you place a firmer hand onto his forearm, gripping it, and your heart thuds in your chest when you notice your thumb and middle finger can’t even touch each other.

He's just so big. His arms, his hands, his shoulders. The way he can so easily overpower you, manhandle you, domineering in a way that makes you want to act out even more just to see what he would do.

He throws you a curious glance when your hand moves up to his bicep, squeezing and feeling.

“Just touching,” you say, and then Aaron’s eyes are back on the road.

The next thing you do is completely spontaneous, out of character for you even, however you know being impulsive is what got you here in the first place.

You place your hand on his crotch.

He doesn’t jump because, of course not. If anything, he was expecting it by the way he just gives you another curious look. Your eyes are instantly drawn to the way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips and the sudden clenching of his jaw.

“Still just touching,” you repeat and turn your focus to your phone with your free hand, leaving your other hand in his lap.

You scroll mindlessly through several different apps for a couple minutes, not even reading anything because you’re too stunned with the fact that Aaron didn’t say anything or remind you to be on your best behavior. Your hand is still precariously placed on his crotch, the seam of his jeans warm against the palm of your hand.

You start scrolling more intently now, reading the entirety of at least every other post, before you start tentatively rubbing your fingers on where you can definitely feel the head of his dick through his pants. Aaron inhales sharply, so quietly you almost don’t hear it, and it’s all the permission you need.

You start pressing more firmly, grabbing him through his jeans to the best of your ability and tracing the line of his slowly hardening cock through the rough material. You grope at him, nearly shamelessly now, and it takes all of your willpower to not throw your phone to the backseat and jump into his lap.

Instead, you place your phone at your feet and turn your body towards him. His back is ramrod straight and his hands are grasping at the steering wheel like his life depends on it. If anyone passing by looked through the window, they would just assume that Aaron was one of those extremely attentive drivers. However, up close, you can see the tense line of his jaw, the way his brows are pinched together, and the way he’s attempting to hide the way he’s starting to breathe heavily through slightly parted lips.

It's intoxicating, and you want more.

Your hand begins to move up his zipper to the top button of his jeans. His eyes dart to you then, craning his neck slightly to look at you but also making sure to keep his eyes on the road, as if the road is even that busy.

“You really can’t listen, can you?”

That condescending tone again makes your brain nearly short-circuit. It’s like a dam breaks because suddenly you’re leaning over the console, making your breasts nearly spill out from your tank top, and you want him in your mouth and coming down your throat if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. “Can I?”

“Can you what, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Christ. “Please, can I suck on your cock?”

He hums nonchalantly, as if you can’t see the way he shifts in his seat or the way he’s hurriedly unbuttoning his jeans with one hand. “’Please?’ Looks like you do have some manners.”

And then he’s taking his cock out and you nearly combust on the spot. He’s not fully hard, but you still want nothing more than to feel him on your tongue.

You’re just about to unbuckle your seatbelt to throw yourself into his lap before he stops you by placing his hand over yours.

“Not your mouth, we don’t want other people to know what a dirty girl you are. Use your hands,” he says, nonchalant again in a way that makes your heart race and the ache between your thighs grow.

Although the idea of being caught with your head in his lap and cock down your throat suddenly sounds extremely appealing in a way you’ve never thought of before, you have no choice but to listen and follow his instructions.

You hesitatingly wrap your hand around him, watching in near fascination at the drop of precum that leaks out. He’s big here too, satisfyingly thick and warm in your hand. You move your hand up to smear the wetness around him and then start a steady rhythm of pumping his cock.

A strangled groan comes out of Aaron eventually, and you watch as he attempts to throw his head back in ecstasy while still watching the road with half-lidded eyes. The wide expanse of his pretty throat tempts you, imagining what it would be like to pepper kisses up to his tense jaw to help him relax.

He’s fully hard now, precum steadily leaking out and coating the palm of your hand. You attempt to vary your actions; twisting on the upstroke, squeezing when you’re at the base, or tracing your thumb against the head of his cock. The loud squelching noise makes you feel embarrassed and hot all at the same time, the way it’s drowning out the radio’s music. Your mouth waters as you watch the head of his dick disappear in your fist, wishing you could taste him or see the sheer bliss on his face as he fucks your mouth.

“You couldn’t even wait to get your hands on me, could you?” Aaron murmured, nearly sneering at you. “I bet if I let you, you would let me pull over and fuck you here on the side of the road.”

You swallow nervously, clenching your thighs and trying to ignore the obvious wetness you can feel in your own panties. You squeeze him harder, enthralled by the feeling of his hot flesh against you, and breathlessly whisper “I would.”

He hisses at that, nearly bucking his hips up to follow your hand. “You would let me fuck you anywhere I want.”

It wasn’t a question, but you still feel compelled to answer. “Yes.”

Just then, Aaron’s phone rings from the phone mount on the dashboard. Dread and something awfully similar to delight prickles at the back of your neck when you notice the caller ID being your father. You’re about to retract your hand until Aaron gives you a look out of the corner of your eye, almost like a glare, before his own hand is hot over yours to keep you there.

“Keep going.”

Before you can think of a snarky remark, Aaron swipes at his phone to answer.

“Hotchner.” Nonchalant, casual, as if he doesn’t have his leaking cock in the hands of his best friend’s daughter.

“Hey Hotch, we’re coming up on a great burger joint here in a couple of miles and I wanted to see if you guys were alright with that? I think we lost you.”

You must have been extremely distracted because you’re just now noticing you can’t see your father’s car ahead of you anymore. There are only a few cars on the highway now after finally passing all the city traffic, now driving through a somewhat rural area. You don’t blame yourself after all, because how often do you find yourself giving handjobs to hot older men in their cars?

“I was actually thinking of pulling over at a rest stop, someone’s not feeling well.” Aaron cranes his neck, raising an eyebrow at you.

Even in the darkness of the summer evening and the sparse streetlights bouncing off the dashboard, the pure and primal desire swimming in his eyes is clear and causes a flush to rise to your face.

“Yeah, it must have been lunch,” you attempt to joke, hoping that the rasp in your voice doesn’t give you away. You feel Aaron’s cock twitch in your hand.

Your dad hums through the tinny speakers. “Yeah, you don’t sound so good.”

You notice the car slowing down, not realizing that you were pulling up to a secluded area of a rest stop, right underneath a tree. You glance out the window and take in the fact that the nearest car is over 10 spots away and the closest streetlight is burnt out. You think of the discreet dark color of the car and the tinted windows. Anticipation curls at the bottom of your stomach.

“We’ll let you know when we’re back on the road.” And then Aaron immediately hangs up, parks the car, and leans over the console to kiss you with a hand cradling your cheek.

He cuts to the chase again, kissing you so deeply that your head spins. His mouth is soft but he’s assertive even like this. His hand moves to the back of your neck, taking a hold of you, and your mouth opens in a moan before you can stop yourself, allowing Aaron’s tongue to brush against yours.

When he pulls back, something like a needy whine erupts from your throat. You don’t realize that your hands moved to grasp at his polo, leaving Aaron’s cock free and pressed against his stomach.

“You drive me crazy,” Aaron mutters, brushing a lock of hair behind your head. His gesture and words are impossibly soft, a complete contrast to how he was kissing you, making your breath stutter in your chest.

“You drive me crazy,” you whisper breathily. “Please fuck me?”

He huffs a laugh at that, something you’re slowly starting to become familiar with, and tightens his hold on the back of your neck. There’s nothing soft in his eyes anymore. “Get in the back, now.”

You scramble to get out of the car, legs nearly shaking. The summer humidity is cloying, suffocating, and you rush to open the door to crawl in the backseat.

The seats are just as large and plush as up front, however there’s definitely more foot room that you’re sure Aaron will appreciate. You’re waiting in the middle seat, legs tucked underneath you, as you watch Aaron tuck himself back into his jeans and step out of the car with an air of nonchalance that somehow makes him even more attractive.

When he opens the door to climb into the back, your eyes meet and you suddenly feel frozen to the spot, because he starts to encroach into your space, nearly predatory. There’s a glint in his eyes as he places his hand on your back, lowering you so you’re laying on the seats. You unconsciously spread your legs so he could situate himself between them, and the feeling of his large and warm body between your thighs has you hitching them up on his hips.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been thinking about this,” Aaron murmurs before ducking his head to press his mouth against your jawline, down your neck, and finally finally sucking a mark where your shoulder meets.

You exhale a shaky moan, bringing your hands up to run down his back and feel how wide his shoulders are and how you can feel his muscles tense as he moves. The wet heat of his mouth, his obscenely large hands on your hips, and the way his figure nearly engulfs you is mesmerizing.

He pulls back to take a look at you, thumb coming up to press into the mark he made and putting light pressure against your neck. There’s something wild and possessive in his eyes, his lips parted like he can’t believe what’s happening. “There you go. Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”

It feels like your breath is knocked out of you and replaced with something equally possessive. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

Something dark passes over his face. “And here I thought you were going to behave.”

Before you could say anything, Aaron is swiftly lifting your tank top up and over your head, throwing it somewhere towards the passenger seat, and groping your tits. He thumbs at your nipples, watching in awe as you arch your back and push your chest further into his hands. The sudden sensation, pleasure zinging up your spine, after being teased for an entire week is dizzying and you want to drown in it.

“You’re so needy for it, aren’t you?” Aaron says, casually, as he pinches at your nipples. You choke on your moan, the initial sting melting into pleasure that makes you feel drunk. “You’re practically begging for my cock.”

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out. Your hands scramble at his shoulders, running up to tangle the soft hairs at the nape of his neck between your fingers. “I need your cock inside me.”

He leans down to suck one of your nipples in his mouth, deft fingers continuing on the other. His mouth is so deliciously wet and hot, expertly licking around you in a way that’s slowly unraveling you, and you shiver when you think about where else his mouth can be of use. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head and you cant your hips up desperately in an effort to gain some sort of friction against the nearly overbearing ache between your thighs.

His hands come down to press your hips down in an effort to make you stop squirming and you feel him shift until his knee is pressing between your legs and against your pussy through your shorts. The feeling of his warm hands on you and the seam of your shorts rubbing against your clit causes an embarrassingly high-pitched whine to escape your throat.

“You’re teasing me,” you pant, tugging at his hair experimentally.

Another raspy groan erupts from Aaron and, if possible, you feel hotter. His mouth detaches from your nipple and you instantly miss the hot heat of his mouth, until he says “And what if I want to taste that pretty little cunt of yours?”

Imagining Aaron pressing open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, breathing hotly against your panties until he’s pressing his tongue against you, smearing even more wetness around until you’re nearly dripping onto the expensive upholstery has you whimpering. Your mind races as you imagine him pulling your panties aside so he can press his soft mouth against you, licking and lapping at your pussy like you’re a five-course meal, sucking on your clit until you’re screaming his name and begging him to stop.

No words come out, mind nearly melted just at the thought of Aaron looking up at you from between your thighs and his mouth on your cunt. Instead, you let out a breathless moan and attempt to grind down against Aaron’s knee, chasing the little stimulation you can get.

Aaron licks his lips as he watches you, eyes dark and predatory. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” His thumbs briefly traces your hips, and you nearly miss the tender touch, before he’s hooking them into the waistband of your shorts and tugs them down. “But we don’t have time for that, so I’m just going to fuck that needy pussy of yours.”

It took quite a bit of wriggling and Aaron hitting his head against the roof of the car to get your shorts and panties off of you, and you’re about to joke that this was an exercise in of itself, until Aaron is settling back between your legs with his own legs crammed underneath him. You suddenly realize Aaron is still wearing all of his clothes, polo wrinkled and pants hanging loosely at his hips, while you’re completely naked and vulnerable, desperate and needy like he said.

His fingers dance across the soft expanse of your thighs until he presses a finger against you, so close to where you need him. You breathe unsteadily and have to close your eyes, suddenly feeling overwhelmed, when Aaron gently grazes between your folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, honey. Is this all for me?”

You nod rapidly and push your hips down in an effort to tell him to hurry the fuck up.

Aaron tuts at you. “What did I say about using your words?” And then he’s forgoing your clit completely and pressing a thick finger inside.

You gasp, eyes shooting open and meeting his from where he’s watching your face so intently it would’ve been intimidating if you didn’t feel white-hot pleasure take over your body. “Yes, I’m wet, just for you,” you rush out.

He hums, satisfied. “Just for me, right?” He begins thrusting his finger inside of you, and the feeling of being filled and something finally happening has you arching your back against him again, soft whines escaping your mouth before you can help it. The lewd noises from your sopping pussy rings out in the small space of the car, jarring, but it just makes you feel hotter.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble, attempting to rut your hips down to meet his thrusts, steadily growing in pace. Your hand shoots down to take ahold of his forearm, nearly distracted at the veins popping out, when you feel a second finger prodding at you. “Please just fuck me already, I’m ready.”

You watch Aaron’s mouth form what has to be a reprimand, scolding you for being so desperate, but then it closes and forms into something softer even as his gaze is fixated on his thick fingers thrusting in and out of your pussy. He leans in and kisses you before you realize, just a soft press of his lips against yours. When he pulls back, he’s still wearing a faint smile, and tucks a stray strand of your hair behind an ear. It’s all so painstakingly affectionate, you feel at a loss for words again but for a completely different reason you can’t name.

“How can I say no to you?” he mutters, almost to himself, and it shocks you to your core.

He doesn’t wait for a response and pulls out a condom from his back pocket. You watch as he’s about to tear the foil packet open, thoughts turning over and over in your head, before you exclaim “It’s fine, I’m on the pill.”

He pauses and stares at you, serious based off the pinch of his brows. “Are you sure? I don’t mind…”

“I’m sure,” you say, throwing your arms around his neck so you can run your fingers through his hair. And you are absolutely sure, confident, because you know the cherry on top of this whole experience would be feeling his cock spill in your pussy and filling you up. “I want to feel you.”

You watch as he groans, closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against yours, staring at the flutter of his long eyelashes. “You are killing me, sweetheart.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Are you kidding me? I can say the same for you.”

Because if you thought Aaron looked good wearing a suit in those blurry pictures on Facebook, it doesn’t even compare to how he looks now. His polo tightly stretched over his shoulders, slightly disheveled from where you were grabbing onto him, belt unbuckled and pants hanging deliciously half-open from his hips, and hair tousled, the gel maintaining his professional appearance giving way to make him look younger. He’s so unbelievably hot you almost believe you’re dreaming.

You watch as he pushes his jeans and boxers down enough to where his cock pops out, the head a sympathetic dark red from where he must’ve been achingly hard this entire time. Before you make another attempt to have him in your mouth, he’s pushing in, stretching you deliciously open and making you grip harder at the hair at his nape.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight for me,” Aaron grunts, his hands flying to grasp onto your hips.

Although you can feel him sink into you, inch by inch, you’re mesmerized by the sharp focus on his face, the pinch in his brow and eyes clenched shut. As if he’s trying not to throw away all abandon and pound into you, and the thought is so intoxicating it makes your head spin.

“Oh my god,” you mumble. He bottoms out, his cock finally pushed all way in your pussy, and he’s much bigger, thicker, than you realized. It feels so, so good—being filled up with his hard cock, his hips pressing against your thighs as they splay out the way you’ve been dreaming of for the past week.

“You okay?” Aaron asks, gentle again, and before you could answer, he’s pulling back and thrusting back into you.

A gasp wretches out of you and your hands scramble at his back, pulling him down because you need him to be closer, need his large body pushing down on you and making you take him.

He lets you, giving you a mockingly sympathetic look, and leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss against your jawline. He starts a steady rhythm then—thrusting in and out of you and knocking the breath out of you. “You’re going to take my fat cock, baby? I know you’ve been begging for it all week; you need it so bad, don’t you?”

Jesus Christ.

Words escape you again, instead, your mouth hangs open as you attempt to nod in response. Even though the car’s AC was blasting, you were covered in sweat and sliding up the seats with every thrust of Aaron’s hips. You definitely weren’t complaining, probably wouldn’t even be able to because sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of making kept coming out of you, eyes nearly permanently rolled back in your head. It felt so good, you didn’t think fucking could ever feel this good, but Aaron continues to exceed expectations.

You hitch your legs up his hips higher and let out a high-pitched whine at the change in angle, hot pleasure zinging up your spine. Aaron grunts, something dark and masculine that makes you preen, and his hips start snapping harder, faster.

“Look at you,” he murmurs lowly right into your ear. “Being fucked so good you can’t even speak.”

He shifts again, hands hooking underneath your thighs and, with your nod, presses your knees to your chest until they’re next to your ears, legs dangling over his shoulders. You wrap your arms around your thighs, holding them in place, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head when Aaron’s cock slides even deeper into your cunt with a wet sound. He feels heavenly, even despite not having touched your clit at all.

He fucks you relentlessly and you think your brain has melted out of your ears because you just take it. The sound of his skin slapping against yours, the litany of groans and praises that fall from his lips, and your nonstop whimpering gasps is heady. You don’t even care if you can’t come just from him rutting into you alone, it feels too fucking good.

He sits back up, not once breaking his brutal pace, and makes unwaveringly intense eye contact with you. “My beautiful girl takes my cock so well, making such pretty noises. I can’t wait to fill this pussy up with my come.”

You really did not expect Aaron to have the dirty mouth he does, but again, you’re not complaining. Instead, you bring one of your arms down to snake between your thighs where you’re absolutely soaked in your combined wetness and sweat to circle your clit. The added stimulation, finally, has your thighs shaking and your pussy clenching around him. You squirm a bit, because his belt buckle has started to dig into you from where his pants are pooling around his knees, but you’re suddenly so close.

“Fuck, Aaron…”

He licks his lips at that, starts to fuck into you faster somehow. He knocks your hand aside to replace with his own and you absolutely mewl when you feel the rough callous of his thumb gently circling your clit, impossibly slow. “Is my good girl going to come? You’re going to come all over my cock, sweetheart?”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, and you can barely detect the strain in Aaron’s voice, like he’s close too. “Yes, yes, please,” you stutter, feeling your gut tighten and sweat breaking out on the back of your neck. “Harder.”

Aaron lets out a shaky laugh. “Since you asked so nicely.”

And then he’s rubbing your clit mercilessly, almost too rough if your nerves weren’t already so close to snapping. You let out a string of strangled whines, your hands coming up to hold onto Aaron’s free arm for dear life. You’re so wet that his fingers just glide over you, the wet noises of him fucking into you getting you hotter, making the coil in your stomach wind tighter, but it’s still not enough.

You watch with half-lidded eyes as Aaron lifts his right hand from where he was definitely leaving bruises on your hip to place at the base of your throat. Your eyes widen but you don’t stop him because the feeling sends your mind spinning, realizing that you have placed so much trust in this man and he’s thoughtful enough to care for you, treasure you, and fuck you so hard he’s definitely ruined you for anyone else.

His eyes are impossibly dark, hair falling into his face, and you meet his gaze unblinkingly as he puts light pressure on your throat. “Come for me.”

You don’t know if it’s the hand on your neck, his cock frantically fucking into you, or the soft baritone of his voice that has you pushing over the edge. You come with a choked gasp of his name, hips and thighs shaking almost uncontrollably. You swear your vision whites out because you don’t think you’ve ever come so hard in your fucking life.

You distantly hear Aaron grunt your name, feel him fuck into you desperately and erratically. He lets go of your throat, you secretly already miss the weight of his hand, and he clutches at your hips as he chases his own orgasm. It doesn’t take long for his hips to stutter, coming into you with a guttural moan that sends a shiver down your back. He grinds his hips into you, like he’s making sure he’s giving you every last drop he has, and the thought has you whimpering.

You stay like that as both of you catch your breath. Your thighs and hips are starting to ache uncomfortably, pussy sore in a way where you know you’ll be feeling it tomorrow, but you watch the way Aaron runs his hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes so he can lean in to kiss you, and it’s all worth it.

He pulls out slowly, dick twitching half-way inside of you when you moan at the empty feeling. You feel his come instantly start to drip out of you and onto the seats, and the dangerous glint in Aaron’s eyes has you squirming, heat licking up your back.

“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning over to open the console and hopefully rummage around for a hidden towel. You hope he doesn’t pull out old and scratchy fast-food napkins like the ones you have crammed in your glove compartment.

You laugh breathlessly, slowly dropping your legs down to dangle a bit more comfortably. “More than okay.”

He comes back with a pouch of wet wipes, slightly used, and you’re surprised at the sudden twinge of jealousy you feel when you imagine why he has wet wipes ready in his car and how many other women he’s fucked in his expensive car.

He’s thorough in cleaning you up, chest rapidly rising and falling as he continues to catch his breath. As if he can read your mind, he looks up at you curiously with no trace of the stern persona he had when he was fucking you mindlessly. You had thought you hid your jealousy well, however you find yourself glaring at the wipes in his hand.

He gives you an achingly sweet smile, a surprise dimple making an appearance, and leans over you where you’re still sweating all over his backseat. “Every parent has wet wipes in their car.”

You feel your cheeks heat at being caught, that he somehow knew you were drowning in the sudden onslaught of jealousy clawing up your chest. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He throws the used wipes on the floor to pick up later, and then he’s wrestling around with you until you’re somehow laying on top of him across the seats, both of your legs bunched up and tangled together.

You’re sticky and sweaty, and Aaron has nearly sweated through his polo, causing it to cling to his chest in a way that has you wanting to put your hands all over him. So, you do, running your palms up and down him so intently that it gets a chuckle out of him.

“All of your clothes are still on.”

“Well, I was a little busy.” Oh, he’s a little cheeky after sex.

Both of you are laying in comfortable silence as you still catch your breaths, Aaron moreso than you, when his phone goes off where it hasn’t moved from the phone mount. The bright light causes you to squint, and you turn to press your face into Aaron’s chest with a whine. “Don’t pick up.”

“Alright, alright,” Aaron says despite him making no moves anyway to get up. He cranes his neck to get a good look at the caller ID and you can feel his body stiffen. “It’s your dad.”

And just like that, a bucket of cold water is splashed over you. You just had sex with your dad’s best friend in his expensive Range Rover in some sketchy rest stop.

You must have froze as well because then Aaron is running a hand up and down your back, making you shiver. He’s trying to comfort you, you know that, but honestly your thoughts immediately melt into other things that rely on his hands on you. Like pushing your head down between his legs. Maybe he’s right and you really are insatiable.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

The car ride the rest of the way to the hotel is mostly silent between you two, the only noises being the wind deafening you and your hair slapping into your face since he rolled the windows down.

To air out the stench of sex in the car, you remember.

You would almost think Aaron was mad, the way he didn’t try to make conversation with you, and you knew that you would be spiraling if it wasn’t for the fact that he held your hand in his lap the entire time.

You probably wouldn’t be much for conversation anyway—you’re already trying not to let your mind race about what you were going to do.

You’re only here for a couple of weeks, you go to school across the country, and technically, this was only supposed to be a summer fling. You don’t technically need to tell your dad about what happened.

You turn to look at Aaron, unabashedly. His hair is still tussled, thanks to your fingers, and there’s sweat beading along his forehead from the summer humidity. You stare at the sharp slope of his nose, the way the lights from the highway reflect in his dark eyes, and you’re suddenly wracked with the feeling of not wanting to let him go.

He squeezes your hand when he notices you staring for too long. He turns to you, most likely seeing the desperation on your face. He misinterprets it, thinking you’re running over what you’re going to tell your father over and over in your head. He has no idea that you want to keep seeing him, that you want to make this work somehow, whatever is between you two.

“We’ll figure it out.”

When you notice his gentle smile, the methodical way he runs his thumb over the back of your hand, you believe him.

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goldsainz · 2 months ago

Text

# DREW STARKEY — ACTORS ON ACTORS !

MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ drew and you participate in variety’s “actors on actors” series.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ cursing, talking about nude scenes, probably inaccurate acting experiences.

003. NOTE !

✯ sorry to all the actors i stole roles from😭 also zendaya is used as a face claim for the social media but the writing is inclusive and has no descriptors of physical appearance… or at least i hope so.

word count : 5,4k (chat i got carried away)

The cozy studio was bathed in warm light, designed almost as if to feel like a welcoming living room. Two plush chairs faced each other, separated by a low coffee table adorned with a few carefully placed books and a small vase of fresh flowers. Everything about the space was crafted to exude intimacy and warmth, inviting open conversation.

Drew Starkey entered the room first, his usual calm confidence mingled with a tinge of nervous energy. He smoothed his shirt absentmindedly and scanned the setup, trying to ground himself in the moment. He was used to being in front of cameras, but this felt different. This wasn’t just about promoting a project or answering rapid-fire questions on a press junket. This was you.

“Hello,” Drew started, a smile gracing his features as he took in the fact that he was sitting right in front of his number one celebrity crush. His hand hovered awkwardly in a small wave, as if he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Hi,” you said back, a giggle falling past your lips when you noticed his sheepish look. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he said, his voice just a little higher than usual. Drew cleared his throat, laughing at himself, which made you laugh too. “Sorry, I’m… a little nervous.”

“Oh, don’t be,” you reassured him with a warm smile. “I promise, I don’t bite.”

“Good to know.” He chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “How are you doing?”

“I’m great, thank you. What about you?”

“Pretty good, can’t complain.” A laugh bubbled out of him, and subsequently, you. The way he rubbed the back of his neck made you think he was still pinching himself that this was happening.

The cameras rolled, capturing the easy charm and immediate chemistry between the two of you.

Drew’s grin widened as he began. “First of all, let me just say—I’m completely starstruck right now. I mean, the way you completely own every role you take on... it’s incredible.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, a bashful laugh escaping as you waved off the compliment. “Oh, stop it. You’re making me blush!”

“I’m serious,” he pressed, leaning forward slightly. “You’re like… the blueprint. If I ever get even halfway to where you are, I’ll consider myself lucky.”

“Well, now you’re just flattering me,” you said, your voice teasing but your cheeks undeniably warm. “But thank you, that’s so sweet. And honestly, you’re being way too hard on yourself. You’re incredible in Queer. You’ve got this natural charm that just lights up the screen.”

“Natural charm, huh?” He smirked, pretending to preen, which made you laugh again. “I’ll take that.”

“Good,” you replied, smiling. “You should, because it’s true.”

Drew’s gaze softened, the teasing giving way to something more earnest. “That means a lot, really. Especially coming from you. You’re like… Hollywood royalty to many.”

You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “To many, huh? And are you part of this many?”

Drew’s eyes widened, and he laughed, a little caught off guard. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve got a lifetime membership to the fan club.”

“Good to know,” you teased, crossing your legs and leaning back in your chair with an air of mock superiority. “I’ll have to start charging you membership fees.”

“Totally worth it,” he shot back, his grin widening.

“Well, thank you,” you said with a soft laugh, “So, we’ve both got some things in common, which I think is pretty cool.”

“Like working with Daniel Craig?” he asked.

“Yes! Honestly, I still reminisce about our time on set… he’s genuinely incredible, isn’t he?”

“He is, yeah. I found myself just admiring him and sort of forgetting I had to act too. He’s just… he’s on another level, for sure.”

“Daniel’s a master of his craft… Most of my scenes as Paloma in No Time To Die were with him, and at first I was so nervous because, like, what if I messed up in front of the Daniel Craig?” Drew let out a laugh at your words, and you couldn’t help but laugh too. “But when he noticed I was nervous he reassured me that it was all good. He’s just the best.”

“You’ve worked with so many high-profile actors.” You nod slightly at his words, as if it were the most common thing in the world. “Are you always nervous when meeting them, or was it just a Daniel thing?”

“It wasn’t just Daniel, no, but I think it depends. For example, when I did Oppenheimer with Cillian Murphy, for some reason I felt more relaxed… even though I had some nude scenes with him.”

“Nude scenes just make you connect, don’t they?” he joked, leaning back with a sly grin.

“They do, actually,” you replied, leaning into the banter. “You’d think they’d be worse, but honestly, with the amount of seriousness and concentration they take, it’s like you don’t have time to be nervous.”

“You clearly pulled it off flawlessly,” Drew said with mock solemnity.

“You did too in Queer.” You compliment him, “I watched it a few days ago, and the chemistry you had with Daniel was just off the charts.”

Drew’s face lit up, a mix of pride and bashfulness crossing his features. “Daniel’s an amazing scene partner. He really made it easy for me to tap into everything.”

“Well, it shows,” you said. “It was such a raw and beautiful performance. I might’ve shed a tear or two.”

“Okay, now you’re just trying to make me blush,” Drew teased, pointing at you with a playful squint. “But seriously, that means a lot coming from you.”

“Hey, give credit where it’s due,” you shot back with a grin. “You’ve got this way of making everything feel so real. Like when you’re in pain, we’re in pain. When you’re in love, we’re falling right alongside you.”

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know what to do with all these compliments. This is the best therapy session I’ve ever had.”

You laughed, crossing your legs and leaning forward slightly. “Well, I’m glad I could help. But now I’m curious—how did you prepare for a role like that? I mean, it’s so emotionally intense, no?.”

“It was a lot of journaling, a lot of talking with Luca about backstory and motivations,” Drew explained, his tone more thoughtful. “And honestly, I kind of drew from real-life experiences. Not the exact ones, obviously, but just feelings of vulnerability and… wanting to be understood.”

“That’s beautiful,” you said softly, your smile turning tender. “It’s amazing how much of ourselves we pour into these characters.”

“Exactly,” Drew agreed. “And sometimes it’s terrifying, but when it resonates with people, it feels worth it.”

“It definitely resonated with me,” you assured him. “And I’m sure with countless others too.”

“That’s really nice to hear,” he said with a soft smile.

“How was it for you to work with Luca? Because I remember it being one of the highlights of my career.”

Drew’s eyes lit up at the mention of Luca Guadagnino, and he leaned forward slightly, as if the memory itself was a magnet pulling him closer. “Oh, working with Luca was… incredible,” he said, his voice laced with awe. “He’s got this way of creating such a safe, open space on set. It’s almost like he’s not just directing—he’s inviting you into this world he’s building in his head.”

You nodded eagerly, your own memories of working with Luca bringing a nostalgic smile to your face. “I know exactly what you mean. He makes it feel like you’re collaborating on this deeply personal piece of art, rather than just executing someone else’s vision.”

“Exactly!” Drew said, gesturing animatedly. “And he has this way of pulling things out of you that you didn’t even know you had. Like, he’ll ask you one simple question, and suddenly you’re diving into this emotional rabbit hole.”

You laughed, tilting your head in agreement. “He asked me once, ‘What would this character, Maren in my case, dream about?’ and it completely changed how I approached the next scene.”

Drew’s mouth dropped open in mock surprise. “He asked me the exact same question!”

“No way!” you exclaimed, your laughter spilling out in disbelief. “I love that! It’s honestly such a deceptively simple question, but it opens up so many layers.”

“It really does,” Drew said, chuckling. “And then you’re sitting there like, ‘Okay, now I have to rethink everything I thought I knew about this character.’”

“It’s kind of genius, though,” you added. “He makes you work harder, but not in a way that feels forced. It’s like… he trusts you to figure it out, but he gives you these breadcrumbs to follow.”

“Exactly,” Drew said again, his tone growing softer. “I think that’s why his films feel so intimate, he gets the human part so right.”

You smiled, letting his words settle in the air for a moment. “I think that’s what makes working with him feel like such a privilege. It’s not just about telling a story—it’s about feeling it.”

Drew nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “And those are the moments that stick with you, you know? The ones where you felt something real, even if it was just for a moment.”

“Completely,” you agreed, your voice soft with sincerity. “Those moments are why we do this.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the weight of the conversation settling in the cozy studio. Then, Drew broke the quiet with a grin. “Okay, but did Luca make you do those impromptu rehearsals at, like, the crack of dawn?”

“Oh my God, yes!” you burst out, your eyes widening. “I’d just roll out of bed with zero coffee and somehow be expected to pour my soul into a scene.”

Drew laughed, his face lighting up. “Right? It’s like, ‘Good morning, here’s your emotional breakdown for the day.’”

You laughed along with him, the shared experience adding another thread to the easy camaraderie forming between you. “But honestly, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

“Same,” Drew said, his expression softening again. “For Luca? Anytime.”

“Absolutely,” you agreed, your eyes locking with his for a moment before the warmth of the studio light reminded you both that the cameras were still rolling.

Drew shifted in his seat slightly, his expression thoughtful. “You know, it’s kind of wild—hearing you talk about all these incredible experiences. You’ve been doing this for so long, and yet it’s like you’re just getting started.”

You tilted your head with a small smile. “That’s sweet of you to say. But yeah, I guess I have been in this industry for most of my life. It’s all I’ve ever really known.”

Drew’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s crazy to think about. I didn’t even consider acting until after college. You must’ve been, what, ten? Eleven?”

“Eight, actually,” you corrected with a chuckle. “My first role was in this little indie film. I was basically just the kid who ran around in the background eating ice cream, but I thought it was the coolest thing ever.”

He laughed, clearly amused. “That’s adorable. And now you’re the Hollywood It Girl. No big deal.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, your laughter light. “Oh, stop it. But yeah, it’s been a journey. Growing up on sets definitely shaped me, for better or worse. Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like to have a more ‘normal’ childhood.”

Drew’s smile softened. “That must’ve been such a whirlwind. I can’t even imagine starting that young. I didn’t even think about acting seriously until high school.”

“Oh, I’ve read about that!” You said, your voice lighting up. “You were all about sports growing up, right?”

“Yeah,” Drew admitted with a chuckle. “I was your typical small-town kid—baseball, basketball, you name it. I was convinced I was going to go pro in something, but clearly, that didn’t pan out.”

“Well, I think acting suits you pretty well.”

“Thank you,” he says with a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, the real shift happened in high school when I joined a drama class. It was all Samuel Beckett and absurdist plays, which at the time I thought was the coolest thing ever.”

You leaned forward, intrigued. “So that’s what pulled you in? Drama class?”

“Pretty much,” he said with a nod. “And then I went to Western Carolina for college. I double-majored in English and theater, thinking, ‘If this acting thing doesn’t work out, I’ll at least have a backup plan.’”

“That’s so realistic of you,” you said with a laugh. “Meanwhile, I was ten, telling anyone who’d listen that I was going to win an Oscar one day.”

“And look at you now,” Drew said, gesturing to you with an almost reverent smile. “You made it happen.”

You chuckled, a bit flustered by his admiration. “Well, not quite, just an Oscar nominee for now. But thank you. You know, I think your journey’s pretty incredible too. A double major? That’s no joke. And starting later in the game like you did… it must have felt like a slow burn, but it’s clearly paid off.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Drew said thoughtfully. “It was definitely a slower burn for me. I didn’t land my first real gig until I’d been auditioning for what felt like forever.”

“I think that makes your journey even more special,” you said, your tone sincere. “You came into it with all this life experience and maturity. It shows in your work, you know? There’s this depth to your performances that’s just… rare.”

Drew’s ears turned a little pink, and he laughed softly, glancing down at his hands. “Wow, you’re gonna make me blush over here.”

“Good,” you said with a teasing smile. “It’s only fair after all the compliments you’ve been throwing my way.”

He looked up, his grin sheepish but warm. “Touché. But seriously, hearing that from someone like you—someone who’s been at this for so long and is so insanely talented—it means a lot.”

“Well,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head, “I think it’s safe to say we’re officially mutual fans.”

Drew laughed at that, the sound easy and genuine. “I can live with that.”

The conversation shifted into more comfortable territory as the two of you shared experiences, trading stories about acting and the film industry. Drew, now feeling at ease, leaned forward with renewed interest.

“You know,” he began, a thoughtful expression crossing his face, “I've been thinking about how different TV shows and movies are, especially when it comes to the pacing and character development. Like, in a show, we have to maintain this ongoing energy for the characters over multiple seasons. But with movies, it’s a totally different vibe, right?”

You nodded, understanding immediately where he was going. “It’s definitely a huge shift. With TV, you’re given time to build on a character slowly. Every episode is another chapter, so you can explore new facets of them and keep the audience hooked for longer periods of time. But movies, they’re this intense sprint. You have to get everything across in just two hours or so, but in a way that feels just as layered and satisfying.”

Drew's eyes lit up with excitement, clearly passionate about the topic. "Exactly! You have to balance the action and suspense while still giving the characters these moments of vulnerability. Over multiple seasons, you can really let them grow and change. It's like a slow burn. But when you're doing a movie, you don’t have the luxury of that buildup. It has to be this concentrated emotional punch right from the start.”

“That’s one of the biggest challenges of film, for sure," you agreed. "In a film, every second counts. You can’t afford to waste a moment. But I think what’s also interesting is how both mediums can explore a character’s journey from different angles. TV shows can dive into their backstory in more detail, but movies... they really need to hit those emotional beats and leave an impact without dragging it out."

Drew smiled, clearly engaged in the discussion. “In TV shows you need that perfect balance of suspense, character development, and personal growth. And then, at the end of the season, you drop a huge bombshell that leaves people wanting more.”

You laughed, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Sounds like you’ve been doing some serious thinking about it. What’s the secret to keeping the audience hooked without losing the depth of your character?”

He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Well, I think it’s about letting the characters evolve with the story. You need to make sure the audience sees the human side of your character, even when they're in these crazy situations. It’s what keeps people invested in the long run.”

“You’ve really got the process figured out,” you said with a smile. “But you’re right—it’s a different rhythm for TV. With a movie, you get to go deep quickly, but with a show, you have to keep it dynamic and varied. And let’s not forget, you need that cliffhanger at the end to make people binge-watch the next season.”

Drew’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You’re giving away all the secrets! Next thing you know, people will be expecting a cliffhanger every time they watch a movie."

“Well, movies and TV are both art, but they demand different approaches,” you said, “and you’re doing an amazing job balancing both. I’m honestly so excited to see where your career goes next. Both worlds are lucky to have you.”

He chuckled softly, clearly humbled. “Thanks. I think I’m just lucky to be a part of both. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be in a show that gets people talking for days?”

“Right? You’ve got Outer Banks, which has such a dedicated fanbase, and then movies like Queer that touch people in such a different way. It’s amazing to watch your versatility.”

He leaned in slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m just trying to keep up with you. Honestly, your transition from action to more emotional roles is inspiring. I hope I can pull off something even close to what you’ve done with your career.”

Your smile softened, your voice sincere. “Well, you’re already doing it, Drew. You’re already there. It’s not just about the roles—it’s about the heart you put into them. And you’ve definitely got that.”

Drew’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. His gaze softened, as if he were truly reflecting on what you’d said. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms but keeping his eyes on you, his expression thoughtful.

“It's crazy, isn't it?” He began, his voice a little quieter now, “The idea of giving so much of yourself to something that feels so... intimate. But when it works, when the audience feels it too, there's nothing like it.”

“Exactly,” you agreed, your voice a little quieter now. “That's the real magic, when the audience feels like they know the characters, like they're right there with them. It’s not about the plot twists or the fancy sets—it’s about the emotions that we build and share with them.”

Drew nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting away for a moment before returning to you. “Speaking of emotions, I just saw your new movie, We Live In Time,” he said, his voice taking on a softer tone. “It’s one of those films that stays with you, you know? It’s raw in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but it’s also beautiful. How did you tap into that for Almut?”

Your expression softened as you thought back on the experience. We Live In Time had been a journey—a raw, almost therapeutic one. “It was an emotional rollercoaster, honestly,” you said, leaning back slightly, letting the memory settle in. “I think the hardest part was showing that moment where her whole world shifts. It was such a raw, profound type of emotion I had to channel in order to do justice to the character and her experiences.”

Drew sat back, letting the weight of the conversation settle. “I think that's what makes your career so incredible. You never just play a character. You become them. And you take us with you. Every heartbreak, every triumph, every moment of doubt... we feel it all with you. That's what makes your work so powerful.”

You met his gaze, feeling the depth of the conversation linger between you both. “It’s all about connection, right? Connecting with the character, with the audience, and with the emotions that we all share as humans. Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to make sense of time, love, and the moments we get.”

Drew smiled, his expression genuine and soft. “Well, you’ve definitely made sense of it for me. We Live In Time—it’s not just a movie. It’s a reminder to cherish what we have. And that, in itself, is something special.”

You smiled back, your heart full as you let the words sink in. “Thank you, Drew. That’s really sweet of you.”

You both shared a comfortable silence for a moment, before Drew broke it with a playful grin. “You know, it’s clear you’ve mastered the art of vulnerability on screen, but I can’t help but wonder—did you ever have moments on set where it was just... impossible to take things seriously?”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Oh, absolutely. In fact, as a kid, it was all impossible to be serious,” you admitted, shaking your head at the memory. “I remember this one time during a scene on set when I was probably around 9 or 10. We were supposed to be doing this emotional scene, and I had to cry on cue. But instead of crying, I couldn’t stop giggling. It was a dramatic moment, and my co-star was all serious and trying to get through the scene, but I just... lost it.”

Drew raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Giggling during a dramatic scene? What happened?”

“Well, my director, bless her heart, kept trying to give me these 'serious actor' looks. She was this no-nonsense kind of woman, and she had this way of narrowing her eyes when things weren’t going well. I tried my best to hold it together, but then my co-star—who was way too good at being serious—looked at me and just gave this super intense stare, and that was it. I burst out laughing right in the middle of the take.”

Drew chuckled, shaking his head. “I can just picture that. You were probably trying to hold it together, but it must have been so hard with all that tension in the air.”

“I swear, the more I tried not to laugh, the harder it became,” you continued, grinning at the memory. “It was one of those moments where you’re like, 'Why am I even here? I can’t do this.' But somehow, I got through it. The director had to take a deep breath, and we did a few more takes. Eventually, we got it done, but I think we all were on the verge of cracking up the whole time.”

Drew let out a laugh, clearly imagining the scene. “I can’t blame you. I feel like as a kid, you have no filter. Everything feels like a joke, and it’s so hard to be serious when everyone else is trying so hard.”

“You have no idea,” you said, your voice still light. “There were so many times I’d be doing a serious scene, and I’d start thinking about something random, like a certain meme or a funny sound someone made on set—and then, bam, it was game over. I’d be holding in a laugh like my life depended on it.”

Drew smirked, leaning in a little. “I totally feel that. I mean, as an adult, I still have moments where I struggle to keep a straight face. I once had a scene where I was supposed to be super intense, but the prop guy was standing just out of frame, and he made this ridiculous face at me—completely threw me off. I couldn’t stop laughing, and it ended up taking hours to finish the scene because we kept cracking up. Honestly, I think the crew started to get annoyed with us after a while.”

“See?” you said with a grin. “It never really changes. Truthfully, the older you get, the harder it becomes to hold it in. But then you look at the footage and realize how much fun you actually had, and that makes it all worth it.”

Drew nodded thoughtfully, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s the thing. Sometimes it’s the moments you didn’t plan for that end up being the most memorable. Like when you have a laugh on set, and suddenly you feel closer to everyone, even though you’re supposed to be in character.”

“Exactly,” you said, your smile widening. “There’s something so beautiful about those unscripted moments. It reminds you that acting is, at its core, about connecting—whether that’s through laughter or the heavy stuff. And even though I had my fair share of giggling fits as a kid, I think those moments taught me just as much as the serious ones. Maybe more.”

Drew leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “It's funny how those little moments—like a laugh in the middle of a serious scene—can end up being the ones you remember the most. I think those are the ones that make the work feel real, you know?”

You smiled, your gaze distant as you reflected on the years of working on sets. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Yeah, like those unscripted moments,” Drew added, his voice quieter now, as if the weight of the sentiment lingered in the air. “They give the performance an authenticity that you can’t get from just following the script to a tee.”

You nodded, the words hanging between you like a shared understanding. “Exactly. And as a kid, I was so focused on getting it ‘right’—on being perfect—that I missed the beauty of just being in the moment. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized how important it is to let go of the idea of perfection. It's in those mistakes, the wrong takes, the bloopers—that's where you find the truth.”

Drew's expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your chest tighten. “I think it’s key not to be afraid to show the mess, the imperfect parts of a character, because that’s what makes them human.”

A small chuckle escaped you, the warmth of the moment filling the studio. “Right? We’re all just a little bit of a mess, trying to figure it out, but that’s what makes the journey worth it. We’re constantly learning, constantly evolving, and we bring that to our work. The growth, the mistakes—it all shapes us.”

Drew nodded, his gaze shifting as if reflecting on those same ideas. “Yeah, and the growth never stops, does it? Just when you think you’ve figured it out, something new happens, and it challenges you again.”

“That's the beauty of it,” you said, your voice quieter now, the bond between you both deepening. “The challenge is what keeps it exciting, keeps you moving forward.”

Drew grinned, a playful spark lighting his eyes once more. “Well, I guess we’re both lifelong students of this thing called acting, huh?”

“Absolutely,” you said with a laugh, the lightness returning. “And just like any good student, we’ll always be learning. Who knows, maybe we'll even get better at not laughing in the middle of dramatic scenes.”

Drew let out a hearty laugh, nodding enthusiastically. “I think that’s going to take years of practice, honestly.”

You both shared a moment of genuine laughter, the warmth of your conversation filling the space around you. You leaned back into the chairs, the laughter still lingering in the air, a sense of camaraderie that made the space between you feel comfortable and open. You continued sharing stories, moving seamlessly from one experience to the next.

The conversation began to slow, the easy flow of stories fading into a comfortable silence, as you both shared an unspoken understanding. The light laughter that had filled the room now felt like a warm, lingering hum between you.

Drew shifted slightly in his chair, his gaze turning toward you with a subtle, thoughtful expression. “You know,” he began, his voice softer now, “I really hope we get to work together sometime. I think it’d be incredible. It’s the kind of thing where I can already imagine what it’d be like. Just... easy, real. Like this.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, but you kept your composure, offering a smile that spoke volumes. “I’d love that. If you receive a call from your manager these days… maybe I had something to do with it, so be prepared.”

The air between you both was charged, the quiet intensity of the moment not lost on either of you. There was something unspoken, something deeper that neither of you addressed outright but that seemed to hang there all the same. The connection was undeniable, yet it lingered in the silence, unspoken, but clear.

Drew finally broke the spell with a playful grin, his eyes flicking back to yours. “Oh, I’ll be ready. Can’t wait to see what magic we create together.”

You returned his smile, your heart racing ever so slightly, though you kept it hidden behind the ease of your words. “I’m sure it’ll be something incredible.”

As the interview wrapped up, there was a lingering sense of something unspoken between you both, an attraction that neither of you had to mention but was so clearly felt. The kind of connection that could only be hinted at, but would never truly fade. It was the kind of moment that would stay with both of you long after the cameras stopped rolling.

“Thank you,” you said softly as the final moments of the interview started to loom, your voice carrying a depth that reflected everything unsaid between you. “This has been amazing. Honestly, it feels like we’ve been talking for hours, and yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.”

He nodded, his expression soft but genuine. “I feel the same way. This has been one of the most honest and open conversations I’ve had in a long time.”

The crew began to pack up, signaling that the interview was at its end, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to break the moment. The usual chatter and movement around you felt distant, as if the two of you were in your own world for just a little longer.

“You know,” Drew said, his voice quieter now, a hint of sincerity threading through, “I think we make a pretty good team even just sitting here talking. Imagine what we could do with a whole script.”

Your smile softened, and you nodded, the words feeling right, but the undertone of something more—something unsaid—hung in the air. “Yeah, I think we’d be unstoppable.”

The moment stretched between you both, filled with the kind of comfortable tension that comes when you realize you’ve shared something real. Something that felt like it could turn into something more.

You both stood up, a final, lingering moment before the usual goodbye. Drew extended a hand, his gaze holding yours a beat longer than necessary.

“Take care, okay?” he said, his voice warm, like the words carried more than just a polite farewell.

You shook his hand, the warmth of his touch lingering just a moment longer than expected. “You too, Drew,” you replied, your voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of meaning that mirrored his own.

As you turned to gather your things, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder. He was still standing there, watching you with that same thoughtful expression, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. The faintest smile curved his lips, as if he were replaying the conversation in his mind.

“See you around,” he called out, the words simple but loaded with promise.

“Yeah,” you said, meeting his gaze one last time. “See you around.”

Walking away, you felt a peculiar lightness, as though something intangible had shifted, leaving you both exhilarated and curious. It wasn’t every day you met someone who made you feel seen in such a profound way, and as you left the studio, you found yourself smiling, a quiet hope blooming in your chest.

And for a fleeting second, you allowed yourself to wonder what could come next.

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ms-demeanor · 1 year ago

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how do you find love?

You have to be willing to be hurt and trust people not to hurt you.

But also go out and do regular activities with people who share similar interests. I'm extremely unromantic in terms of how friendships and relationships are built. Go out and spend time with people who are into the same stuff that you are into and eventually you will probably find someone in that group who you are romantically compatible with and who is open to a relationship at the same time you are.

Like there are tons of jokes about various communities being insular and socially incestuous but, like, the reason improv groups have all dated each other is because they spend a lot of time together doing things they like and that's actually a pretty good foundation for a relationship.

Also, real talk: you have to be okay with being alone. You have to like yourself enough that it wouldn't be the end of the world if you were all you had. That is really difficult for a lot of people, but genuinely one of the ways to start liking yourself more is to go out and do things that you think fun and interesting people would do until you discover that you have tricked yourself into becoming a fun and interesting person.

But also take that with a grain of "I lucked into a long-term relationship at eighteen because I met someone cool at a coffee shop where I worked."

(however, being regulars at a coffee shop did legitimately used to be a way to meet people, I know lots of people who met at the coffee shops I worked at and found their partners there, but that's because coffee shops used to be the kind of place where people would go and hang out for hours after work every day and interact with new people and I'm not sure how much that's a thing anymore, which is why you have to manufacture it by, like, joining an adult kickball league or getting deeply involved in your local larping scene or whatever)

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dollishmehrayan · 2 months ago

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BATBOYS TOXIC TRAITS / RED FLAGS + GREEN FLAGS ── .✦

a/n: the thing is, they all aren’t like problematic when it comes to relationships but they do have some things and flaws which when heard sound “oh okay that’s fine” but may be like super annoying in a irl relationship also this was a request by anon (here)! (Tags: batboys x reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Chronic People-Pleaser: Will prioritize everyone’s needs over his own (or yours), leading to burnout… and you having to remind him you exist.

Flirty by Nature: He’s not trying to flirt… it just happens. That waitress? Nope, not on purpose, but yeah, you’ll roll your eyes a lot.

Hero Complex: He always has to “save” people, including you, even when you’re perfectly fine handling it yourself. “I got it, babe.” No, you don’t, Dick.

GREEN FLAGS:

Emotionally Intelligent: He can read your mood like a book and knows exactly how to make you smile (with pancakes shaped like hearts).

Physical Affection Expert: Hugs, cuddles, forehead kisses—you’re basically his personal teddy bear.

Supportive King: He’s your biggest cheerleader, hyping you up in the most genuine, heartfelt ways. “That’s my girl.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Anger Issues: He’ll throw hands for you at the slightest provocation. Guy looks at you wrong? Jason’s already removing his jacket.

Emotionally Guarded: Good luck getting him to open up. He’s more likely to tell you his deepest fears after you’ve fallen asleep.

Reckless Behavior: He’ll drag you into the most insane situations and act like it’s no big deal. “What do you mean this is dangerous? It’s fine.”

GREEN FLAGS:

Loyal to a Fault: He’ll defend you with his life, no questions asked. “You mess with her, you mess with me.”

Soft Romantic: Beneath the tough exterior, he’s writing you sweet notes and remembering the little things, like how you take your coffee.

Protective (in a good way): He won’t smother you, but he’ll make sure you always feel safe, even if it’s just crossing the street.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Workaholic: He’ll forget to eat, sleep, and sometimes text you back because “the case was just getting good!”

Overthinks Everything: Spends hours analyzing your last text to figure out if you were mad or just tired. “Was that period passive-aggressive?”

Terrible Self-Care: You’ll have to force him to drink water and go to bed like a mom with a rebellious child.

GREEN FLAGS:

Incredibly Thoughtful: He remembers every detail about you, from your favorite flower to that obscure hobby you mentioned once.

Adorably Awkward: His shy smiles and fumbling over words when you flirt back are endlessly endearing.

Problem Solver: He’ll find solutions to all your problems, from fixing your computer to making your bad day better with tea and soft music.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Insanely Jealous: He glares daggers at anyone who looks at you too long. “Why is he breathing near you?”

Judgmental: He might critique your taste in music, books, or anything else with his usual bluntness. “This… is what you listen to?”

Control Freak: He likes things done a certain way and will try to “help” you by micromanaging your life.

GREEN FLAGS:

Devoted Partner: Once he’s in, he’s all in. You’ll never doubt his commitment because he’s always showing up for you.

Loyal Beyond Measure: He’ll defend your honor to anyone, even Bruce. “She’s perfect, Father. You simply lack taste.”

Surprisingly Gentle: Despite his tough exterior, he has a soft side that only you get to see, like the way he pets animals—or you—so tenderly.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Emotionally Repressed: He’s basically a human brick wall when it comes to expressing his feelings. “I’m… fine.” No, Bruce, you’re not.

Work Comes First: He’ll disappear into the Batcave for days unless you drag him out by the cape which becomes quickly annoying.

Overprotective: He’ll want to track your every move, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he worries too much. “It’s for your safety.”

GREEN FLAGS:

Quietly Romantic: He may not be overly expressive, but he’ll show love through subtle gestures—like a bouquet of your favorite flowers left on the table.

Ultimate Provider: He makes sure you never want for anything, whether it’s emotional support or physical comfort.

Unshakable Devotion: Once you’ve captured his heart, he’s yours forever. There’s no halfway with Bruce—he’s in it for the long haul.

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reiding-writing · 1 month ago

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YOU OPENED YOUR REQUESTS?? omg a wonderful start to the new year!! ignore if this doesn’t speak to your soul— but would you be able to write a good old fashioned best friends to lovers, mutual pining fic for reid? i’m a sucker for the “he fell first, she fell harder” trope, like he’s been in love with her since day one and their friendship has always toed the line of something more, but she’s an oblivious genius and doesn’t realize how deep their affections for each other run……. and like when she realizes her feelings (like a brick to the head) she starts DISTANCING HERSELF OOH A LITTLE ANGST THERE and reid is like :(( what did i do :(( but it’s ok bc they smooch and make up in the end

263 DAYS — SPENCER REID!

a lot can change in 263 days.

spencer reid x fem!reader | 7.3k | flangst | masterlist.

a/n — writing longer fics like this is so fun but also so long, but it’s been nice to get back into it 🙂‍↕️

WARNINGS | friends to lovers, emotional distancing, brief (almost) argument, reader gets injured and goes to the hospital (but recovers fine), happy ending

DAY ONE

You step into the conference room of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, a mixture of nerves and anticipation twisting in your stomach.

The space feels both larger and smaller than you'd imagined—a sprawling table, chairs scattered in quiet disarray, and a dozen tiny details you'd only seen in crime documentaries and shadowed profiles on paper.

The faint scent of coffee and something metallic—maybe old ink—hangs in the air, grounding you. You take a slow, measured breath, trying to steady yourself.

You’re here. You made it.

“First day?”

The voice is soft, inquisitive, and it pulls your attention immediately. You glance to your right and meet the eyes of someone who seems equally curious and cautious, like a bird assessing whether you’re safe to approach.

He’s lanky, taller than you expected, with an untamed mop of brown hair and a pair of shoes that look like they’ve seen a decade’s worth of pavement. Spencer Reid, you realise.

“Yes,” you manage, your voice steadier than you feel. “And you must be Dr. Reid.”

He smiles at the title, though it seems more reflexive than genuine. He shuffles forward a step, hands awkwardly held together behind his back. “Just Reid. Or Spencer. Whichever you prefer.”

You offer your hand to him, nervous, but inviting. “Nice to meet you, Reid.”

He nods quickly, eyes flickering over your hand like he wants to take it, but he doesn’t. “Sorry, I don’t uh— germs—”

“Oh,” You pull your hand back a little too quickly, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket. “Sorry, uh—”

“No, no, it’s not you, I’m just— conscious about it,” He presses his lips together in what almost a smile, a silent apology.

You mirror it. “It’s nice to meet you anyway,”

“You too,”

His gaze flicks over you, not in the usual appraising way you’ve grown used to from strangers, but more like he’s cataloging details he can’t quite put into words. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just pure, unabashed interest.

“You’re nervous,” He says, then winces. “Sorry. That sounded... obvious. I just meant—it’s normal. Most people are their first day. Especially here,” His voice lowers slightly, conspiratorial. “It can be... intense.”

A laugh escapes you, light and involuntary, breaking the tension in your chest. “Not exactly comforting, but thanks for the honesty,”

This time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I’m not great at comfort, but I excel at honesty.”

You find yourself smiling back, even as a small voice in the back of your mind whispers that you shouldn’t let your guard down so easily. Not here, not yet.

But something about Reid—his sincerity, the way he tilts his head like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only you can provide—makes it hard to resist.

“So, what brought you to the BAU?” he asks.

The question is simple enough, but the weight behind it is clear. He isn’t just asking out of politeness; he genuinely wants to know. You consider your answer carefully, aware of the dozen eyes that will likely follow your every move today.

“Truthfully? It’s… been a dream for years,” you admit. “I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of it. How people work, why they do what they do. And... I guess I wanted to make a difference,”

His expression shifts, softens, like you’ve just handed him a piece of yourself and he knows better than to drop it. “That makes sense,” he says quietly. “You’ll be good at this,”

The confidence in his words surprises you. “You don’t even know me,”

“Not yet,” he says, and there’s something almost playful in his tone. “But I’m usually good at reading people. Comes with the job,”

“Any initial impressions?”

He hesitates, and for a moment, you think he might deflect. But then his gaze meets yours again, steady and unwavering. “You’re smart. Observant. But you second-guess yourself more than you need to. And... you’re kind. I think you’ll see things others might miss because of that,”

The honesty in his voice leaves you momentarily speechless. Kind isn’t a word you’d ever considered an asset in this field, but the way he says it makes you wonder if it could be.

“Thanks,” You say, and mean it.

Before he can respond, another voice cuts through the room. “Reid! Stop monopolising the newbie and get over here.”

You glance over to see another man—broad-shouldered, with a gruff boyishness to him. If you had to guess, you’d say that Derek Morgan.

Reid offers a small, apologetic shrug and gives you a quick, almost shy smile before moving to join the others.

As the team gathers around the table, you feel his presence more acutely than you should, like an invisible thread connecting you even when you’re not speaking. Every so often, you catch him glancing your way, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to figure out a particularly tricky equation. And maybe he is.

Over the course of the day, you learn what makes Reid so extraordinary.

The encyclopaedic knowledge, the way his mind works at lightning speed, piecing together patterns and details that no one else sees.

But you also notice the little things—the way he fidgets with a pen when he’s nervous, the way his voice speeds up when he gets excited, the way he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating mystery he’s ever encountered.

By the time the day ends, you’re exhausted but exhilarated, your head spinning with new information and possibilities. As you gather your things, Reid approaches you again, his movements hesitant but deliberate.

“You did well today,” he says, and there’s no trace of condescension in his tone—just genuine praise.

“Thanks,” you say, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the compliment itself and everything to do with who it’s coming from.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, as if unable to stop himself, Reid blurts out, “You’re going to fit in here. I can tell,”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And you’re sure about that? Already?”

He nods, his gaze earnest. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just... I feel like you belong.”

The words linger between you, heavy with a meaning you can’t quite name. You smile, soft and unsure, and he mirrors it, his expression a little brighter than before.

As you walk out of the building together, the weight of the day finally settling on your shoulders, you can’t help but think that maybe Reid is right.

Maybe you do belong here.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE

The BAU has a way of warping time. Six months can feel like six years, and yet, it can pass in the blink of an eye.

By now, you’ve settled into the team, carving out a place that feels solid, even comfortable. The initial nerves have faded, replaced by a quiet confidence that surprises even you. But the biggest surprise is Reid.

Somewhere along the way, he’s become your constant. Late nights poring over case files often turn into coffee runs, his impossibly detailed book recommendations have all but taken over your nightstand, and your shared chess games have become an unspoken ritual, the board tucked into the corner of the break room practically reserved for the two of you.

It’s not that you don’t notice the way he seems to gravitate toward you—it’s just that you don’t think much of it.

Reid is Reid: attentive, brilliant, and endlessly curious. If he listens a little more intently when you speak, if his smiles linger longer than necessary, if he remembers details you barely recall sharing, well, that’s just how he is. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The morning starts like any other.

A case has just wrapped, leaving you with a rare, precious day in the office to catch up on paperwork and recover. The bullpen hums with low chatter and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, but your attention is elsewhere—specifically on the chessboard in front of you.

“Check,” Reid announces, his tone smug but his face a careful mask of neutrality. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, his expression daring you to find an out.

You narrow your eyes at the board, studying the positions like your life depends on it. “I don’t like you very much right now,” you mutter, earning a soft laugh from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, his voice warm.

“Don’t I?” you quip, your fingers hovering over your knight. You’re stalling, and he knows it.

“Take your time,” he says, though there’s a playful glint in his eye. “It’s not like you have anything else to do today.”

You glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re enjoying this too much,”

“Maybe a little,”

The banter is easy, familiar. It’s become second nature by now, a rhythm you fall into without thinking. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, you move your knight, narrowly avoiding defeat.

Reid’s brow furrows as he examines the board. “Not bad,” he concedes.

“I’ll take it,” you reply, leaning back in your chair and stretching.

“Lunch?” he asks, already rising to his feet.

“Let me guess,” you say, smirking. “Thai food again?”

“It’s efficient,” he says, as though that explains everything.

“Efficient isn’t the same as exciting,” you tease, but you grab your jacket anyway.

The walk to the nearby restaurant is brisk, the February air biting against your skin. Reid falls into step beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Did you finish that book I lent you?” he asks, glancing at you.

“Not yet,” you admit. “But I’m close. You were right—it’s better than I expected,”

He grins, and you feel a flicker of satisfaction at the sight. “Told you. It’s all about the narrative structure. Did you notice how the author—”

“Reid,” you interrupt, laughing. “Save the lecture for later. I’m still processing and I have a feeling you’re going to spoil the ending,”

He huffs but lets it go, his grin lingering.

—

Back at the office, you dive into the endless pile of paperwork waiting on your desk. Hours pass in a blur of forms and reports, the steady hum of activity around you lulling you into a comfortable rhythm.

It’s only when a steaming cup of coffee appears in your peripheral vision that you realize how long you’ve been sitting there.

“Thought you could use this,” Reid says, setting the cup down beside you.

You blink up at him, surprised but grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” he says, his lips twitching into a small smile.

He doesn’t leave, instead pulling a chair up beside you and settling in. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet companionship as natural as breathing.

“You know,” you say, glancing at him, “you don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not,” he says simply. “I like being here.”

There’s something in his tone that makes you pause, a softness that feels almost... vulnerable. But before you can dwell on it, he shifts the conversation, asking about your latest case report.

The moment passes, but it stays with you, an echo at the back of your mind.

—

The day winds down with another chess game, this one more competitive than the last. The bullpen has emptied out, the rest of the team long gone, leaving just the two of you and the faint hum of the building’s heating system.

“Checkmate,” Reid announces, his tone triumphant.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table. “I give up. You’re officially unbeatable,”

He laughs, the sound soft and unguarded. “You’re getting better,” he says, and you know he means it.

“Flattery won’t save you next time,” you say, sitting up and meeting his gaze.

His smile falters, just for a moment, and there’s something in his eyes you can’t quite place—something intense and unspoken. You tilt your head, about to ask if everything’s okay, but he looks away, busying himself with packing up the chess pieces.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Of course,” you say, watching him.

As you part ways for the night, that look lingers in your mind, and for the first time, you wonder if there’s more to Reid’s attentiveness than you’ve allowed yourself to see.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOUR

It starts with the little things.

You notice Reid’s uncanny ability to anticipate your needs long before you voice them. A cup of your favorite tea waiting for you on your desk after a long day.

A book you mentioned in passing, slipped into your bag with a handwritten note on why you’d love it. The way he finishes your sentences, not out of impatience, but because he’s somehow always attuned to what you’re thinking.

It’s Reid being Reid, you tell yourself. He’s observant, that’s his job. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

But then there are the things he shouldn’t know. Like how your nose crinkles when you laugh too hard, a detail even you hadn’t thought about until you catch him smiling faintly at the sight. Or the way he hums along, almost unconsciously, to the songs you sing under your breath while focused on paperwork.

You’d dismiss it as coincidence, but Reid doesn’t believe in coincidences.

It’s a cold, gray morning when the call comes in—a double homicide in a rural town that has the local police out of their depth. By mid-afternoon, you’re knee-deep in the case, the clues coming together like pieces of a grim puzzle.

You and Reid are tasked with canvassing a suspect’s property, a sprawling, dilapidated farmhouse that creaks ominously with every step. It’s quiet—too quiet—and the sense of unease prickles at the back of your neck.

“I don’t like this,” you mutter, glancing at Reid.

He nods, his hand hovering near his weapon. “Neither do I. Let’s stick together,”

The words are barely out of his mouth when it happens. A figure bursts from the shadows, wielding a machete with reckless desperation.

You react instinctively, your weapon raised, but the suspect moves faster than you expect, slamming into you with full force.

Pain explodes in your side as you hit the ground, the breath knocked from your lungs. Reid’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The suspect hesitates for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Reid to act. His shot is precise, disarming but not lethal, and the suspect crumples to the ground, writhing in pain.

Reid is at your side in an instant, his hands trembling as he presses them against the slash on your side, stumbling through the order for a medic on his radio.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice tight with panic. “You’re going to be okay.”

You manage a weak laugh, wincing at the pain it causes. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, Reid,”

His eyes dart to yours, wide and filled with something that looks an awful lot like fear. “Don’t joke,” he murmurs. “Please don’t joke.”

His hands are gentle but firm as he applies pressure to the wound, his lips moving in a quiet stream of reassurances you barely register. “Just breathe. Help’s on the way. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

The world blurs at the edges, but through it all, you feel him—his presence steady and unyielding, anchoring you to the moment.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND SIX

You wake in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling your nose. It takes a moment for the haze to clear, and when it does, the first thing you see is Reid.

He’s sitting in a chair beside you, his posture stiff, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and his hair messier than usual, but when he notices you stirring, his expression softens with relief.

“You’re awake,” he says, and there’s a faint tremor in his voice.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, your voice hoarse.

His laugh is soft, almost disbelieving. “You have a talent for understatement,”

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and for a moment, he just looks at you. There’s something in his gaze—something raw and unguarded—that makes your chest tighten.

“I thought—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I don’t know,”

“I’m alright, Reid” You offer gently.

He nods, but his jaw tightens as if he’s holding back a thousand words. “You scared me,” he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach out, your fingers brushing his arm, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “I’m okay,” you say, and though the words feel inadequate, they seem to bring him some comfort.

For the rest of the night, he stays by your side, his quiet devotion more reassuring than any words could be. And for the first time, you start to wonder if there’s more to Reid’s attentiveness than you’ve allowed yourself to see.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN

The BAU rarely has time for unwinding, but tonight is one of those rare evenings. A case has wrapped early, the unsub is in custody, and Hotch decided to reward the team with a dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant not far from Quantico. The room is filled with laughter, the clink of glasses, and the scent of fresh bread and marinara.

You sit sandwiched between Morgan and Reid, your wine glass half-full and your plate of pasta nearly untouched. The conversation flows easily—Morgan cracking jokes, Garcia spinning outrageous anecdotes, Rossi offering sage commentary.

You chime in when prompted, but your mind is elsewhere, your attention flicking between your teammates and the warm, intimate glow of the restaurant.

It’s when the laughter swells again, this time at something Garcia said, that you notice it.

Reid’s gaze.

He’s looking at you, not laughing, not even smiling, just... looking.

It’s not the way someone glances at a friend or colleague. His eyes hold something deeper, something unspoken but achingly clear. Admiration. Longing. Affection so palpable it steals the breath from your lungs.

The realisation hits you like a freight train, or perhaps a brick to the head, straight into your brain like it’s punishing you.

Every late-night chess game. Every quiet conversation over coffee. The way he remembers the smallest details about you, the warmth in his voice when he says your name, the way his presence feels like a comfort you didn’t know you needed—all of it comes crashing into focus.

How had you missed it?

But the thought doesn’t end there. Because as much as his gaze stirs something in you, it also forces you to confront the ache you’ve felt for months.

The way your chest tightens when he smiles at someone else. The way your pulse quickens when he’s near. The way your stomach flips at the simplest touch—a brush of his hand against yours, his knee grazing yours under the table.

Oh no.

Panic bubbles in your chest, threatening to spill over. You tear your gaze away, your hands fumbling for your wine glass as you take a too-large sip. It does little to steady you.

“Hey,” Morgan says, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You good? You’ve been quiet,”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, the words too sharp, too rehearsed.

Morgan raises an eyebrow, but thankfully, Garcia swoops in to demand his attention, sparing you further interrogation.

Beside you, Reid shifts slightly, his knee brushing yours again. The touch is electric, sending a jolt straight to your heart. You chance a glance at him, and for a moment, you think he might say something, but instead, he simply offers you a soft, almost hesitant smile.

It’s that smile—sweet and unguarded—that undoes you.

You force yourself to focus on the chatter around the table, the way Garcia’s voice rises animatedly, the way Rossi’s laughter rumbles like distant thunder.

Anything to keep from drowning in the realisation that Spencer Reid, your closest friend and the person who knows you better than anyone, has somehow become the centre of your world.

And worse—much worse—is the fear that you’ve been blind to his feelings for so long, that your obliviousness might have hurt him in ways you don’t yet understand.

By the time dinner ends, your head is spinning, your chest tight with emotions you don’t know how to name, let alone confront.

As the team begins to gather their things and head for the door, Reid lingers beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You force a smile, though it feels brittle. “Just tired. Long day,”

He nods, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t fade. “If you need to talk—”

“I’m fine, Reid,” you say, a little too quickly. A little too sharply.

His expression falters, and guilt twists in your stomach. You want to explain, to tell him that your panic has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’ve just realised you’re in love with him. But the words stick in your throat, too raw, too terrifying to voice.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you manage, grabbing your coat and heading for the door before he can respond.

As you step into the chilly night air, the weight of your realization settles over you, heavy and inescapable.

You’re in love with Spencer Reid. And you have no idea what to do about it.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-TWO

The days that follow are a blur of avoidance and self-doubt. You bury yourself in work, volunteering for extra tasks, lingering at your desk long after everyone else has gone home. When Reid suggests coffee or a quick game of chess, you make excuses—paperwork, errands, a headache.

“It’s not you,” you insist each time, forcing a smile that you hope looks convincing. “Just busy.”

But it is him. Or rather, it’s you. The truth feels too messy, too raw to share. You can’t bear the thought of risking your friendship, of letting your feelings slip and watching the warmth in his eyes dim with awkward discomfort. It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Cleaner.

It doesn’t feel cleaner. It feels awful.

—

Reid is nothing if not perceptive. You know this, and yet it still catches you off guard when he notices your distance almost immediately.

At first, he’s subtle about it. A furrowed brow when you brush past him in the bullpen without stopping to chat. A quiet “Are you okay?” when you excuse yourself from a team lunch, claiming a nonexistent phone call.

But as the days stretch into weeks, his concern deepens.

One evening, after a particularly grueling case debrief, he approaches your desk with a tentative smile, holding out a steaming cup of your favorite tea.

“Peace offering?” he says lightly.

You glance up, surprised, and for a moment, the warmth in his expression makes your resolve waver. But then the weight of your feelings crashes over you again, and you force a polite but distant smile.

“Thanks, Reid,” you say, taking the cup without meeting his eyes. “But I really need to finish this.”

He hesitates, the smile slipping. “Did I... do something?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut. You look up, startled, and find him watching you with a mixture of confusion and hurt that makes your chest ache.

“What? No, of course not,” you say quickly, too quickly.

“Then why—” He stops, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “What’s wrong?”

Your heart sinks. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” you lie, but even as the words leave your mouth, you know he doesn’t believe them.

“Right,” he says softly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

The silence between you stretches uncomfortably, heavy with everything you’re not saying. Finally, he nods, stepping back.

“Okay,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll… let you get back to work, then,”

As he walks away, a knot of guilt tightens in your chest. You want to call him back, to explain, to apologise, but the words won’t come. Instead, you sit frozen at your desk, watching him retreat with his shoulders slightly slumped, and wonder if you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

—

That night, Reid lies awake, staring at the ceiling of his apartment as your words echo in his mind.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

The lie is so transparent it hurts. He replays every recent interaction, searching for the moment he might have crossed a line, the moment he lost you.

Did he hover too much? Was he too pushy with his invitations? Did he say something wrong?

The thought that he might have ruined your friendship gnaws at him, an ache that refuses to fade. He tries to focus on the logical, the facts: you said he hadn’t done anything.

But facts don’t explain why the laughter in your eyes has dimmed, why the easy rhythm of your friendship has crumbled into awkward silences and forced smiles.

He doesn’t sleep that night, and by morning, he’s no closer to an answer.

But one thing is clear: he can’t lose you. Not like this.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-NINE

It’s late when the team finally returns to Quantico, the exhaustion of a long case settling over everyone like a heavy fog. You’re the first to escape the bullpen, eager to retreat to the quiet sanctuary of your apartment. But just as you grab your coat, a voice stops you.

“Can we talk?”

You turn to find Reid standing behind you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression a mix of worry and determination.

“Reid, I’m really tired—”

“Please.” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes searching yours. “Just a few minutes.”

You hesitate, your instinct to avoid clashing with the ache in his voice. Finally, you nod, letting your coat drop back onto the rack.

He leads you to one of the empty conference rooms, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Did I do something to upset you?” he asks finally, his voice trembling slightly. “Because if I did, I—I don’t know what it was. And I need to know, because you’ve been distant, and I—” He falters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

The raw honesty in his words nearly undoes you. “Reid...” You take a step back, panic rising in your chest. “You didn’t do anything. I’ve just… been busy.”

“Busy?” he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief. He looks up, and the hurt in his eyes is like a punch to the gut. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

You stammer, searching for an excuse, but the words feel hollow even as you speak them. “It’s just... work has been overwhelming, and I haven’t had time, and—”

“Stop,” he says softly, cutting you off.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know you,” he says, his voice steady now, though there’s an edge of desperation beneath it. “I know when something’s wrong, and something is wrong. You don’t avoid people because you’re ‘busy.’ You don’t avoid me unless there’s a reason.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “I’m not avoiding you—”

“Yes, you are,” he says firmly. He takes a step closer, his expression earnest, pleading. “I just... I need to understand. Did I do something to push you away? Did I say something, or—”

“No!” The word bursts out of you, louder than you intended. You see him flinch slightly, and your resolve crumbles. “No, Reid, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then why?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Why are you pulling away from me?”

His hurt expression cuts you to the core, and for a moment, you consider telling him the truth—laying it all out, messy and terrifying as it is. But fear holds you back, the fear of ruining everything, of crossing a line that can never be uncrossed.

“I can’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I just... I can’t.”

His brow furrows, confusion clouding his features. “Can’t what?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unanswerable. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, and what you see there—hurt, confusion, and something deeper, something vulnerable—almost breaks you.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, the words barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

And before he can say another word, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the empty room.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE

You don’t even remember the drive to Reid’s apartment. The streets blur past in a haze of headlights and cold January air, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

The weight of your own cowardice has become unbearable. His hurt expression haunts you, replaying over and over, the echo of his words a constant refrain: “Why are you pulling away from me?”

You can’t do this anymore. You can’t keep pretending you’re fine when every moment away from him feels like a slow unraveling.

By the time you reach his door, your nerves are frayed to the breaking point. You hesitate for a moment, your hand poised to knock, before finally forcing yourself to take the leap.

Three short raps echo in the quiet hallway.

The door opens after a moment, and there he is—Spencer Reid, standing in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, his expression wary but softening the instant he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice uncertain.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and unfiltered. You take a shaky breath, clutching the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the moment. “Can I come in please?”

He steps aside immediately, his concern deepening as he watches you.

Once inside, you pace the small living room, your hands trembling, your mind racing. Reid stands by the door, watching you with a mix of confusion and apprehension, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Okay, you’re scaring me a little,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

You stop pacing, your back to him, and close your eyes for a moment, gathering every ounce of courage you have. When you turn to face him, the words tumble out in a rush.

“I have been avoiding you,”

He knew that. But hearing you say it tears him up just a little.

“because I’m an idiot,” you continue, your voice trembling. “Because I thought it would be easier to push you away than to deal with the fact that I—” You falter, your throat tightening, but you force yourself to continue.

“I’m in love with you, Reid.”

His eyes widen, his lips parting in surprise, but you keep going, afraid that if you stop now, you’ll lose the nerve to finish.

“And I was scared. Scared of ruining our friendship, scared you’d look at me differently, scared of losing you. So I distanced myself, and it was stupid and selfish, and I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks, and you take a shaky step toward him. “I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

For a moment, the silence is deafening. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stares at you with an unreadable expression.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please?”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he takes a step toward you. Then another. And another, until he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day we met,” he says softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he continues, his eyes searching yours. “You’re brilliant and kind and funny, and you make me feel like I’m not... like I’m not so different. I didn’t want to risk losing you, so I kept it to myself, even though it killed me to see you pull away.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, a rush of relief and disbelief and something achingly tender.

��Spencer...”

He steps closer, his hand lifting to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear. You bury your face in his shoulder, the familiar scent of him—coffee and faint traces of his shampoo—wrapping around you like a balm.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur against his chest, your voice muffled.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your arms. “Don’t be,” he says, his gaze soft and unwavering. “We’ve both been scared. But we don’t have to be anymore.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek, and he brushes it away with his thumb, his touch lingering.

“Does this mean I can invite you to coffee again without you running away?” he asks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. “Yeah, yeah that’d be nice—”

His smile widens, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and press your lips to his.

The kiss starts tentative, a soft brush of lips, as if both of you are testing the waters, unsure of what to expect after so long of keeping everything bottled up.

But as the seconds pass, as your heart beats faster and your pulse races with the rush of finally having everything laid bare between you, the kiss deepens.

It’s overwhelming, more than you ever imagined. The gentle pressure of his lips on yours sends waves of warmth through you, and it’s as if everything else—everything you’ve been afraid of, everything that’s kept you distant—melts away in that single, perfect moment.

The tension, the months of pining and longing, spill into the kiss, filling the space between you with everything you’ve been holding back.

You slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he responds instantly, his hands moving to your waist, holding you tightly as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. His lips are soft but eager, the kind of kiss that says everything words couldn’t express.

The world outside this room fades into nothingness—the hum of the city, the quiet night air, the noise of your past self-doubt—all of it is gone. It’s just you and him now, tangled up in each other in a way that feels so natural, so right.

You pull back slightly, breathless, and when you look at him, the expression in his eyes is one of pure awe. He’s looking at you like you’re something he’s dreamed of for so long but never thought he’d get to touch.

“You,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,”

You laugh softly, still reeling from the intensity of the kiss, the electric feeling of his arms around you. “I think I have some idea,” you say, smiling through the haziness of your emotions. “I’m not that oblivious,”

He smiles, a little sheepishly, and presses his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well… I guess we’re both just really good at pretending.”

“Not anymore,” you say, your voice filled with newfound certainty. “No more pretending. No more running. From now on, it’s just... us.”

Reid’s smile widens, and he nods. His hands move to cup your face, the touch tender, reverent. “I promise,” he says softly. “I promise, I won’t let fear get in the way again,”

You nod, your chest swelling with relief. You feel the same. Fear won’t keep you apart any longer.

The transition from being friends to lovers feels seamless, like something that was always meant to happen but only needed the right moment to click into place.

There’s no awkwardness, no second-guessing. It feels like this was the way things were always supposed to be, as if every conversation, every shared laugh, every moment you’d spent together was building toward this.

“You know,” he says quietly, a hint of playfulness returning to his voice, “I think I’m starting to like this ‘not pretending’ thing.”

You chuckle, your heart full, and pull him into another kiss, this one more relaxed, more comfortable. There’s no rush now—just the simple, perfect feeling of being in his arms, of knowing you don’t have to hide anymore.

When you pull away again, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I love you,” you murmur.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice a little thick with emotion. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything you’ve both been through.

And as you stand there in his arms, the world outside his apartment feels like a distant memory, something far away that no longer matters. All that matters is the feeling of being together, of stepping into the future with him, side by side. No more fear. No more distance. Just you and him.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX

Returning to work after that night feels surreal, like stepping into a world that’s familiar but somehow brighter, sharper. Everything feels new, but also so wonderfully right.

The team notices almost immediately. They’re profilers, after all.

It starts with the little things—your hand brushing against Spencer’s as you both reach for the same file, the soft, shared smiles exchanged across the bullpen, the way you instinctively gravitate toward him during team meetings.

Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up the first time he catches Spencer stealing a glance at you, his expression so openly fond it borders on dreamy.

“Something you want to tell us, Pretty Boy?” Morgan teases one morning as Spencer sits at his desk, clearly distracted.

Spencer startles, his ears turning red as he fumbles with his pen. “I—uh, no, nothing.”

From her desk, Garcia narrows her eyes suspiciously, then looks at you, her gaze bouncing between the two of you like she’s connecting the dots. “Wait a second. Are you two—?”

“We’re not talking about this,” you say quickly, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays your attempt at sternness.

“Oh, we will talk about this,” Garcia says, grinning triumphantly. “Just as soon as I gather my emotional support snacks.”

Hotch and Rossi, ever the professionals, don’t comment, but the knowing looks they exchange speak volumes.

So does the HR form that magically appears on your desk the same afternoon.

DAY TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE

A quiet afternoon, as the team prepares for a lull between cases, Spencer walks into the bullpen holding a carefully wrapped package. The sight of him—nervously shifting from foot to foot, his hair slightly mussed, his tie askew—makes your heart ache in the best way.

“Hey,” he says softly, approaching your desk.

“Hey,” you reply, setting aside the file you’ve been working on. “What’s that?”

He holds out the package, his fingers brushing yours as you take it. “It’s for you,” he says, a little shyly. “I’ve had it for a while, but… I was waiting for the right moment,”

Curiosity piqued, you carefully unwrap the package, your breath catching when you see what’s inside: a first-edition copy of a book you’d mentioned offhandedly months ago, a rare find you never thought you’d own.

“Spencer,” you breathe, running your fingers reverently over the worn leather cover. “This is—this is incredible.”

He shrugs, his cheeks flushing pink. “I remembered how much you loved it, and, well… I wanted you to have it,”

You stare at him for a moment, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the gesture, by the quiet devotion it represents. Setting the book aside, you rise from your chair and step closer to him.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice soft but filled with emotion.

Before he can respond, you lean in and kiss him, your hands resting gently on his shoulders. It’s not your first kiss, but it feels just as electric, just as full of promise.

When you pull back, his eyes are bright, his smile soft and radiant. “I think I like this ‘new chapter’ we’re in,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with affection.

“Me too,” you reply, your heart swelling as you brush a stray curl from his forehead.

As you return to your desk, the book resting on the corner like a talisman of everything you’ve built together, you steal another glance at him.

He’s already immersed in his work, his brow furrowed in concentration, but when he catches you looking, he smiles—one of those rare, unguarded smiles that makes your chest ache with how much you love him.

This is where I’m supposed to be, you think. And Spencer would agree.

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