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wildlyfreemoon · 10 days ago

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“I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me." WAHHHH AND IF I CRY???? REFERENCES TO SEASON2 EVENTS AND REID MAKE ME UNSTABLE

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

#great fic to read after not having read spencer fics in a while #i need to rewatch cm eps again and get back into reading spencer fics too ahhh #fic rec #spencer reid #spencer reid fic

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wildlyfreemoon · 11 days ago

Text

The F*ck-It List | part 4 | # Nine

rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)

chapter: 9.8k

tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.

a/n: As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going. tldr: i love y'all.

For those requesting to be tagged Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates

F*ck-It List masterlist here

Once upon a time there was a princess with a queen for a mother and a king for a father. And the king and queen were so happy to have the princess. They showered her with love and quality time and the kingdom was perfect.

Then came the little prince and the kingdom was even happier. Now the King and Queen showered both the prince and princess with affection and love. .

But the Queen had something within her. Something dark that was hidden from eyes of many in the kingdom. Something that made her weary and lifeless, something that made the king cry.

So he shielded the little prince and princess the best he could. But the princess was older, and despite her father's protection she saw the way the Queen struggled.

The Queen grew sicker and sicker until one day she called the princess to her chambers.

"I won't be here much longer. But I need to tell you that I love you," the Queen insisted, cupping the princess's face in her hands. "Everything is gonna be okay."

But the next day the sun rose and the Queen was gone. And despite her promise, the kingdom was never okay again.

And neither was the princess.

///

You call in sick the day after the phone sex debacle. There's no way you can look Joel in the face today. Because instead of telling Joel exactly what happened after he came, you just told him to have a goodnight and hung up the phone. But what could you have said that wasn't awkward?

“Sorry Joel, I would have loved to continue but my father walked in just as you were busting a nut.”

You ignore Jacobs’s frequent texts demanding to know how it went, choosing to spend the day eating cereal and watching television instead. Your dad comes home around seven, surprised by the dinner you prepared. Chicken and broccoli casserole like your mom taught you to make.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," he says planting a kiss to your forehead. "You made dinner?"

"Figured I might as well," you say. "How did Tess' first day go?"

Your dad goes to grab a beer from the fridge, taking to you over his shoulder.

"She's gonna be great for the company, I just know it,” your dad says with a self satisfied grin as he reaches inside the fridge. "She's a quick learner but not overbearing. Almost everyone likes her.”

“Almost?” you ask, scooping some of the casserole onto a plate and holding it in his direction.

"Joel still isn't happy about hiring her," your dad continues shaking his head. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately."

At the mention of Joel's name your hand wobbles, almost dropping your dad's plate. He grabs it before eyeing you.

"You sure you're okay honey? You look a little nauseous."

///

Joel paces around his office late into the night. You didn't show up for work today. He did something wrong.

For about the millionth time that day he wonders what happened. It sounded like everything was going well and he could hear you were getting closer and closer to coming.

And then poof, he came and then your voice was weird and tight and wishing him a goodnight.

He'd considered calling you but assumed it was better to talk to you in person today. Then you hadn't showed up and that caused him to spiral. A knock comes to his door and he stops pacing, standing by his bookshelf.

"Come in."

He holds in a groan when he sees its Tess. Clearly she's been burning the midnight oil as well tonight.

"I thought I heard someone in here," she says warmly. "You're here late."

"I'm the boss," Joel replies evenly. "S'what happens. I'm sure you know that given who your father is."

The derision and disdain is clear in his tone and Tess flinches back at the sound of it before schooling her features.

"Hey I get if you don't like my father, lots of people don't like him," she tells Joel solemnly. "But I'm nothing like him. I work hard, I respect my colleagues."

"I'm sure you do."

"But you don't want me here," she offers, palms aloft. "My entire interview I don't think you said more than two words to me."

"Didn't need to," Joel says thinking back to how excited your dad was during that interview, barely letting anyone get a word in edgewise.

"You know why I wanted to work here, Joel?" Tess asks him, arms loosely folded in front of her.

"Shittier pay? Worse benefits?"

Tess gives an amused smirk his way.

"I wanted to work here because this firm has a great reputation. You're innovative and inclusive and you give a shit about the environment." She tenses slightly. "Is it so insane to think that I might feel the same way?"

"Not when I look at where you used to work."

"Used to," she emphasizes, "I used to work there. I wanted to come here not just to prove myself to my father and the board. I came here because I want to make a difference."

Joel doesn't know how to reply to that, so he doesn't bother. He just looks at the ground between them, his shoulders still stiff, his face still impassive.

"Anyway. I hope you have a good night," Tess says stepping out of his office, her hand on the knob. "I hope one day we can be friends."

Joel watches her leave, a niggle of something he can't quite place burrowing in his belly.

///

You drive into work the next day with a look of determination. One that falters when you see that Jacob is there in the parking lot with two coffees, one of which he hands to you with a smirk as you exit.

"There's no way you're not telling me how it went," he says in a hush as you pass a group of giggling teens on the sidewalk.

"No way."

"Did you wear what we bought? Did he see?"

"Jacob-"

"Oh no. Did you use the voice?"

"Jacob!"

The two of you enter the elevator and Jacob hides a giggle behind his coffee cup. A group of the interns load in after you both, a pretty redhead sending a flirtatious look towards your friend.

"Hi Jacob," she says with a coo over the din of voices. "Missed you at drinks last night."

You glance over to see Jacob takes his time scanning her body, eyes lingering along her collar before flitting to her eyes.

"Sybonne, you know I don't get drinks with interns," Jacob replies, his low voice honeyed.

Some of the other interns glance between them before grinning at one another. Jacob is the office hunk. He's gorgeous, he's smooth, he's never disrespectful to anyone and he never mixes with the interns.

"I'm gonna get you to change your mind one day," Sybonne says with a slanted grin aimed at the man next to her. "I'll just get Patrick here to carry you out of your office."

Her tall friend with large biceps under his blazer smirks beside her.

"He can try," Jacob says sweetly and the elevator stops at their floor.

You hide a smile at the blatant flirting going on. How does he do it? He's not even straight!

"Bye Jakey," Sybonne says with a flirtatious wink that Jacob returns.

When the doors close after the group, leaving you two alone, you turn an incredulous eye on him.

"You are frighteningly good at that."

///

Joel is replying to emails in his office when he hears your footsteps outside his door. He holds his breath, listening as you settle into your chair and begin with the days schedule.

Joel feels his stomach tensing, frustrated that even after everything he feels insecure about what happened the other night.

What if she thinks I'm a dirty old man?

His fingers curl into loose fists as he considers this.

Nah. She has a list and I'm just helping her check things off. She agreed to it, and consented to it. She's a grown adult woman and she can make her own choices.

He works away the next hour, distracted when he hears you answering the phone or humming to yourself.

He thinks about the photo of you on his phone. The one he told himself he couldn't look at after your phone call. The one he put into a secret folder in his phone anyway. He hasn't looked at it since that evening, convinced that outside that shared experience he shouldn't.

But it's like it's burned into the inside of his brain. The straps and lace and your sweet fucking body just laying there, teasing and inviting.

Then before he can stop it he's picturing you at your desk wearing it under your modest clothing right this second. Curving over your chair to answer the phone, ass curved by the delicate lace of your skimpy panties, breasts spilling out of the bra, nipples straining through the fabric.

The image hits him below the belt so hard that his cock immediately swells to life in his slacks. His eyes go between his thighs, mortified at the thought of sporting an erection at work.

What if someone walks in? Fuck what if you walk in? Wait, why does the thought of you walking in both terrify and excite him?

Simple. He wants to see you come. He wants to see you taking him as he feeds himself into you. He wants you bouncing on his lap in this very chair right this second while everyone works outside.

Fuck fuck fuck. His mind is hazy with arousal and he needs to calm down.

Joel feels himself tense up, his shoulders at his ears as he distracts his mind with bid offers and blueprints he needs to sign off on. He hears you answer a phone call outside his door, holding his breath to better hear the melodious tone of your voice.

I’m fuckin’ losing it.

///

“Yes ma’am,” you reply to the woman on the other end of the line. “I’ll see that he gets the message.”

You hang up and jot down the woman’s name and time she called before sticking it into an email and sending it off to your Dad.

The clock in the main office ticks by at what feels like a glacial pace. Your gaze drifts around the quieting office. Maybe you should get a coffee. Nah, you’ve already had two and you don’t need to be any more amped up than you already are.

You know Joel is in his office, you can see light spilling under the door. You've been on edge all morning anxiously waiting for him to exit. You can't stop hearing the sound of his deep voice all husky, whispering baby in your ear.

You almost think you can hear it now, low and raspy and murmuring your name. You're wet thinking about it, you feel it when you cross your legs.You stare off into the distance, chin on your palm and sighing.

"Are you listenin'?"

You jerk in your seat, eyes wide as you glance over your shoulder. Joel stands at the doorframe of his office, one arm raised as he balances against it. Oh, he was saying your name, you weren’t imagining it.

"Oh, hi," you sputter. "What's up?"

"Can you come in here quick?"

"Yes, sir."

You stand, making your way into his office, your legs wobbly and your pulse ticking. He barely moves back, your shoulder brushing his chest as you enter. You hold in a shudder.

The two of you take your customary seats behind the desk and across.

This man heard me getting off the other day. I heard what he sounds like when he comes.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Shame suffuses your cheeks and you stare at your hands. Joel's head tilts slightly when you won't meet his eyes.

"You feelin' okay?"

"Yep. Thanks for asking."

"You sure?"

He knows something is up with you and how could he not? You’re acting like a rat in a science lab, cowering away from his glances. You swallow thickly, glancing up from your hands.

"The other night. The phone call…"

"Mhm." Joel's face is impassive, giving nothing away.

I can't tell him what happened. It's too embarrassing.

A beeping sound emits from Joel’s pocket and he scowls as he pulls out his phone. A reminder pops up in a green bubble and he exhales loudly through his nose.

“Forgot I have a zoom call.”

Relief floods you.

"Gotcha," you say as you stand, giving a salute. It feels appropriate for the austerity of the moment, but the second your hand drops you regret it, backing out of the office. You close the office door behind you and quickly move through the office, almost lurching to slap the buttons to the elevator.

You half jog by the closed office and conference doors on Jacobs’s floor, your heart in your throat as you round on the door bearing his name. You don't even knock; you just push the door open.

"Coffee."

Jacob glances up from the blueprints on his desk, long fingers splayed.

"Huh?"

"We need to go for coffee. Now."

Jacob removes the glasses he uses for fine writing. "The Sanderson project-"

"Thirty minutes at the cafe around the block. I promise."

You drop your voice when you hear gentle murmurs coming from down the hallway. It's Tess and one of the senior staff deep in conversation; thankfully they turn into a nearby room before they see you.

"I have to go to the Sanderson place," he says firmly. "The deck isn't the size, and they're complaining."

"I'll come with you! Anything!"

"Okay fine," Jacob says pulling on his jacket.

You tug out your cell, typing quickly to Joel.

Jacob needs someone to help take measurements of the Sanderson deck extension. I'm going to help him. I'll be back before lunch.

The answer arrives as you and Jacob are loading into his car.

Thanks for letting me know. – J

///

Joel sighs, pinching the bridge of his sharp nose as he replies. He tosses the phone with a clatter onto the desk before sighing and leaning back. Normally he wouldn’t be okay with you ducking out mid-morning for an unnecessary errand, but in all honesty he’s kind of thankful for it. Despite your talk he still feels tense.

A knock sounds at his door and he welcomes the waiting figure inside. It's your dad looking hesitant.

“Hey Joel."

"Hey man."

They haven’t spoken about the dinner or about the shitty things your dad said. It’s not their dynamic, especially your father’s. And normally that would piss Joel off, but he can’t exactly be furious when he’s getting half naked photos of the guy’s daughter can he?

"I was thinking about the Superbowl party next month,” your dad says, hands in his pockets. “What do you think of me hosting it?"

"S'my year isn't it?"

Since the beginning of their friendship the bed had always traded off years for the super bowl games. Each man was in charge of the snacks and entertainment. As their business became more successful and grew so did the parties.

Last year your father had organized Superbowl trivia and expensive themed prizes. The year before Joel had gone all out on a sumptuous spread and gave away season tickets to whoever guessed the right final score.

And every year they invited friends and senior staff at the company. Brian always used to paint his face in the team colors. His wife never enjoyed the games, but she always attended, smiling and bringing her best bean dip as she cheered along with him.

"It is, it totally is," your father hedges, looking around Joel's office as if in search for a lifeline. "It's just with my daughter being home this year for it and, uh, Tess was mentio-"

Joel rolls his eyes, hand slapping onto the table. Just the mention of the woman has his hackles rising. "Are you fucking serious? You wanna invite her?"

"Joel C'mon," your dad insist with an entreating look. "We always invite the senior staff."

Joel pushes away from his desk so quickly the thing wobbles.

"What does it matter?" Joel snaps. "You're just gonna do what you wanna do. So why bother askin' me in the first place?"

Your dad stands there mollified until Joel goes back to his computer, effectively ignoring your dad until he backs out of the office, closing the door gently behind him.

///

You're in the car with Jacob, eyes casting around nervously. You've been driving with the music on for the last ten minutes as you try to collect yourself.

The company cars at The Mill Group are always fancy and luxurious and the ride is calm.

"So what was so urgent?" Jacob asks, turning down the radio.

"I need your advice."

"Okay." He scans the road and then you. "About the list?"

"Yes," you nod, fingers sliding along the chill of your seat buckle. "So the call went pretty great actually, after the whole technical issue."

Jacob snorts a laugh.

"I was nervous at first, but then I was getting into it. Like, really getting into it," you say with a fond smile. "But then my dad came home and totally killed the mood."

"Wait, what?" Jacob slants a look at you from the corner of his eye. "You're doing this at your place?"

"In case you forgot Jacob, that's where I live."

"But... Babe, you're rich. Just rent a hotel room."

"My dad is rich, Jacob," you correct him. "I'm saving to go to school."

"But your dad would pay for it. I know he would, he's like the nicest guy ever."

"Yeah, but I'd have to stay living with him if I did," you hesitate. "And I don't want to after this year. As soon as I get into the M.Arch program I think I'm gonna move out."

Jacob is quiet, his fingers loose around the wheel as he contemplates this.

"You really think he'd do that? Make you stay with him if he paid for your school?"

"He would never make me do anything," you insist. "I would just feel obligated. You know, golden handcuffs."

Jacob appears to want to ask more questions and so you divert him.

"Anyway that's not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted your advice on how to move forward with this guy."

"The phone sex guy?"

"Yeah."

"So we like him? He's not a creep?"

"No, well, I mean, he's nice," you say feeling flustered. "He wouldn't murder me."

"Wow," Jacob replies, head shaking. "The bar is in hell."

"And I saw him yesterday," you lie. "And it was so awkward, Jacob. I've heard what he sounds like when he comes."

"So hot."

"Agreed. And he's heard me touching myself and-"

"Less hot."

"Jake!"

"Sorry, I'm not into your lady garden," Jacob shrugs, pulling into a sprawling driveway. He kills the engine and turns to face you

"So you're wondering how to get things back on track or what?"

You can't go into the minutiae of why seeing Joel every day is going to be mortifying. You can't let Jacob know that you're working with the guy that made you almost come over the phone. Not just because of humiliation, but because you would never want to jeopardize Joel’s job.

"Yes, but I'm so embarrassed I can't even look him in the face."

Jacob raises a brow, giving you a sympathetic look.

"So don't look him in the face. Just text him which item on the list you want to do next. When you meet up do it at night and have a drink to loosen up.”

"That simple?'

"That simple." He goes to grab his folio in the backseat before pausing and turning back to you. “And for fuck’s sake, do it in the car if you have to, but not your house."

///

You walk back to your desk with Jacob’s words in your ear.

Simple, just text him and figure out next steps.

But it doesn’t feel that simple, especially when you see Joel's tall form tilted over your desk, reaching into your yellow basket that holds his mail. Everything in you goes warm, your face prickling with heat as you take him in.

You can't help but stare at the way his shirt is rolled to the elbows, the way it strains over his wide shoulders. Wayward curls fall into his forehead.

He heard me almost come. He saw me half naked. He knows what my whimpers sound like.

In your bedroom by the time you got into things it had felt so natural. But now I'm the cold light of day you remember who Joel is to you. He's not a phone sex god; he's your dad's best friend, your employer.

He's seen my nipples!

Each footstep that carries you towards him pounds like a heartbeat in your ear, your chest tight as you hold your breath. Joel stands, flipping through the mail with a slight pout as he reads. He glances up as you approach your desk, his gaze sweeping over you.

You force a smile, trying to affect a casual demeanor.

"Hey Trix."

A grimace overtakes your face at the nickname and the sight of your father exiting his office. The slowly building tension in your body disappears, replaced with a coil of frustration at your father somehow always showing up at the wrong time. You catch Joel turn his back on your dad and you think you feel some tension.

"S’true you went with Jacob to see the Sanderson place?" Your dad is straightening his tie as he asks this, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Yeah," you mutter, shoving your purse under your desk.

Joel stands at the door of his office, flipping through the envelopes. You wonder if he's listening. If so you're even more embarrassed.

"We schedule you for that?"

The tone is light but the words sharp. Your job isn't to go on job sites unless specifically requested. Your dad isn't a cruel person, just a strict boss at work. Your performance reflects back on him.

"I thought it was a good opportunity," you reply evenly.

Your dad's eyebrows raise in surprise. "S'that so?"

"I mean, I'm going to do my M.Arch soon and -"

"I hope you're looking local," your dad interrupts just as his phone goes off in his pocket. "You know I love having you in the house again."

He pulls out the phone, reading the name and holding up a pointer finger as you go to speak again. He lifts it to his ear, giving you a small smile, signaling the conversation is over.

"Hey. I was wondering when you were gonna call," he says in a saccharine tone you can't stand. "Yep. We got those numbers. One sec."

He turns his cell, pressing it against his chest to muzzle his voice.

"I have to head out for a meeting with Kathleen. Can you forward me the Nguyen contract? I gotta go."

He gives a wave and then he's off, bellowing a laugh into the phone. He nods politely at Kathleen and she stands, pulling her purse over her shoulder. She often accompanies him on meetings, always the steadfast employee, always willing to tag along.

Are you like that with Joel? His faithful puppy? You deflate into your chair, sullenly when they round the corner. You put your head in your hands, exhaling.

"I thought you were doin' school in Europe a few years ago."

You start, not expecting Joel to still be there behind you at his office door. You twist in the chair, taking in his folded arms, shoulder balanced against the doorframe.

"Yeah. I was."

"And you thought Texas was the place to do a Masters in architecture? Not there?"

You give a shrug you hope is casual. "I wanted to be close to home."

It sounds like a lie even to you. Joel just looks at you, sucking at his teeth before nodding. You turn back to forward the information to your dad as requested.

The door behind you closes just as your phone buzzes. It’s Jacob, checking in one you.

Wanna grab drinks tonight? Aki says there's a cool pop up place. We need to discuss your romantic life at length. I have more advice.

You smile to yourself, imagining what advice from Jacob will look like. But at the same time, you’re eager to blow off some steam and push Joel from your thoughts.

Sure. I’m down.

I just have to finish up this contract though. I’ll be about an hour and half, maybe two? Do you mind waiting?

You have nothing else going on aside from listening to your dad drone on and on about you living at home and probably giving you shit for unnecessarily going off-site.

Np. Come grab me when you’re done.

The intercom on your desk chirps to life and Joel’s sultry voice sounds out from the speaker.

“Come in here when you can.”

///

Why is my heart hammering?

Joel paces in front of his desk, his body electric. Why the fuck did he ask you to come in here?

Because you need to make sure everything is okay. She was gone yesterday. You need to know the lines aren't crossed.

He needs to make sure you're not uncomfortable with him. But that doesn't really explain the way his stomach flipped when he saw you coming to the desk. Is it nerves? How could you of all people make him nervous?

He doesn’t have time to analyze that because you’ve entered into his office, closing the door behind you. You carry your notepad and pen, clearly expecting this to be a work chat. Because this is a workplace and that’s what should be going on.

But when you see him standing beside his desk instead of sitting behind it, you slow your footsteps, coming to stand a foot or so away. You glance at the chair and then to him, clearly confused.

“Hey. What can I help with?”

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. I had a cold,” you reply, giving an unconvincing sniff. Joel shoots you a calculating look, eyes swimming over your face.

“You remember what we said when this started,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lest it be overheard. “This won’t affect our working relationship. We’re supposed to talk about everythin’.”

And now he sees the way you face flushes, your eyes dropping to the floor. He was right, something is up.

“I told you that we can stop any time,” he reminds you, concerned. “I-“

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, clutching the notepad to your chest like a life preserver.

"Right.” Joel raises a disbelieving brow.

"I, uh, I really liked it. What we did…on the phone…."

Stop fucking talking.

Joel looks strangely relieved, shoulders dropping a bit, his hip leaning against his desk as he stares at you. "So you liked what we did?"

Yep. Until the end that left me with blue bean the rest of the night.

"Yes."

"You hung up pretty fast-"

Joel watches your face dissolve into a cringe. You bury your face in your hands, mortified

"My dad walked in just as... Just as things were getting good," you interrupt.

"What?"

"Just as you... Finished, my dad walked in talking about sushi."

Joel feels his head swim anxiously. His fingertips go to balance him against the desk.

"Your dad heard me?"

"No!" You all but shout, dropping your hands and adopting a look of complete disgust. "No no. I had my ear buds in and, anyway, that's why I got weird at the end."

Joel can't deny he's relieved. You both pause at the sound of employees packing up for the day, calling out goodbyes to one another, flicking off lamps. The Mill Group isn’t big on overtime in the office, staff work hard and that means they leave on time without fear of judgment.

When the noise settles somewhat, you finally meet Joel’s eyes.

“I’m sorry for missing work because of it. I just felt so weird about it. But you’re right,” you acknowledge. “If this is going to work I have to just, face up to it and, you know, be cool.”

Joel hides a smirk, amused at your candor. He certainly wasn’t being cool moments before in his office, pacing back and forth like a scared student so you can be forgiven for maybe overthinking things as well.

The phone on Joel’s desk rings shrilly, startling you both. This is one phone call he can’t put off. You seem to understand this, backing out the office and closing the door behind you to give him privacy.

Joel tugs the phone from the cradle, irritated already.

“Tommy where the hell are you? You’re supposed to be here already.”

His brother’s voice is breathless over the static-y line. “I’m sorry, Maria’s ultrasound ran late and now she needs the truck. She’ll have it back soon though. Any chance we could meet later?”

I have plans, Joel wants to say. I need to talk more with my best friend’s daughter about phone sex. But he remembers the rules he set in place that first day.

“This cannot and will not affect our working relationship. The second it comes even close to that, this is over.”

Business comes first. Whimpers and lingerie and pretty women with glassy eyes will have to wait. He sighs down the line, his eyes closing in irritation.

“Yeah. Fine. See you then, Tom.”

///

A short while later you scroll Instagram on your phone, waiting for Jacob to text you. You’ve scanned the bar’s exotic menu and you’re excited to force yourself to try some new things.

See Jacob? I try new things! I bought sexy lingerie! I made Joel Miller come on the phone! I’m ordering this weird seaweed dish tonight!

You glance at the time, noting that Joel is working well past his scheduled time today. He was also supposed to have a meeting an hour ago and no one has come by.

You feel a bit of sympathy for the man, knowing that like your father he is an incredibly hard worker. But unlike your dad, Joel has no one to go home to. As far as you know he goes back to a sad, depressing apartment all alone.

This compels you to stand and go to the break room. You grab one of the many mugs there that boast the Mill Group logo before slipping it into the cradle of the intimidating coffee maker.

Like most things in this office, the coffee maker is fancy. It was over five hundred dollars and makes anything you want single serve. You think it’s killing the environment, but everyone else seems to love it. Joel and your father are huge coffee drinkers and apparently this is one of the first things they ever splurged on for the office.

You fiddle with the buttons, throwing out the first cup because nothing but hot water comes out of it. It takes a bit of swearing and slapping at the buttons before a nice, steaming cup of black coffee comes out.

You grab the small organic sugar packets and head back towards your desk slowly, focused on not spilling it. Your footsteps echo in the desolate office in a way that would feel spooky if Joel wasn’t still here.

You knock on Joel’s door, entering when you hear his sotto voce “come in.”

You see him sitting behind the desk, his dark eyes stuck on whatever email he's replying to. He's a slow typer and as you approach you see the pink of his tongue swipe at the corner of his mouth in concentration. He glances up as you near the desk, placing it at his elbow.

"Its decaf," you explain as Joel frowns over at the mug. "I know it's too late for caffeine."

Joel nods slowly before sliding the mug his way. "What're you still doing here?"

"I'm meeting Jacob. He's working on that Sanderson account so; I have a bit of time to kill. Thought I’d make myself useful.”

“Jacob, hmm?” Joel says and it verges on teasing. You don’t reply, but when you see the mug you’re prompted.

“Oh, almost forgot." You reach into your pocket, retrieving the sugar packets and handing them to him. “I wasn’t sure if you have sugar this late so, just in case.”

Joel takes the two packets from you, but he doesn’t use them. Instead he places them in his office drawer next to a few monogrammed pencils and pens. He closes the drawer and looks up at you skeptically.

"How do you know how I take it?"

"Dunno," you shrug. "Guess I just noticed over time."

"Guess that’s why we keep you around," Joel jokes with a brief flash of a smile before he brings it to his lip.

You find yourself singularly fascinated with the plush of his lip as he sips. He’s so sexy when he doesn’t try. And all you can remember is how good he was at sexy talk. How hot you felt when he made that groaning noise at your photo.

"You’re here late too," you say lamely, feeling like you’re going to burst into nervous giggles at any second.

"Yep," Joel says in a gruff murmur as he lower the mug to the desk. "Last minute meeting."

We’re here in the office alone. It’s just us.

You have this vague feeling of arousal licking at your lower belly. It doesn’t worry itself with logic, only desire. As all the blood flows to your clit, you can’t help but propel yourself forward.

"When will they be here?"

"Hour or so." When you don't reply he glances up, eyes connecting with yours. "Why?"

What have you got to lose?

Jacob’s question is rolling around in your head. You have nothing to lose. The worst thing that happens is Joel will say no. Yeah, you might be embarrassed but you also might get the chance to knock something off the list.

Something that’s been on your mind a while.

His voice was the appetizer, but his hands on you could be the main course.

Your heart hammers so forcefully behind your ribs that you stagger when you walk towards him, hoping your movements are enticing. Joel's eyes follow the swish of your hips, clearly intrigued.

You've seen lots of movies where women sexily perch on pianos or desks, crossing their legs alluringly and pouting down at the man in suspenders. You want to do that now, you want to seduce Joel and you need to know what his touch feels like.

You arch your hip, sliding up onto his desk. It’s a bit higher than you were expecting and you give a small grunt, hefting yourself onto the top. You try to play it off by tossing your hair over your shoulder. Joel stares up at you with a puzzled look.

You drop your voice to a raspy purr, pouting your lips.

"I feel like an hour gives us plenty of time to-"

Your hand goes to brace on the lip of the desk so that you can give him a coquettish wink over your shoulder ala Jessica Rabbit.

However your palm slides over the smooth varnish, slipping right off the edge of the desk.

Your body quickly follows as you give a yelp of ‘oh fuck!’ sailing off the edge of the desk and

landing over Joel's lap with a yelp.

What the actual fuck?

You lay there draped over Joel's lap like a boneless cat, ass up, feeling the blood rush you your head the longer it stays in that downward position. His hand lightly rests on the middle of your back, attempting to keep you from sliding right onto the floor.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say miserably, your body still slung over his legs.

You think you hear Joel swallow a snicker. But you can’t be sure. You’re surprised he hasn’t pushed you off of him yet.

“I was just trying to… I was trying to be seductive,” you confess, knowing that keeping secrets is the antitheses of what you’re both doing. You hear the curiosity in Joel’s reply.

“Seductive?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Because I wanted you to spank me. But that was before I accidently dove into your crotch.

"Nothing, it was stupid," you say in a squeak.

"No," Joel says in a voice dragged through gravel. "You tell me what you want."

You go to raise your head and arms, so embarrassed that you consider ending the contract right then and there. But Joel hasn’t moved and he certainly isn’t making any move to push you off of him.

He wants to know what you want.

“Number… Number Nine,” you manage your voice quiet.

"Which is?"

"Spanking," you say, so glad you’re talking to the floor and not to his face. "Uh, hand or paddle or whatever."

"Well this is one way of askin' for a spankin'," Joel chuckles as you attempt to right yourself.

You hide a humiliated groan as you begin to push up and off his legs.

"Hey, hey, where you goin?" Joel says, holding the back of your thighs down with his forearm.

"To throw myself off a bridge."

"Now why would you want to do that?" Joel murmurs, his large palm sliding over the curve of your ass. "When we could have a whole lotta fun if you stayed?"

Wait. Did this fucked up seduction actually work?

You grunt, shifting to look up over your shoulder. Joel doesn't look upset, which throws you. You're so used to the stern, no nonsense man who strides around the office. But instead he looks playful, almost boyish as he looks at you.

"You... You wanna do this?"

"You're over my lap and my hand is on your ass," Joel says flashing you a cheeky smile. "I don't think there's a more obvious answer than that."

"Oh."

There's a long stretch of silence and Joel's warm palm curves over the globe of your ass, his warm fingertips hitting the hem of your skirt and tugging it slightly up. You realize belatedly that this was a stupid, last minute plan as you recall your undergarments. The only clean pair since you kept putting off your laundry.

Why the fuck did I wear my granny panties today?!

His hand moves down under the hem of your skirt, fingertips grazing the cotton of your repulsive panties.

"Goddamn," he murmurs.

You're surprised when he suddenly tilts, pulling you to a stand along with him. "What're-"

"Consent video," he says in a thick voice. He pulls out his phone from his jeans and you're very aware of the tent in them. The very sizeable tent.

How the fuck does he walk around with that thing? His nickname should be tripod!

You're still staring at it, wondering how it will ever fit one day when Joel's voice breaks into your thoughts along with a familiar beep.

"Okay, go."

"Huh?"

"Consent."

"I-I, uh," you stutter staring at his swollen cock through his jeans.

Why is my mouth watering?

He says your name sharply and you jerk your eyes up, seeing his signature impatience.

"The faster we do this, the faster I make you come."

Your legs go rubbery as his comment hits below the navel. You have to brace your hip against the desk to keep from crumpling to the ground.

"I thought it was just spanking. You know. Like foreplay?"

"It can be. Or it can be the thing that gets you there."

Your thighs press together at just the thought and you see Joel's mouth hitch with amusement.

"Somethin' tells me it's gonna be the latter."

Oh fuck fuck fuck.

You can feel the arousal pooling between your legs and you don't care that you're voice comes out cracked.

"Okay yes, I consent. Please right now. Yes. All the consent to being spanked."

Joel flashes another grin, raising the phone to eye level and pressing the record button.

"Okay. Now this time for the camera."

///

With the consent video out of the way, Joel tries to remain in control of the situation. He pockets his phone, and takes a step towards you.

"The lap's a bit uncomfortable in that chair," Joel says, bringing you between he and the desk.

You look confused when he twists you to face away from him. He smiles at the back of your head, watching the tension rise in your body.

"I think the desk is a much better spot."

The change in you is immediate. Your body goes slack, anticipation clearly overtaking your fear. "Really?"

You glance over at him, eyes blown wide. You're so uncertain with him. Not that he's given you opportunity to be much else.

Until this list Joel barely acknowledged you. If he had dinner with your dad and you were around he ignored you for the most part aside from a polite greeting. The two of you had nothing in common. You're still strangers to one another and yet there exists this new intimacy. It's a strange dichotomy that has Joel feeling aroused out of his mind for reasons he can't properly articulate.

He scans your face, eyes dropping to your mouth a fraction too long before he clears his throat.

"Bend over the desk. Onto your forearms."

You nod, doing it so quickly you nearly go sailing over the glossy wood top, like a newborn colt struggling to find purchase. You're nervous; Joel can practically feel it coming off of you in waves.

"You can withdraw your consent at any time.”

“Right.”

“Repeat it."

"I can withdraw my consent at any time."

His hips are against your ass, pinning you there between he and the heavy oak. You stiffen, wondering if he can feel the arousal accumulating between your legs.

"Just relax," Joel murmurs, hand stroking down your spine. "I'll take care of everythin'."

You soon turn pliant, your body loosening as his hand strokes down your spine slowly a few more times. He's pretty sure if he kept doing this you'd start purring.

He steps back, a hand on your middle back to keep you from rising. He feels you shudder when his wide fingers pull your skirt it up over your ass, leaving it bunched at your hips.

His chest is tight from holding his breath, and now he exhales slowly, drinking you in at his leisure. Bent over his desk, on your forearms, hair over one shoulder, your body eager for him. You're like a fucking dream.

His hands go over the silken skin of your ass, watching it clench nervously.

"Not enough to hurt," he tells you in a soothing cadence. "Just enough to sting a little."

Joel looks at the lilac panties you wear, oversized and not particularly memorable. The kind of thing a woman wears when she's doing laundry. But then why did it turn him on the second he saw your ass in them? Why is his cock so hard?

His thumbs hook in the elasticized waistband of your panties before pausing as he feels you tense. It feels too fast to have you undressed from the waist down. He changes course, tugging the fabric to the center, wedging it there so that the majority of your ass is on display.

He waits for you to pull back or to do something that tells him you want to stop. But instead he's gratified when he watches your spine arch, your ass more on display for him. He smiles at the back of your head, enticed. He can't help but grab each cheek in his hand, squeezing.

You make a soft little gasping noise, fingers splaying atop the desk before you push back into his hands, the meaning clear.

You want more.

Joel tilts back to admire you from behind, his eyes blown black. You drop your torso to the desk, exposing more of yourself and there's no mistaking the glossy arousal that coats the gusset of your panties and surrounding inner thighs.

Joel swallows thickly, his cock straining in his jeans at the sight. Barely touched you and you're already so fucking wet.

His arousal is almost debilitating at this point. His face and neck burn. He shifts back slightly, giving himself room. One hand lingers on your hip; the other raised slightly inches from the silken skin of your ass.

"Ready?"

Joel watches as you exhale, steadying yourself. Your fingers curl around the far edge of his desk for balance.

"Yes."

He brings his hand down briskly. The first spank is light, the sound timid in the large room. But as expected, you're very responsive.

"Oh!"

"Too hard?"

"No no. Just... Getting used to it."

Joel knows if he keeps stopping and starting that the momentum will be lost. He trusts that if you want to stop, you'll tell him.

The second spank hits you just below your ass cheek, clearly surprising you. You jolt, but Joel keeps going. This next swat comes to the side of your ass and Joel bites his lower lip when he sees your cheeks ripple under his touch. Your voice is breathless.

"Harder."

Fuck that's hot.

As requested the spanks grow a little harder and you take them, whimpering every so often, ass begging for his hand. Again and again, blow after blow you take it, ass ricocheting, whimpers turning into whines and moans.

"That's right," Joel groans. "Show me how bad you want it."

You immediately arch back as far as you can, ass wiggling in anticipation. You whine his name in a way that makes all the hair on his body stand on end. He only wants you to say his name like that from now on.

His large palm swats again before gripping a cheek in his hand, fingers dimpling the flesh. When he pulls back your skin is blooming with the evidence of his hand.

"We should stop," he says through jagged inhales.

"Why?"

"I'm gonna leave marks."

Now for the first time since you bent over the desk do you look at him, heavy lidded over your shoulder. Your eyes connect.

"I want you to leave marks."

Joel forces himself to swallow a groan. He doesn't mean to, but his fingers dig into your hips and pulls you back against his pelvis, grinding you against his aching cock. And before Joel can think properly you've started grinding back against him harder.

Fuck you feel good, even through the layers of clothing.

This isn’t spanking, this is dry humping at best. But you don’t seem to mind when he presses you tightly against the desk, rolling his hard cock against your pussy. And now your moans are getting louder, your ass rolling against his front.

Not thinking Joel takes his hand and covers your mouth.Even though the place is empty, Joel doesn’t want to chance anyone hearing. He built this office himself, the door is solid and sound is muffled. But still, there’s paranoia in having your moans reach such a pitch.

“Shhh. You have to work on bein’ quiet. It'll be good practice for number five."

You nod, your glassy eyes fixed on his when he removes his hand. It slides down to your throat, gently holding you there as his hips rut against your ass, faster and faster. The fabric of his jeans is rasping so perfectly against the head of his cock. You’re so into it, your cheeks flushed and your body urging him to continue.

Your eyes are glued to one another so he can see when yours begin to tilt back in your head. His voices comes out ragged and heavy.

"You're gonna come aren't you, pretty girl?"

You whine a soft "yeah", your movements growing more erratic. Joel feels himself getting closer and closer, the friction building. He swats your ass as he continues, mesmerized at how your body moves for him.

You're whining his name now between nibbles of your lower lip, your fingertips curling and your back starting to bow. Fuck, you're both gonna come right here at his desk and he's not even undressed. Every time he sits here he's gonna remember you whimpering his name and-

"You there brother?"

SHIT.

///

You freeze under Joel's hand, both sets of eyes flying to the office door.

The unlocked door.

In your excitement neither of you thought to lock it. And right now you can hear heavy footsteps making their way towards the office. Joel must know how incriminating this looks because he glances wildly around the room.

"Fuck."

Your hands go to push your skirt down, your eyes wide. “What do we do?”

All the calm that you're used to in Joel’s face fades away for a fraction of a moment before coming back in full force. His brows knit and he fixes you with a serious look.

"Get dressed."

You nod, pulling on your panties and tugging down your skirt the rest of the way. But how can you explain the two of you in Joel's office at night?

The door is about to open and in what can only be assumed is a blind panic you feel Joel's hand go to your shoulder.

"Under the desk."

He pushes you to your knees, spanking your ass lightly to get you moving faster. He falls into his office chair as you crawl in the most undignified manner under his desk.

He begins bracketing you with his legs as he rolls his chair forward. You're already blocked from the door since his desk faces it, but now there's practically no way to be seen.

Someone gives a knock before Joel calls him in, half rising to shake the man’s hand, shielding his lower half.

"Good to see ya, Tommy," Joel says in a voice that suggests the opposite.

"Same here, J." You hear Tommy settle into the seat you normally occupy. You can hear the smile in his voice. You have heard of Tommy Miller before in passing from your dad. But it’s never positive.

“Tommy Miller is a charming guy who everyone likes and no one can depend on.”

You wonder what he looks like. Does he have dark eyes like Joel? Curls? A dimple in one cheek? You can’t help but be interested as you listen to this secret little brotherly moment. Joel is holding himself straight, clearly uncomfortable.

"The house okay?"

"More than okay," Tommy insists. "There's a tire swing in the backyard. Same kind we had as kids. You remember it? You got that scar from when you fell -"

"Yeah yeah. I remember."

You think of the whisper of a scar across the top bridge of Joel's strong nose. You don't really notice it anymore. Images of a young boy with dark curls and dimpled smile break into your head. Sunlight backlighting him as he wraps his hands around the rope, kicking off the tree to soar.

"I'm real appreciative of it," Tommy is saying to his brother earnestly. "And as soon as I've got a few paychecks under my belt-"

"Don't worry about it, Tommy. Consider it a baby shower gift."

Your eyes widen in surprise. Joel just gave his brother an apartment? Yeah, he could afford it, but wow. You would have gotten a bottle warmer or something.

"You're doin really well for yourself," Tommy says, the whisper of jealousy at the corner of his words. "Pictures don't do this place justice. S'fuckin' huge."

“Thanks, yeah. We actually had to import the wood…”

You sit there, collecting your thoughts as the brothers chat about office sizes and wood reclaiming. You have a lot of time to think since you’re curled up under Joel’s desk like an oversized dust bunny.

Is the universe telling you something? This is your second time being interrupted by a member of each other's family while about to come. Maybe this is a sign that this is a really stupid idea? A sign that this shouldn’t be happening?

Universe, why don’t you want me to come? Is it because I didn’t buy Girl Scout cookies from those kids last year? They didn’t have thin mints!

Joel shifts in his seat and you can see that he's still hard through his jeans. A perverse part of you is rather pleased you managed to elicit such a reaction.

You've had this fantasy before. Stuffed under Joel's desk during work, his hard cock within sucking distance. In these fantasies you're on your knees in a cute outfit, giving a coquettish smile up at him.

Except the reality is it's cramped under here. Your back screams at you and you're still painfully wet from before. Now as the terror fades from your veins, you’re hit with what just transpired.

Joel was grinding on you.

You feel an oily grin spread over your features and you have the strangest desire to make noise and run around like a kitten on a catnip high. Then something else comes back to you.

“Shhh. You have to work on bein’ quiet. It'll be good practice for number five."

Number five, public sex. Joel remembers your list. Joel has obviously thought of finishing the list with you. Your cunt throbs with greedy need, your eyelids fluttering as you think about all the places he could fuck you. This office would be fun. But surely there are other spaces.

Ow, fuck, your lower back is seizing up. You try to stretch out as a cramp sets in, but when you do the movement results in a rustling against the floor. You feel a gentle prod of Joel's boot against your thigh, a silent warning to stay still.

"Maria's really excited to meet you this weekend," Tommy is saying, unaware that his big brother has the boss’s daughter under his desk.

"Yeah, about that, turns out I'm busy this weekend on a job site. We'll have to reschedule."

Your mind flips to the calendar you prepare for Joel every day, your nose wrinkled in confusion. Joel's weekend is totally free. What job site is he talking about?

You hear the deflated tone creep into Tommy's voice.

"Could you at least pretend to be a little excited for me, Joel?"

"What're you talkin' about? I am excited."

The chair creaks under Tommy as he shifts. You can feel the tension in the room. You can also feel the tension in your back from being crunched up in this little space. You lean forward, attempting to stretch out. You rest your cheek against Joel’s knee, surprised when he jolts at the contact.

"You okay, J?"

"Just my back," Joel lies. "Twinges sometimes."

"Mhmm I know that song and dance real well. Hey, you got any water?"

"Fridge over there, help yourself."

You hear shuffling and Tommy must move over to the fridge across the room because Joel tilts back in his seat and shoots you a scowl.

I'm sorry, you mouth at him. My back hurts.

His gaze softens and he nods down at you. You watch as his fingertips tap his knee, indicating you can return leaning there again.

You move your cheek back to his leg, surprised when he trails his fingers through your hair in a soothing gesture. Before you can register it, he snatches his hand back, folding it with the other on the desk above you.

"So what did you wanna see me for today Tommy?"

"You said you could get me a job here."

"I did. I have one lined up for you Monday. You should've been contacted."

"Yeah, I got the email from HR today."

"Good to see they're on top of it."

"Uh, thing is, Joel, I don't know if it's a great fit... For my skills. I mean, you know I've got experience in construction."

"We don't need more construction workers," Joel snaps.

"I got my CSO certificate."

"Doesn't change anything. We're not hiring for that right now."

"Joel, you’re the CEO of this big company. And you got me workin' janitorial? It's embarrassin'."

"More embarrassing than being unemployed with a baby on the way?"

Wow. Joel Miller coming through as the asshole you've always known him to be. Here his younger brother is begging him for a halfway decent job and Joel can't even find it in him to help? And if Tommy has experience in construction there’s tons of places Joel could set him up.

You’re almost thankful to Joel for being an asshole. If anything it helps you keep the separation of sex and true feelings.

"Joel, I want my wife and kid to be proud of me."

You feel uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons now. This is a conversation you should not be privy to. Joel seems to sense that because he tries to wrap things up.

"This isn't a discussion I'm up for tonight, Tommy."

You hear the disappointment in Tommy's voice. "Will you think about it at least?"

You watch Joel's broad torso expand and constrict as he sighs.

"I'll think about it."

///

Joel watches as his younger brother pushes himself from the chair to stand, shooting him a hopeful look.

"Alright. Send me your availability and we can reschedule for dinner. Like I said, Maria's real excited to meet you."

You watch Joel's left hand clench at his side. "Drive safe, Tom."

He watches his brother exit, closing the door behind him. The two of you wait in silence, barely breathing until Tommy's footsteps diminish into silence. Only then does Joel roll his chair back, peering to watch you un-tuck yourself and crawl out.

"You okay?"

"Nothing a chiropractor can't fix," you say with a grunt as you take his proffered hand and rise. The two of you stand looking awkwardly at one another as you pull back, suddenly vulnerable under his scrutiny.

"This was ...."

"…Memorable, that's for sure," Joel says, the back of his neck pink.

"Yeah. Memorable."

He watches as you lick your lower lip, your entire disposition strangely detached. You scratch your elbow, glancing around the room. Joel's eyes flit down your skirt, knowing exactly what lies underneath. Shit. He's getting hard again

He's still in that lusty state, forcing himself not to remember how you looked in that lingerie picture. Silently shooing away the memory of your ass rolling against his pelvis. He plops into his chair, rolling it to buttress the desk again.

You pull on your purse, shooting Joel a polite smile.

"Well, I better go too. I'll see you tomorrow." You go to the door not waiting for his response, walking a little unsteadily. Joel wonders if it's from the spanks or desk crunch.

Say something. Don't let the night end like that.

"If you're sore tomorrow, aloe vera might help."

You pause with your hand on the knob, breathing in slowly.

Way to make it fucking weird, Miller.

He hears your deep inhale followed by a shaky exhale. Joel has come to notice that this is your precursor to a big question, or a big ask. You don't face him when you speak, but he hears you just fine.

"I'd love to get number one crossed off. So let me know when you're free for that."

You drop that bomb and then you're gone, closing the door behind you and leaving Joel wincing as his erection swells aggressively to full mast.

#AHHH I LOBE UR WRITINGGGG #obsessed with this fic tbh #gleefully (haha glee) await every update :P #fic rec #Joel miller #Joel miller fic

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