⋆. four eyed fairy princess ⋆

When you finally found a time that works for both of your schedules, you decided it would be time to make your move. Fuck waiting for him to initiate. You can do it yourself. You'd been subtle about it at first—a hand on his thigh, a few inches higher than where you'd normally place it, lips running over his jaw. 

The man had simply laughed nervously, and returned with a kiss to your forehead.

Briefly, you wondered if it truly is because he's not into you that way. However, that thought flits right out of your pretty head when you see the unmistakable tent slowly forming in his pants. 

So you’d upped your actions, nibbling at his earlobe in the middle of dessert, fingers trailing up his inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. Screw subtlety. (And hopefully, him too.) By the time you two sat in the back of the cab, he’s a squirming mess.

“S-stay the night?” he’d been so shy about it you debated teasing him a little more. Maybe if you weren’t so horny, you would have, but relief had simply flooded your veins. Finally. So you nod, teased him a little more in the back of the cab until he had to grab your wrists and hold them in place, because he swore he’d probably come in here just from one more brush of your palm. The lightest pressure and he’d be a goner, a pathetic mess, and you hadn’t even really done anything. 

There had been no build up once you got into his apartment. Simply an exchange of quick, sloppy kisses, Spencer pushing you deeper into his house until the couch hits the back of your knees and both of you came tumbling down. He’s already rutting his hips against your thigh, his erection hot even through his slacks. Clumsy fingers strip off fabric and shoes, leaving them strewn haphazardly on his living room floor.

You had pushed him away then, grinning enticingly as you went to straddle his lap. You ground your hips in circular motions against his still clothed crotch, gasping as the obvious bulge gives you even more traction to rub on. 

“No fair,” he whines, fingers leaving crescent shaped indents on your hips, “P-please stop teasing, you’ve been doing it all night.”

He’s so tightly wound it’s almost pathetic. He’s lucky you’ve some semblance of mercy left in your body, because you could probably come undone just from the friction that came by dry humping him. But you relent, sitting back on his thighs as you tug at his underpants. 

“All right baby, since you asked so nicely.”

Thus exposing what’s going to be the small issue of the night.

Rather, the large issue.

His cock springs free and for a moment you just stare at it. Red, veiny, pulsing and huge. Larger than anyone you’ve been with, larger than even the toys that hide in that one drawer in your bedroom closet.

“W-what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You paled a little.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips, “You didn’t tell me you were hung.”

His eyebrows scrunch, so ridiculously adorable you have to bite your lip to stifle another giggle.

“Hung?”

“Yeah, like, your dick is huge.”

Red blooms across his cheeks, “It’s - it’s certainly above average—”

“You know what the average length is?”

“I-in North America, yes.”

“I didn’t know you swung that way, baby.”

He groans, moving to hide his face into the crook of your neck, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I know, I’m kidding.” You manage to shift and catch his head before he has a chance to press it to your neck. Your lips land on his, and he’s pushing his tongue inside your mouth sloppily. When you pull away for air, you add, “You’re just bigger than what I’m used to.”

“Is that bad?”

Is it? One hand wraps around the base of his cock, stroking up delicately, testing out the girth and the weight of him. He shudders, muscles tensing. His fingers dig into your hips. With a grin, you reply, “On the contrary, I think it’s exciting.”

You position yourself over him then, letting the blunt tip run up and down your slick folds. The friction makes you both shiver. Every single ridge and vein of his cock catches on your sensitive flesh, and you can’t help but start moving your hips up and down, rubbing your folds over the length of him. 

“You’re - ah - so wet.” his tone is wretched with desire and awe.

“All for you baby.” You continue your ministrations, letting his length part your folds, the tip hitting your clit at certain angles. His cock is covered in your slick within moments and your poor boyfriend looks like he’s about to combust. You feel the twitch of his cock, the shift in the way he moves his hips—rocking up desperately against you—and you know he’s close. So you stop.

You’re rewarded by another whine.

“Please,” his grip is hurting you now, palms clutching handfuls of your ass. You don’t think he’s even aware of how tightly he’s doing it. “Please, I’m so—”

“Spence, do you really want to cum without even being inside me?” That shuts up his whining. “Mhm, didn’t think so.”

“Can I— please, just—”

“What?”

“Wanna touch you.”

Your lips tug into a smile. At your nod of assent, one of his hands let go of your ass to move to your pussy, the pads of his fingers quickly locating your clit.

“Fuck, Spence,” your head falls forward, forehead meeting his, “Faster, baby.”

He obeys, tilting his head forward to capture your lips. Your mouth opens to him, muffling your moans as you begin to move, shamelessly riding his hand. His finger finds your entrance, dipping shallowly, hesitantly, but you’re so wet that, with a quick thrust of your hips, the digit slips all the way in. 

Spencer pulls away from the kiss to watch, the pupils of his eyes nearly eclipsing the ochre irises as your pussy swallows his finger greedily. Transfixed, he adds another finger and it’s your turn to squeeze and mark up his alabaster skin with crescent marks. 

“Yes,” you groan, gasp, writhe in his lap as his fingers curl and find the sweet spot inside you, “Oh god, Spencer, yes!”

He’s entranced as he pumps his fingers in and you, mouth hanging open as your pussy parts and accepts his fingers so prettily. To reciprocate, your hands—plural, yes both hands—wrap around his cock, starting a slow, lazy pace. That throws his rhythm off, fingers stilling inside you.

“Keep going,” you urge him, hands slowing to a stop as well, “Spencer.”

He whines, hips bucking up into your palms, but something in your voice seems to set him straight. Fingers thrust in and out of you again, long and elegant and stretching you for what’s about to come. Satisfied, you pump your hands over his cock again, twisting them every time you motion up, and squeezing as you go down. It doesn’t take long for him to fall apart, his cock twitching before cum shoots from the tip. Because you’re straddling his lap, it makes a mess and lands on both of you—his stomach, your chest, some even on your hair. 

“Oh god,” he’s whining again, embarrassed, “I’m sorry, I’m so—”

You silence him with a kiss, still stroking him, as your hips move over his hand. His brain manages to work, curling inside your fluttering walls. The movements are messy, uncoordinated as you chase your orgasm and he struggles to catch up. A whine leaves your lips, soft and needy. Something about it must trigger the neurons in his beautiful brain, make him remember you have the perfect bundle of nerves being neglected and he has more free fingers. 

With a slight shift, he presses his thumb to your clit. 

“Fuck, baby, yes!” you cry out breathlessly, head falling forward on his shoulder. 

“Good?” he asks, increasing pressure on that sensitive nub. Small, quick circles. You wonder when he became so dexterous.

You nod, thighs clenched and quivering as your climax nears, the pleasure in your stomach building and coiling into something white-hot and— “Oh, Spencer!”

His other arm wraps around your waist, crushing you to him as he helps you through your orgasm. In the steady comfort of his arms, the rocking of your hips slow to a stop. You feel his lips at your temple, not really kissing the spot, just resting there. Heavy breaths rifle strands of your hair. 

“Oh god,” he sighs, fingers slipping out of you with a pop, “Angel, that was amazing.”

You straighten up, grinning, “We're not done yet.”

“No?”

Eyes dart down suggestively, and his gaze follows to his own lap. Still completely erect, his cock lays flat against you, heavy and pulsating. “No, I think I need to take care of you a little more.”

“Y-you don't have—”

But you've already lifted yourself to your knees, fighting through the quake in your thighs, in order to position the tip of him at your slick entrance. His hands return to your thighs, nails clamping down on your skin.

“But I'm not— condom—”

How cute, he can barely speak. You grin, press a chaste kiss to the dimple on his cheek. “I'm clean. And on the pill.”

“You sure it’s okay?”

It's more than okay, actually. You're too shades shy of being desperate for his cock to split you open, but you're not sure if he'd survive hearing that sentence so you say, “Of course it is baby. Unless… you want me to stop?” If he catches the hint of insecurity in your voice, he doesn't show it. 

Instead, his head is shaking no, vigorously, lower lip jutting out in a pout. 

You smile, and kiss it away, “Okay then. I'll go slow, okay?”

You'd meant it as an empty warning. Really, there's nothing more you want than to impale yourself down on him and ride him like there's no tomorrow. However, as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock, as the blunt tip breaches your entrance and spreads your walls, you realize that going slow is probably more of a necessity. 

He's big. Almost uncomfortably so. 

One sharp exhale from your lips and he's suddenly looking at you in concern, “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” you gasp, although the furrow in your brows suggest otherwise. 

“You don't have to—"

“Hush, baby, I just need a moment.” You say, forcing yourself to relax and take more. The broadest part of his head pushes through, stretching you wider than you've ever been. Soft, keening sounds fill the air. It's hard to know which came from you, or from him.

You look up, and laugh when you realize Spencer's skin is dappled with large red splotches. He's staring at where the two of you are connected, his cock barely fitting inside you. With a deep breath, you roll your hips around, trying to get used to the feeling. He whines again, his torso falling back onto the cushion, “Oh my god,” he gasps, lower lips trembling, “Oh my god, please.”

“Need you to be patient for me, Spence.” you mutter, dropping down a little more. You place one hand on his thigh for balance, while the other wraps around the base of his cock, stroking him to give him some relief. The greedy bastard bucks up, involuntarily, and you hiss as another inch pushes into you before you're ready.

“Spence!”

“Sorry, I'm sorry! Just - oh god, oh god, please, oh did I hurt you?”

And then it happens. Something glimmers on his cheek as it catches the light. And then another. And again, this time on the other cheek. Your hand leaves his thigh to grasp his chin, tilt his head up.

Your boyfriend is crying. Splayed out on the couch, cushions embedded by the sharp joints of his elbows from where he's propped himself up. He's looking up at you with glimmering liquid gathered on the rims of his lashline. Dripping down his cheeks, only to be replaced by another bout. 

“Baby,” You sigh, pouting as you lean down. Soft lips catch his tears, leaving sticky residue on his cheekbones from the remains of your lip gloss, “It's okay.”

Another sob. Large teardrops crawl down his chiseled face.

Knowing that it’s your fault makes a feeling of power surge through you. “You’re so pretty like this, Spence.” 

“Angel, please—”

The sight of his tear streaked face does something to you, your walls relaxing and fluttering as you manage to accept another inch down. His reaction is instantaneous, nails sinking into your hips, head falling back. “No, no,” you say, hand coming to the back of his head, tilting his head forward again, “Look at me.”

Tear streaked and hazy eyed, he manages to keep his head steady in order to maintain eye contact. It’s a little sick, the way this turns you on, but it allows you to sheath his cock further in. 

You lift yourself up, until only the tip remains notched inside you, and his cock gleams with the evidence of your arousal. With a smile, you sink down again, walls fluttering as you take him deeper, until you have about three fourths of his length buried inside you and he’s little more than a puddle. 

A hiss escapes your lips, brows knitting from the stretch. It isn’t just that his length is impressive, it’s that he’s thick too, splitting your pussy open. But now he's buried more than halfway through, giving you enough room to lift yourself up, and sink down again.

You count that as a victory.

He groans, muscles tensing, and you know he's desperately trying not to buck up and meet your movements. With a small smile, you lean close, forehead resting on his. Large, honeyed eyes stare back up at you, still glassy with tears. You repeat the same motion of your hips, moaning as you feel every single ridge and vein of his cock straining inside your walls. 

“Feel good?” you murmur, swiping a stray teardrop with your thumb. 

“Mhmm,” he nods, breath hitching as your movements grow steady. The sting remains, but it's grown dull now that you’ve gotten more used to the size of him.

“Oh god, baby, why haven't we done this sooner?” you whine as you rock on top of him, enjoying the fullness of having him inside of you. The question is rhetorical, but he's in absolutely no state of mind to answer. His hands grip your hips tightly as he sniffles, unable to do anything else except enjoy the ride you're giving him.

Praises leave your lips, murmured in tones cloyingly sweet and half mocking. 

“Crying over sex, you're so lucky I'm so into you.”

“You look so pretty with tears in your eyes baby."

“Never had pussy this tight, haven't you?” 

That last one rips another sob from him, because you know this is his first, that you're making a mockery out of something significant for him. So you soothe with a kiss, and whispers of “I'm sorry, it's okay, you're doing so good, you feel so good.”

You punctuate it by moving faster, your pussy thoroughly comfortable and so wet that there's barely any struggle to bounce on his dick. However, you're still careful, still unable to take him all the way in. You figure it's something you both can work up to, something for the future. The thought makes you smile. 

Besides he doesn't seem to mind, moaning beneath you as you ride him. He seems to have lost all ability to articulate himself, instead just staring at you with red, tear filled eyes and a slack jaw. It makes you giggle, the way he looks so utterly fucked out. 

You clench around him, walls tightening sharply, sending sensations that make the two of you gasp. 

“I-I'm so close.” He manages to say, his hands now helping you, guiding your body as you impale yourself over his cock again and again, “Please, I'm so—”

“I know, baby, I know, you can come.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and his voice is especially strained when he asks, “Inside?”

You tug his hair teasingly, and his kids flutter open again. With a grin, you confirm, “Inside.”

A few more thrusts and he's gone, crying out, squirming desperately beneath you as spurts of his cum paint your walls. You don't stop, riding him continuously as you chase your own release. Thick, creamy liquid drips from your pussy and down the base of his cock with every movement. 

He sobs even more. 

“Touch me,” You whisper, pleading, “Spence, please baby, I'm so close.”

His fingers are at your clit in an instant, rubbing hasty circles as your pace grows erratic and sloppy. 

“Please,” He gasps, looking up at you with glassy, imploring eyes, “Please I wanna feel you come.”

Your body seems attuned to his desperate pleas, because as soon as those words leave his lips, your pussy clenches around him so tightly you both yelp in surprise. He doesn't stop his ministrations on your clit, helping you through your orgasm until you're panting. For the second time tonight, you collapse against him, face buried at the crook of his neck. 

“My god.”

He laughs, breathless, “My god indeed.” 

He shifts, moving slowly so he doesn't jostle your boneless frame too much. There's a hiss from you as he slowly pulls out. You find yourself clenching around nothing, feeling oddly empty after such an intense fullness. 

Silence wraps around both of you, heady and languid. His fingers in your hair, scratching your scalp. Soft intimacy after a whirlwind of lust.

And then he breaks it, so achingly sweet it almost makes you cry, “I'm sorry that I hurt you.”

“Mhm?”

“Earlier,” He clarifies, lips finding your shoulder and staying there. His voice becomes muffled and sheepish, “When I thrust up.”

“I didn't think you'd remember that.” You tease, fingers tangling into his hair and tugging at his curls.

“I've an eidetic memory, remember? I remember everything.” He laughs too. Relief makes his voice sound lighter. “I never want to hurt you.”

“You didn't,” You reassure him, “Well - okay, a little bit, but it's fine. I don't think you meant to.”

“Of course not,” He hums, lips traveling up your neck, “But I'll be more careful next time.”

“Next time huh?”

“Mhm,” Teeth on your jaw. Playful, teasing. “Next time.” 

It sounds like a promise. You know he intends to keep it. 

“No, I really wanna do this.”

“Do you, Reid?” you took a few slow steps toward him, your hands dropping to your sides, “You don’t seem very eager. Your legs are crossed and you’re still fully clothed.” 

“I didn’t know I should-“

“You shouldn’t do anything. But if giving instructions is the only way you’ll start doing something then I’ll do that.” 

He paused, looking up at you with patient, yet deeply confused eyes. 

It was Spencer’s first time. And he came to you specifically because you’d caught him “excited” during very unreasonable times on the job. The most recent incident was on the flight back home from Seattle two days ago right after debriefing with the team. 

“I didn’t know debriefing gory cases got you going, Reid.” you had teased, completely pushing him off balance for the rest of the flight. 

He thought himself sick for having such thoughts at such inappropriate times. 

“If you need help with that, I’m only one phone call away.” you whispered to him before walking off to your car that night, never expecting him to take you up on that offer. 

—- 

“I need help.” 

Those were the first words you were hit with by a breathy Spencer on the phone earlier tonight. 

A small smirk formed on your face. 

Who knew Spencer could be so bold. 

That’s what desperation does. 

That’s what complete, utter need makes you do. It strips you of your pride and shyness; it strips you down to pure instinct. 

—

“Strip.” 

“Right, sorry.” his hands quickly fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, undoing each button with a growing, clumsy urgency. 

“We’re gonna start with some touching tonight. I think you should just get a feel for things since it’s your first time. And if you find yourself more comfortable later on, we can do some oral stuff.” 

Spencer felt a tight knot form in the pit of his stomach, a sign that the blood will start rushing down from his head. 

“I am comfortable,” he insisted, his eyes dropping to your chest before darting back up to your face.  

You fought back a smile at his eagerness, which you thought was adorable. 

“We haven’t even started yet. So no, not until we get a bit further with things. Got it?” 

He nodded, now stripped down with only his boxers left. 

“Lay down.”

“Just..” he looked at the bed, acting as if the words were completely foreign to him, then moving back on the bed to lay flat. 

He pressed his palms down on the sheets. 

“Relax, Spencer.” you whispered, walking to the side of the bed, admiring the sight of his pale, lean body lying completely flat in your most sacred spot, slightly shaking. 

He closed his eyelids, “I am relaxed.” 

You tilted your head to the side, unable to take your eyes off his peaceful, flushed face. 

You gently pressed your index finger under his chin, moving his face up. 

You then traced your finger down his throat, going slower at his adam’s apple before continuing down the path of his bare chest, feeling the hammering of his heart vibrating against his sternum and ribs. 

You dragged that finger down his abs to his lower stomach, sending a shiver down his spine, making his muscles contort underneath your touch. 

“You’re very responsive,” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“It’s just an observation.” 

Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked up at you, completely defenseless. 

“I don’t think I can handle you being unbiased right now,” 

You removed your finger, giving him a gentle grin. 

You leaned down, pressing your palms on the mattress next to Spencer, pressing a kiss on his cheek,  “you’ll do great, Reid. Just let go, okay?” 

“Okay,” 

A faint shade of pink was crawling up his neck, slowly spreading across his cheeks. 

Your lips found their way across the warm skin of his jaw, lightly grazing with your teeth and pulling a quiet, breathy whimper from his lips. 

You pulled away to unbutton your pants and pull them down before tossing them on the end of the bed. 

You crawled up the bed to settle your weight on his stomach, straddling him. His hands were still pressed down on the sheets, but now his fingers hesitantly reached to touch your legs that laid close to his shaky hands. 

You focused your wet kisses on his neck, occasionally sucking on the sensitive spot behind his ear to listen to the pretty noises he can’t help but let out. 

You lowered your hips to make it easier for yourself to pepper kisses all over his chest.

“It’s okay, you can touch,” you whispered against his skin, your voice vibrating against the warm flesh underneath your mouth.

He slowly slid his hands up your legs, then your sides, his movements full of uncertainty.  

Your hands cupped his own, guiding him to your chest, encouraging him to feel you up. 

He cupped your breasts, the tender flesh full against his palms. His fingers squeezed and flexed, making your peaks slowly start to harden. 

“Like that?” he murmured. 

“Yes, Spencer, just like that.” you softly hummed, shifting your weight slightly to press yourself harder into his hands. 

His thumbs found the lace edges of your bra, tracing the curve of the underwire, before brushing his fingers with more force against your covered, hardened nipples. 

Your hips rolled instinctively against his, your body leaning forward against his, no longer sitting upright. 

“Can I- should I take this off?” his voice was breathy, filled with quiet fascination. 

“Please.” 

His fingers quickly fumbled with the clasp of your bra, his movements a bit clumsy before managing to unhook your bra. 

You dropped the bra straps down your arms before he took it, his fingers brushing over the thin fabric as he placed it next to his head. 

Spencer’s eyes were blown wide, staring up at you in absolute awe before taking your bare breasts in his waiting hands. 

“You’re so soft,” he murmured.

He cups you fully, lifting and squeezing reverently. His thumbs and index fingers caught your aching peaks, rolling them gently and pulling a stifled moan out of your lips—a sound that mesmerized Spencer. 

Your raw reaction gave Spencer more confidence, slowly steadying his shaky hands and making him raise his head, reaching for your nipples. 

With one hand kneading your right breast, he took your left peak in his warm mouth, wrapping his lips around it before swirling his tongue to spread the wetness on your sensitive skin. 

A small gasp left your parted lips, “God, Spencer, keep doing that,” your hand went to his hair, gently carding fingers through the soft locks. 

You felt his rock hard length between your thighs as you rocked your hips against his, “you’re so hard and I haven’t even touched you, Spencer.” 

“I- I can’t help it”, he confessed, his teeth accidentally biting your nipple as you grind your hips down in a slow circle, “you’re beautiful and- and you’re on top of me and I’ve been thinking about this since the plane…” he breathed his words in the middle of working on your nipple.

 You let out a shuddering breath, “I know, Spencer,” 

You gently tugged his hair back, pulling his head away from your chest to look at you. His lips were wet and swollen, “I want this too, but we can stop at any point, no questions asked and no hard feelings.” your lips were brushing his, not quite kissing him. 

“Okay,” he whispered, his eyes staring at your lips as he tried to get a bit closer. 

You snaked your hand down your torso and underneath the damp fabric of your panties. 

Two of your fingers swirl on your clit before slowly stroking your slit and pressing a finger against your hole, making you moan against his mouth. 

He parted his lips, aching to swallow your moans. 

You got off of him, sitting next to him against the headboard, propping your legs up and parting them. 

He then sat up, moving to the lower part of the bed and hovering on all fours to get the clearest view of you, staring with parted lips as the flush deepened across his sweaty chest. 

You pumped one finger in and out of your pussy in a slow pace, warming yourself up for another finger. 

You slid a second finger inside yourself, letting a soft, breathy groan escape your lips. 

You were already slick, your glossy moisture coating your fingers. 

Spencer let out a low, ragged groan from the back of his throat as he watched your fingers disappear into your tight, wet heat then slide back out, glistening. 

His eyes darted up to your face, watching the pure bliss and pleasure painted on your features, the sight compelling him to slide his hand down his body, his slender fingers slipping underneath the elastic of his boxers.

He quickly wrapped his fingers around his cock, giving it a few slow pumps to relieve some tension as his eyes fluttered shut. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, head tilting backwards, “eyes on me,” 

His eyes snapped open, “Can- can I… touch you?” his glossy eyes looked up at you. 

“Hand out of your boxers first.” 

“But-“

“Out.”

He obliged without hesitation, pulling his hand that glistened with precum out of his boxers. 

“Good boy,” you praised softly, pushing your fingers deeper before withdrawing them.

“Now come here,” you gestured for him to come closer with your wet fingers.

He crawled closer between your legs, widening his mouth, asking for permission to take your two fingers in his mouth. you brought your fingers down to his lips, letting him wrap his lips around them. 

He hallowed his cheeks, pulling your fingers deeper into his mouth, and sucking them clean before swirling his tongue around them to lick them for good measure. 

“You like how I taste, Spencer?” you cooed. 

He nodded, his eyelashes fluttering before he swallowed hard and slowly released your fingers with a soft, wet pop.

“I wanna hear it, Spence..”

“You taste so good,” he breathed out quietly as if he were melting, dropping his head on the sheets between your legs. 

“I.. I wanna touch you where you were just touching yourself. I really wanna make you feel good but I’ve never done this so I don’t.. I don’t know how I’ll do,” 

You softened at his vulnerability, placing your hand on his flushed cheek, brushing your thumb on his cheekbone, “Hey..” you whispered

“You’re already doing perfectly. Just do whatever feels natural, okay? And I’ll tell you what feels good,” you whispered, tucking a loose curl behind his ear. 

A small, breathless nod was all he could manage. 

His long fingers trembled as he brought his hand closer to your core, making you part your thighs further, giving him better access. 

He pressed his thumb against your swollen clit, the sensation of the cold pad of his fingertip making you shiver. 

He applied more pressure, his thumb swirling in a slow circle before his long index finger grazed your folds, parting them and exploring your parts with deep concentration. 

He pressed the tip of his finger against your hole, not applying enough pressure to push inside you just yet. 

Your slick opening twitched against the intrusion, begging for more friction. 

You didn’t say anything to not rush him. 

You wanted him to take his time exploring this. 

He didn’t need any instructions to push his finger into your aching hole, a grunt escaping his lips. 

The direct friction made your hips involuntarily buck upward toward his hand, a needy gasp breaking from your lips. 

A small, proud smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He pumped his finger in and out, slowly picking up the pace every time he heard your growing moans.

“Add another finger, Spence. And when you push in, curl your fingers.” 

“Curl my fingers..” he repeated, nodding eagerly before slowly adding a second finger and following your instructions. 

The moment his fingers slid inside you, your tight heat clamped around them with a desperate, heavy squeeze. 

Spencer hooked his knuckles, curling his fingers to a perfect C-shape, hitting your sweet spot with sharp accuracy that pulled a high-pitched whine out of your throat, “oh my god, Spencer” your head lolled back. 

He brought his free hand up, pressing his palm firmly against your lower stomach, “I’ve read that if I apply external pressure to your pelvis here.. it compresses the tissue against my fingers and maximizes the sensation of fullness and stimulation.” 

Your moan and the involuntary grind of your hips against his fingers only proved his point. 

“The lower stomach itself is highly sensitive.. It’s.. it’s packed with nerve pathways that can amplify pleasure and flood your brain’s reward centers. The pressure is localizing the blood, too.. It’s making you more sensitive.. sorry I’m talking too much- I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t be,” you groaned, “I love hearing you talk,” 

He smiled, “I’d love to keep talking. But I don't think I can multitask right now..” 

A small chuckle escaped your lips, before an overwhelming wave of pleasure took over.

“Are you- are you close?”

“So fucking close,” you whined, your voice breathy and quiet.

Spencer didn’t change the angle, but he quickened the pace and curled his knuckles harder, the need to please you only growing with every second. 

The tension in your lower stomach finally snapped, your inner walls clamping and pulsing against his pumping fingers, making your hands fly to hold onto his hair. 

A soft cry was ripped from the back of your throat as the wave of dizzying heat rushed through your veins, quickly travelling to your core, making your hips grind helplessly against his fingers, riding out your blinding orgasm. 

Your thighs trembled violently, aching to clasp around his arm, but Spencer made an effort to make this easier for you by pressing soft kisses to your thighs, dragging his lips slowly across your burning skin. 

Your juices dripped as he slowed his fingers down.

He pressed a kiss right above your clit before withdrawing his fingers slowly, hearing you whimper at the loss of contact. He admired the hot moisture that left your hole, immediately bringing his face to taste you on his fingers then on your folds. 

You relaxed on the bed, slowly lowering your back to lay down. 

He crawled up your body, missing the comfort your face brought to him when it was so close to his.

“Did I do okay?” he whispered shyly. 

Your noses softly  brushed against each other, “You did an amazing job, that was absolutely perfect, Spencer.” 

His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, asking a silent question. 

"Baby, I have something I wanna try."

It was a quiet afternoon in your shared apartment; a rare lazy day where your busy schedule had—by the mercy of the universe—allowed you both to be at home with one another. You reveled in the quiet, needing only the company of each other to be at peace.

The sound of flipping pages filled the room like white noise—you'd grown so accustomed to it. Right now, it was slower as he lazed through his novel for pleasure instead of poring through the text as he would if he were reading something for work. It would be a shame to disrupt his peaceful reading, but given the idea that popped in your head, you don't think he would mind one bit if you bothered him.

He leaned his ear down slightly to where you were lying down beside him on your bed, not peeling his eyes from the pages just yet.

"Baby…" you whined, then tipped the spine of his book to the side so he'd put his attention on you, which worked.

"Yes, my love?"

"I've been thinking about it a lot recently, but I don't know if you'll like it. It's kinda messy."

A hand scratched at your head, and yours rested on the soft of his belly, just under the cotton of his shirt. "What's bothering you, darling?"

You pressed your face to the side of his chest, hiding almost, as you dared to voice it out. He supposed you were shy from the way your cheeks tinted red, and you hesitated to speak.

"Will you let me show it to you?"

"Show what to me?" The book was set aside as he sat up fully now, but you held his leg in protest, asking him to lie back down, back propped up on a stack of pillows. You stepped away from the bed, and his mind wandered the way it always did- fast and at a hundred thoughts per minute. In those fifteen seconds you were gone, he'd thought you'd return with a stack of papers to be graded with coffee spilled on them, or a dress shirt that maybe was ruined in the wash.

As you padded back, you had with you your abundant makeup collection. It was quite bountiful, bouncing as you set it down beside him on the bed. He watched patiently as you laid down your collection of lipsticks and lip glosses and lip balms, and every other product prefixed with 'lip'. He'd known the differences between each of those in theory; he could still remember you giving him a lecture about that, but when all laid side by side, he couldn't really tell which from which.

"What are you doing, love?" You wiggled yourself between his legs, and his knees propped up as he sat up again, but your hand pressed to his chest to push him back down, making a point to drag your fingers down to the sparse trail of hair on his stomach which now peeked out from under his shirt.

"Hold on, hold on. Give me a moment. I said I'll show you.”

"Yeah, but I still wanna know"

Spencer didn't know whether to be more confused or aroused as you wiggled his boxers off of him. Weird little thing, you. He couldn't quite get what picture you were trying to paint here. But then you lay on your stomach, face close to his crotch, and he felt his blood redirect south.

His hand stroked your hair. "Love…"

You pressed your face to his thigh, then turned inward so you could kiss at his supple skin, and then it had been clear. It's what you did every single time you wanted him like that, and every single time, his cock twitched; at this point, it was Pavlovian.

You kissed and licked and nipped at his thigh, then the other, closer and closer to where he wanted you to be. His trimmed hair tickled your nose and you chuckled, finally meeting his gaze with heavy lids. He could see the hunger in your eyes—but more so, it was mischief. What are you up to, trouble?

As he was about to speak, you reached for one of the lipsticks over his thigh (or was it gloss? Peptide maybe?). Color swiped over your lips perfectly despite there being a lack of a mirror in the process, though he doubted perfection was your motive right now.

"You look gorgeous like that, darling."

You blush at his comment, thinking it was a good thing you went for the color that you did, but in his mind, he meant you look gorgeous, down there where you were, and gazing up at him like that.

He was rewarded with a lip print on the base of his half-chubbed dick. In return, he petted your hair, encouraging you to do more. Every time the color faded, you would apply a new product. You showered him with soft kisses all around his shaft and thigh, covering him with lipstick and spit, all while blinking slowly up at him with those lust-filled eyes.

When his heavy cock went fully erect, you'd only gotten to about three colors. There wasn't much talking up to that point- he could tell you were just enjoying yourself, taking your time to tease him, even if it wasn't your intention.

With a contented sigh, he spoke, "Enjoying yourself, pretty girl?"

You responded with a dazed smile and a teasing kiss to the head of his prick. His hand found your cheek, and you nuzzled your face into his palm, smearing it with a stray streak of red. His sweet, sweet girl.

"Fuck," he muttered as his control wavered. He knew that this was what you wanted, that this was for you, yet the sight of you, loving on him like you were doing right now, made his dick pulse. "Darling, please," he gruffed out.

Finally, you noticed his torment. "Oh, baby…I'm sorry," you cooed as you licked the underside of his head.

"Christ, baby…"Spencer pinched between his brows, eyes shut and summoning all the self-control he had left. He wasn't at all religious, but at the moment, his mind scrambled for which saint to pray to when a guy didn't want to blow his load early as his girl worshipped his cock. His other hand gripped tightly on your scalp, and you let out a pleased chuckle.

"I'm sorry, I just really have been thinking about this a while…"

"You should've told me, love. You know I would never deny you. Not when you-oh fuck."

His words were stolen from him as you curled your fist around him tight and pumped, twisting your wrist and moving up and down. The hand on your head shifted to your shoulder as he remained conscious enough to not want to yank your hair out. You think you hear him curse out, but you weren't sure; mesmerized by the mess you were making on him and of him.

Mauves and corals and crimsons, glosses and mattes, blurred together in a beautiful tableau on his cock. For a solid moment, you were hypnotized by how the colors blended together as you moved your fist—up and down, up and down. A bead of pre formed on his cockhead, and you brushed it on your lips as you did with the lipsticks he now had all over him before licking it all up. He saw your eyes flutter shut and the switch in your brain flip.

Hungry is what he would describe it, the way you took him in your mouth and sank down til his head hit the back of your throat. For a solid minute, you stayed there unmoving and unbreathing, forcing yourself to relax around him.

"Jesus, baby, come back up," he pleaded as he tugged on your hair, but you didn't relent. You held yourself steady with your hands on his hips, only releasing him reluctantly when he tugged harder, whining as you were pulled off. It was ridiculous, really. It's like he took away your favorite toy and you were clamoring to get it back.

"Mmhng Spence, please…please…" you whined. Spit connected your lips to his cock and the sheer vision of you, lipstick smeared all over your cheeks and your chin, lips shining with how much you were drooling for him, boy did it make him burn hot.

"Fuck love, look at you. Messy." His thumb swiped at the mess of spit and layers of gloss on your bottom lip. His pretty girl, cockdrunk because of her own doing. Your tongue, persistent as it always was, found his thumb and toyed with it before sucking it to the base of his palm. He groaned. "So that's what my pretty darling wanted. Wanted me to paint you, hm?"

You wrapped your lips around him again and nodded around his cock. Careless as you were, you gagged yourself on it. A hand brushed your head and you were comforted by the gentle touch. "Shh love, s'okay. You're okay. You're going so good, aren't you pretty girl? That's right. So, so good, baby."

The next second, his hand brushed your hair away from your face and gathered it at the nape of your head. "Go ahead darling, take what you want."

Eagerly sucking at his prick, you took your time milking him. Salt coated your tongue and you reached it down to the underside of his shaft, pushing out as far as you could, given how much his thick cock stuffed your mouth. Greedy, greedy. If it wasn't obvious with your selfish sucking, it was obvious in the way you moaned around his shaft. He rewarded you with groans that emptied all thoughts floating around in your brain and filled it with the need to make a mess of yourself with his come.

Only when you felt yourself about to pass out from the lack of air did you reluctantly pull him out of your mouth, but you didn't want to not be connected to him, even to catch your breath. You nuzzled your nose and cheek to his cock, inhaling his musk, feeling the weight of it on your skin. "Heavy. Fuck, mine… Love you…I love you, Spence…"

He laughed at the sound of your absent babbling, looking so dumb and drunk from his dick, and it sent a string of pearlescent precum down his shaft, which he then fed the heft of to your parted lips again. "Sweetheart you look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth. Dirty girl, might have to take you shopping for more makeup if you keep it up."

He didn't even have to move a muscle to chase his orgasm; you were eagerly pulling at it, suckling sloppily on his cockhead, lightly tugging at his heavy balls so they don't feel excluded. Pleasure burned through his body as you brought him up to a euphoric high that tore a delicious groan from him. The first rope shocked you as it hit your soft palate, but then you came back enough to your senses to aim it at your face, all the while milking him with your fist to get each and every milliliter out. The next hit your cheek, the bridge of your nose, and then your lips. Again, you used the sensitive head of his softening prick to paint the evidence of his pleasure on your lips.

"Oh darling- fuck- ah shit." He tried to hold out as long as he could before tapping out, wanting to give you everything you wanted and more, but he really couldn't take it anymore. The combination of the sight of you, come-painted, and being so sensitive from his orgasm was too much for him. Your head rested on his thigh as you panted, tear-streaked eyes blinking up lazily at him with a satisfied grin on your face.

His fingers combed through your hair as he committed the scene before him to memory. The come on your tongue was streaked with a pink glittery gloss as you showed it to him. Jesus fuck, he thought, the sight of you was too much for a simple man like him to bear, yet he contemplated snapping a photograph just so he could have something to get himself off of when away from you. Gathering the streaks of his plentiful load from your cheek with his thumb and pushing it to your mouth, he watched as the various shades swirled with his seed and how you swallowed it all down.

"Did you like it, baby?"

"Sweetheart, I think you liked it."

A saccharine giggle bubbled out of you, and you kissed his thigh in gratitude. "Love you, Spence."

"I love you too, darling. Never keep an idea like that from me again."

Your previous assessment turns out to be wrong—the bullpen is empty.

It isn't that you're expecting fanfare when you arrive, but total solitude feels too pointed. A planned statement without a single word uttered.

Elizabeth Prentiss had it drilled in your head that clothes and grooming are the first things people notice about someone, the first shot at making an impression and controlling people's perceptions. It's a lesson you've taken to heart. Not a single hair out of place, shoes gleaming, makeup minimal. Every single inch of you screams effort and maintenance. You are burnished stone, shiny and always ready to face a crowd.

It's all a little embarrassing to be dressed to the nines, and have no audience.

You glance at your phone. Check the date, the time—all correct. You're here earlier than required, but not enough to enter a room without a single soul to greet you. You resist the urge to frown, though the suspicion keeps ringing in your ear. This isn't worth getting wrinkles over, not yet. One phone call to the Section Chief should clarify this—though you think it's way too early in the day to be dealing with Erin Strauss, and you loathe the thought of seeming incompetent—so you swipe through your contacts for her number.

"Oh my gosh, you're here!" a voice comes from your right, too bright and loud for such an hour. "I mean, they said we're getting a transfer, but you're a little early and–oh, this must be so confusing. Hi, I'm Penelope Garcia."

Thank god. You do not want to call Erin first thing in the morning like some sort of lost child seeking comfort from a parent.

A flurry of colors enter your peripheral, and you pocket your phone as you turn. Penelope Garcia. She's tall, click clacking in her stilettos—a vivid pink that matches her lips, quite a stark contrast to your sleek navy ones—and wearing an outfit that would probably get a memo if she didn't work in a department that tends to bypass the smaller bureaucratic rules.

"Hi, Penelope." you muster up some warmth and smile back at your savior. "I can see why the BAU needed me to transfer this year." you gesture around the empty room.

She laughs, and the expression seems to complete her entire look. Vivacious and bright, like sunshine slanting through windows in the spring.

"Oh, you have jokes. We're gonna get along very well. No, the team flew to Colorado last night on an active case."

"I wasn't informed of that."

"I'm sorry, that was supposed to be my job, but it slipped my mind with everything else happening." she ushers you to the staircase, talking a mile a minute. "You get your own office, of course, as the new liaison. It hasn't been cleaned out since JJ became an official profiler— both Hotch and I have our own offices—we filled in the position for time being, but Hotch wants to be more present for his son, and I really can't do it anymore, not with the other tech analyst stuff. So now you're here! We'll have to get the name on this nameplate replaced, of course, and oh my god I totally haven't let you introduce yourself yet."

Your smile falters slightly, but Penelope is too busy rattling the old doorknob to notice. Introductions. Yes. Normally, you carry your name like an honor, volunteer those facts with pride, but the circumstances here are… complicated.

"Don't tell anyone, but I was trying to open your file, but you're like, super secret for some reason. Usually Agent Strauss tells us who the new agent is, but for you it's all sealed." she adds.

For good reason. The door finally opens, releasing a muted scent of must and old paper. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, but you follow Penelope inside without complaint. It's dark and moody, even after she flicks on the light, filled with boxes of old files, probably archival cases. Jennifer Jareau's nameplate sits on the table, covered with a thin layer of dust, and you get an odd sense of intrusion.

You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Emily kept it secret from you for a reason and you should keep it that way.

"So, mystery agent, to what name are we changing the sign outside?"

It's almost cartoonish, the consecutive expressions on her face once you finally say your name. Once she catches that damning word—Prentiss. It's a gradual shift, a slow blink of incomprehension, before the similarity registers, her pretty eyes widening in realization. And then, confusion. It would've been funny if you weren't on the receiving end of it.

Penelope Garcia wears every emotion clear as perfectly polished glass. You file that thought away for later.

"Yes, that Prentiss."

You're prepared for it. Have a script memorized for any questions. It doesn't even offend you when Penelope laughs, disbelieving and shrill.

"She never told us she had a… a sister?"

"Emily does have a habit of keeping secrets, doesn't she?" you say lightly, a feeble attempt at humor even though the words feel like nettles clawing up your throat.

Penelope blanches, deflates, and it's an interesting thing to witness, like watching the sun get blocked by a large cloud in real time and feeling the subsequent shade. She flounders, hands waving vaguely by her side, clearly unsure of what to do, how to handle this information that's been unceremoniously dumped upon her.

"How… why?" She finally manages, a fragile whisper drifting in that dusty room. "Who else knows?"

You blink, considering. The answers to that lies with Emily, but you can make guesses. And Penelope's line of questions isn't outright hostile, which is good. You can work with curiosity. That's easy to win over, though no less dangerous. Penelope isn't all cotton candy and rainbows, of that you're certain.

"She's the only person who can answer that." You shrug, and your smile is only slightly strained. "I think Agent Hotchner knows, but I'm not sure and he's not here to confirm."

Penelope nods, taking it all in with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. "That's… right, of course. Um, so this is your office and—"

She's cut off by a phone call, the identical tune that's programmed into every federal-issued phone. You both reach into your pockets in unison, but it's Penelope who has to answer.

"Garcia… Yes sir," she smiles apologetically and angles her body away.

For the second time today, you feel like you're intruding. Almost like a kid playing dress up, strategically choosing an outfit that excudes confidence and respectability, only for everything to be too big. You smooth your hands over your blazer to reassure yourself it's not the case. It's tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of your waist and flaring slightly at the hips, snug without being inappropriate.

Still, your stomach turns as Garcia murmurs into her phone. You swivel, focusing your attention to the table, running your fingers over the files stacked on a neat pile and pretend not to hear. Penelope's voice is lowered, but she doesn't leave the room, so you really can't be faulted if you catch snippets—murmurs of she just arrived and I'll send it as soon as I can.

"Duty calls?" you say after she says goodbye, glancing over your shoulder.

Penelope nods. "Yes. Unfortunately. But Hotch says you can shadow me while they're gone. I can brief you on the case, if you want?"

Shadowing someone when you're a fully competent agent with a long list of credentials should feel like an insult, a slight to your skills. Maybe if it came from someone else, it would land that way, but Penelope just sounds genuine and slightly nervous.

So you nod. "Lead the way."

You did not expect to spend your first few days in solitude, nor did you expect to be summoned by the Section Chief not even a week into your transfer, yet here you are.

Erin Strauss' office is almost identical to your mother's. Well lit and perfectly kept, with a shelf of impressive books just behind the expensive reclining chair. Credentials framed and hanging proudly on the walls. Upon her desk lays a nameplate bearing her name and title, a telephone, and a neat stack of folders perfectly aligned. A cursory glance tells you nothing of her life outside the Bureau, no pictures of her family, of friends, none of the colorful trinkets that litter Penelope Garcia's office.

Impersonal. Perfectly contained and professional, just like your mother's.

It makes you feel even more on edge.

Your mother's offices, whether it's stationed at home, or across Europe, or the Middle East, were always a place to keep your guard up. There is no telling what invisible flaw will catch Elizabeth Prentiss' keen eyes, or earn her clipped, mildly disproving tone of voice. The Section Chief's office carries the same atmosphere.

In that regard, you feel like you've been trained all your life to face the likes of Erin Strauss.

Poised in your pantsuit and heels, you face her like she's another journalist asking for a statement. Polite neutrality, lips curled in the lightest hint of a smile.

"How are you finding the BAU, Agent Prentiss?" If the familiarity of the name bears any ill feeling, Erin Strauss doesn't show it.

"Well enough, there's really nothing of note so far."

She tilts her head, waiting for more.

"Ma'am, my transfer occurred while they're all on an active case in Colorado. There's not much else to tell you, unless you want to hear about how I've spent the last three days cleaning out Agent Jareau's old office."

Her lips thin, unamused. "I would have hoped you'd made yourself more useful. Your last unit chief sung praises about your initiative."

"I've helped Penelope Garcia contain the online panic, and looked through Facebook—"

"Facebook?"

"Part of the background check." You smile. "I've been helping the team from behind the scenes as much as I can, which is ironic considering my job is to be their public facing representative."

Her shoulders draw back, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. You always do. Noticing these things come like breathing to you by now. You do not know the section chief well enough to put a name to this shift, but your instincts, honed by years of people watching, tell you Erin Strauss is an administrative agent first and foremost.

Read: she values agents who will play along, who move within the red tape.

Meaning, that straightening of her posture is her offense materializing, and she thinks your comment, no matter how carefully worded it may be, isn't as innocuous as you'd tried to make it sound.

"But I'm learning a lot of valuable insights from Agent Garcia." you add quickly, hoping the save is satisfactory.

"Such as?"

Such as they don't trust you. At all. At least, the few agents who know of your existence—Hotch, who you've only talked to on the phone, and Garcia, who is kind but acts skittish when there are lulls in the case and she's forced to socialize with you. You can't blame either of them, considering your identity, and the circumstances of your abrupt transfer. Fuck's sake, who assigns a new agent to a team while they are in an entirely different state?

None of this had been your fault. You've been caught by the red tape too—you'd requested this transfer last year, when Emily still worked with the team, but for whatever reason, they delayed and kept you stuck in the California office. Your mother had warned you about that—she had less sway in the west coast—but at the time, all you had wanted was to get as far away from the Prentiss legacy as you can.

But the BAU is too busy to care about specifics. And even if they weren't, you know the wound is still too fresh. Emily coming and going—dying, but surprise! not really— carrying secrets the whole time.

Terrorists. Espionage. You.

No, you definitely don't blame the team for their distrust.

But Section Chief Strauss is looking for an answer, and that feels too personal to divulge.

"Such as the growing degree of these new social media websites in relation to serial killing. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter make it easier to map victimology, track social circles and routines. So many people volunteer the information online, in ways that would take investigators week to uncover decades ago." you reply instead, deliberately keeping the topic about work.

"That can't be all you're learning from this."

You resist the urge to sigh. "Not necessarily, but a victim's social media presence offers access to a lot of things. I'm not learning anything necessarily; I'm helping out. Garcia's workload is only going to increase with all these new websites, after all."

"Interesting." But Erin Strauss sounds the complete opposite of interested. The word slips out absentminded. Unimpressed.

Your ears prick at that sound. The slow drag of syllables, the flat tone. You've heard it one too many times; in your world, it indicates the beginning of criticism. What you could improve, how poorly you're doing. For a fleeting moment, Erin Strauss morphs into your mom and suddenly you're sixteen and sobbing from anxiety.

You blink. Clear your throat. The woman in front of you is not your mother, and you fixate on the graying strands of Strauss' hair, silver melting into blonde, to keep your focus.

She's waiting for something; people in positions like to do this—drop hints, let the silence stew until it grows so unbearable the subordinate slips. Talks without an objective and stumbles into whatever is needed from them. A secret? A confession, maybe?

You can tell Erin Strauss is good at this game. Has the patience and cool authority to circle around it, stare you down for hours, if necessary. Unfortunately for her, your job is quite literally meant for this.

"Very interesting indeed, ma'am." You smile, syrupy and bright.

She gives up. "Has anyone mentioned Agent Prentiss?"

Ah. A name, then, and perhaps a story attached. No matter where you go, Prentiss carries a significance.

Your smile doesn't waver, though your brows furrow innocently, projecting a sense of confusion. You aren't above taking advantage of these social dynamics; Director Strauss clearly relishes in her power, though she would never flex it explicitly.

"Nothing beyond the usual surprise, though I must reiterate they're on an active case, and I haven't met the rest of the BAU yet. Besides, Emily has transferred, I don't understand why she's relevant to my work with this team." You say, blinking like a helpless baby deer.

She makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan. Director Strauss' next words are careful, but impatient, as if she's speaking to a dolt. "She's relevant because this unit has experienced difficulties regarding… personal loyalties."

There it is. It is easy to ignore the borderline patronizing tone that colors her voice when she plays right into your hand and reveals information like this. Personal loyalties? What on earth could that mean? Beyond what happened with Doyle, had Emily done anything else? Had the other members?

"And you're making sure I won't become another one?"

Strauss says nothing, but that's answer enough. So this team is loyal, perhaps to a fault, but Strauss isn't just worried about that—she wants to information. About the team. Perhaps from a fresh set of eyes.

You could almost respect it, if she'd say it outright.

"By all means, ma'am, be blunt and tell me what exactly you're looking for so I can give you better answers the next time you decide to check in." you say.

Erin Strauss looks caught, both by your audacity, and the unexpected call out. Her mouth parts, then clamps shut, a little like a fish, before her gaze sharpens like steel.

"I am not looking for anything."

"My apologies, then. For a moment, I was worried you got the wrong sister. Emily's the one trained in espionage, not me."

You wait for the subsequent chill, for the air to grow cold. Instead, Erin Strauss huffs, frustrated but… amused.

"You're just like you're sister."

You bite back a smile. Better Emily than your mother.

"Most people seem to mean that as a criticism."

For the first time since entering the office, Strauss' mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "Merely an observation. And maybe a warning—your name inevitably carries assumptions, agent. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost."

The team does their best to welcome you, considering the circumstances. At their arrival, there's confusion and betrayal stitched into their very being, stiffening their handshakes and freezing their cheeks so their smiles never quite reach their eyes. It's all so awkward you find yourself thinking Strauss is wrong—your family name isn't making them embrace you. It's acting more like a wall, involuntarily erected and keeping you away from certain members of the team.

Alex Blake has it easy. She receives you with open arms, aware of the history but detached enough to evade the awkwardness. She's kind and warm, but is close enough to your mother in age that you're always half expecting some form of criticism to fall from her lips whenever she asks your opinion over something—usually language related, her field of expertise. Nothing ever does; in fact, she seems eager to know your thoughts, engages in your ideas with genuine curiosity. It always takes you by surprise. You are always braced for the ball to drop, ramrod straight and perfectly polished, just in case her eyes wander to your hair, or a smudge in your make up.

David Rossi just seems happy you know they have a new liaison. Told you that job drove poor Garcia to tears, like he's warning you about the horrors you're about to face. Once in a while, a syllable slips and you know Emily's name was at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he shifts and calls you kid like you're 23 and green, instead of someone with years of experience under your belt. Somehow, the word never drips with condescension, and the familiarity with which he says it tells you he probably called your sister the same thing. At some point, you begin to welcome it.

With Derek Morgan, things get a little complicated. He looks at you like he's looking for traces of Emily, but he's not sure if he actually wants to find them. Some days, it seems like the similarities—your manner of speaking, the sharp intellect, the obvious rich kid background—gives him relief. Even brings a fond smile on that handsome face, however reluctant it may be. Other days, he can't look you in the eye, choosing to address the files in front of him instead of you, as if even a glance is risky. Part of you understands; your presence is not only new, it is secrecy personified. Emily's mysterious past made even worse. You don't push. You value workplace dynamics over being fully accepted, and if this is the inch he's willing to give, then you'll be content. For now.

And your predecessor. JJ, trained in communications and appearances, and you can tell she was good at her job because you can't quite get a read on her. She spent an entire year fooling her teammates, so every interaction with her is tainted with layers of this knowledge. You never know if anything she says is genuine. Or perhaps it's your resentment manifesting as distrust. She knew your sister was alive. If her feelings mirror yours—after all, Emily trusted JJ with her "death," but still kept her little sister a secret—she doesn't show any hint of it. Every interaction with JJ is warm, if a little awkward, and you can never tell if it's because she's smoothed over the rough edges, or if they were never there to begin with. Maybe the problem lies only with you.

Spencer Reid doesn't have a social life. At least, that's what you've concluded from the short amount of time you've spent here. He stays in the bullpen almost as late as you do, but somehow manages to avoid you entirely. It's easy to do, considering you spend the evenings holed up in the liaison's office, and he's always bent over paperwork—Rossi's and Morgan's, never his own. According to Penelope, it's a playful arrangement between them, though Spencer never tells you about it. Never tells you anything, really. He doesn't talk to you unless it's directly related to the job, so everything you know about Spencer is from observation. Gangly and smart—the type to make you know it, too, with his constant statistical tangent and information dumps, aka unbearable. Currently, his avoidance means you've never had to be on the receiving end of his rambles, of which you are thankful.

"How were your first three weeks so far?" Aaron Hotchner's office is surprisingly more homey than the Section Chief's had been—pictures of his son on the desk, a couple more family pictures displayed proudly on the shelf behind him. Ironically, it feels more imposing, but that might have more to do with Hotch's presence than the decor.

If you opened the dictionary and looked for the word 'impassive' you're almost certain a picture of Hotch is provided there instead of a linguistic definition. But maybe you just haven't learned to read him yet. That'll come with time. So far, he's made no mention of Emily, but talked about your mother, which is so much more embarrassing. It seems like you're stuck chasing away the shadows of two impressive women before you, and doomed to fail no matter what you do.

"It's been going well, sir. I think I'm adjusting to your team's rhythm."

"Our."

"Sorry?"

"Our," Hotch looks up from the file. His eyes are pitch black, but warm. "You're part of this team now too."

"Right. I'm adjusting to our team's rhythm." When you smile, it's not forced. Hotch is perhaps the last person you expected to accept you explicitly, but the relief it carries breaks past your usual politeness. Still, Erin Strauss' voice lingers in the back of your head like a broken record. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost. Any efforts to silence it is futile.

Your new chief responds with a friendly nod.

"And yes, I'm inclined to agree. The request for your own nameplate should come in today." Hotch says, thumbing through a file one his desk. "Along with that, I think you're ready to take over fielding the cases on your own."

You blink; the only reaction you allow yourself to express. He and Garcia had been easing you into the job, allowing you to handle the older cases—closed ones, some needing follow ups and check ins—while they taught you the ins and outs of going through the newer reports that come in. What you need to look out for—not just victimology, but time frames and geographic patterns. Cases involving children get prioritized, but only if there's an existing pattern, otherwise they get redirected to ViCAP. While it's true that you've slipped into the team's rhythm near seamlessly, you hadn't expected them to give you full reign after only a couple of weeks.

"If you're certain, sir, then I would be more than willing to do it." Your back straightens even more, if that's possible.

"I am. Your work prior to this unit has been exemplary, and I'm allowed to overrule the probation period on account of the skills you've shown. And you've been doing a good job, agent, I see no reason to keep you under our supervision."

You nod, "Thank you sir. Honestly, I was beginning to think Garcia was going to lock me in her techno cave to start organizing her glitter pen collection."

Hotch's mouth curls up for a fleeting second, but vanishes before it becomes a full smile. "Garcia knows not to waste your skills on her collection, as expansive as it is."

A stack of files slide towards you, teethering comically from the action. "I trust that you'll choose with vigilance and care. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the cases that come in, but quantity does not always dictate urgency."

"That's noted, sir." With a last nod, you rise and step out of his office. Your heart pounds, but you're unsure if it's from nerves or excitement. Likely both. Likely both, and then some. Because as you leave Hotch's office, you catch Spencer and JJ, heads bent together like they're sharing a conspiracy, take one glance at you and jump apart.

Your smile is plastic. Erin Strauss' words ring in your head, louder this time, as you lock yourself in your office.

series masterlist.