#long read

You brushed it off as her not meeting most employees or being from another time where people looked older. Or maybe you just had a baby face. Who knows why she assumed you were so young!

You scrambled to get to lunch, getting lost in the giant building, and found Quinn again. "Oh, hello again." She greeted, her eyes flickered to your lunch box. "Lost?" She asked with a knowing smile.

"Oh! Um... Yeah." You admit sheepishly. Was it a bad idea to talk to the CEO like this? Would she be insulted?

She gestured for you to follow her and you did. She showed you the lunch room where all heads turned to you, standing next to Quinn.

The room fell silent and you quietly sat a table with a quick thanks to Quinn, she smiled at you before disappearing.

"Wow, I've never seen her down here before." A co-worker sat with you without asking. You didn't mind that much. He went on. "Usually she just sits in her office all day, and if she does come down, someone gets fired."

At your worried expression he was quick to correct himself. "Not you, though! Mrs. Kingsley would've fired you already if that was the case."

"...I guess you're right." You agree.

He beams. "Of course I'm right, I've been here for years." He offered his non-sandwich hand. "The name's Mike."

You take his hand. "Y/N," You introduce.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N."

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

The next work day, you were just minding your own business at your desk, when Quinn showed up again. Remembering your conversation with Mike, you duck your head and listen.

...You don't hear any people getting fired. Her footsteps approach closer and closer, making you feel even more anxious. She appears at your desk.

Pleasedon'tfiremepleasedon'tfireme you think to yourself.

"Y/N?" She asks, staring at you in a way that made you shift in your seat.

"...Yes....?"

"My office, please."

Great. You were getting fired. You defeatedly follow her to her office (Was it always on the same floor as you?) and she closes the door behind you.

You took a seat begrudgingly and she sat across from you, still staring. Did she ever stop looking at you? It made the unease in your stomach grow.

Since you wore your heart on your sleeves, she noticed immediately. "Don't be worried, Y/N, you're not in trouble." She said softly. You relaxed.

"I'm not fired?" Was that a bad thing to ask? You were just so nervous and stressed you weren't really thinking.

"No!" She yelled too quickly, clearing her throat. "No, you're not. I'm here to tell you I think you've been working too much and too hard."

You stare at her.

"I'm now giving you a new project to work on." You could do that, espically if you weren't getting fired. "I need you, twice a day, to do a lap around this floor."

...What?

"And check in with me when you're done."

"Mrs. Kingsley, is that... Effiecitant?"

"Are you talking back to me?" Her icy voice was back. You straightened. "No, Mrs. Kingsley!"

"Good," Her voice softened. "Now go on, the work day is almost over and you still need to get your steps in."

"Yes, ma'am." You tell her and begin to leave. Just as you reach the door, you notice a book on her table. What your child needs to be doing. Huh.

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

Lunch was your favorite time of the day. You saw Mike and he was a very fun guy. He would always ramble about the most random things or gossip with you.

It hadn't been more than 10 seconds since you entered the lunch room when an arm was slung around your shoulders. "Y/N!" He boomed. "Was getting worried for a second there!"

He steered you to your guys' usual table. "How have you been? Work been good?" He asked carefully.

"I've been fine, Mrs. Kingsley is giving me weird jobs though." You answer. His face twitches with annoyance at the mention of Quinn. He shakes his head in disapproval. "That woman," He grumbles. "Making you work so hard..."

"No! Not that like that!" You intervene. "More, like, useless jobs. I've been having to walk around my floor, reorganize her bookshelf in her office, write a report on some of those books, and she made me color last quarter's stats."

He listened before nodding slowly. "Hate to say it, kiddo, but I think I might agree with her."

You gape at him. "What? You always talk about how much you dislike her!" It was true, he had some kind of grudge with her, she did too.

He shrugs. "You're pretty restless, Y/N, the walking will be good for you. And don't you love reading anyway? I bet you loved looking at all her books."

"Well, yeah." You admit. "But still! I'm an employee not a reckless child!"

He smiled at you. "Tell you what, next time you go on your little walks, I'll come with you!"

"Really?" You smile at him gratefully. He chuckles and pats your arm. "Anything for you, kiddo."

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

Getting ready for your walk, you were happy to see Mike appear out of the elevator. "Ready?" he asked, standing beside you. You nodded and the two of you began walking around.

He was clearly loving walking with you, pointing out the people and giving their history.

"See that guy? He spilled coffee all over the place his first day working here, he's been here for 5 years and still at the bottom!"

"That girl over there by the vending machine? She broke up with Liam on floor 5 because he had a long distance girlfriend..."

You two had gotten so caught up in talking that you walked almost a mile in circles. You were still chatting mindlessly with Mike when you bumped into someone.

"Sorry-" You start before noticing Quinn, glaring. Not at you, but at Mike.

"Johnson."

"Kingsley."

You looked between them as they death-glared each other. Guess they really did have history. Quinn clears her throat and turns her attention to you again.

"You alright?" She asked, her voice softer and kinder than when she spoke to Mike. You were confused on why she was asking that when her gaze flickered to Mike's suspiciously.

You nodded quickly. "Yeah! Sorry, I was talking to Mike about it and he offered-"

"The project is only for you, Y/N." She reminded, Mike huffed. The 'project' was getting to be quite annoying, you thought.

"Back to your work, Johnson." She ordered. He scoffed and with a final pat on your back, got on the elevator and disppeared. "Why do you call him by his last name?" You asked Quinn without thinking.

"Because," She answered vaguely, straightening a bit. "Why do you call him Mike?"

"...Becuase that's his name?"

"You call me Mrs Kingsley."

"You're my boss."

You two stared at each other, you were confused on why she was pushing about this, and she was confused on why you would ever need to adress Mike.

"Then call me Quinn from now on."

"I don't think-"

"It's not optional."

You tried not to groan. "Okay, Quinn." It felt weird to say that but she relaxed when you did, squeezing your shoulder. "You did good today, take it easy, alright?" Her voice was soft again before she went back to her office.

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

Mike had started showing up much more often than before. Even though Quinn had told him he wasn't meant to be running around on the wrong floor, he came anyway.

It started slow. 5 minutes before lunch. Then 10, 15, 20... To the point that he was there about an hour earlier. He would pretend to duck behind you if anyone looking like Quinn approached because if she saw him, she'd shoo him away and you'd sit in her office until lunch.

The more the two interracted, the more you realized they had a lot more history than you knew. Yet, neither would tell you anything.

One day, you and Mike went to lunch when you noticed your table already had someone sitting there.

Quinn. Eating her own lunch innocently. You and Mike shared a look, you shrugged and sat next to her. She nodded to you in greeting.

When Mike was about to sit down, she spoke up. "Not so fast, Johnson. Go back to your office and bring me an update from last weeks meeting."

He glared at her, she glared back, until you cleared your throat and he left with a few choice words under his breath.

"How are you, Y/N?" She asked, you barely paid attention to her stares and soft voice anymore.

"I'm fine, just the normal work stuff." As normal as Quinn's orders can be...

She smiled, a sight so rare a few people looked over in surprise. "Good. You know you can tell me if you're facing any problems right?"

"Uh... Yeah..."

She stared at you expectedly. You stared back. "What do you say?" She drawled patrionizly.

You blinked. "Oh... Thank you?"

She nodded and patted your shoulder. "Yes, good job. And you're welcome." She got up and stared at you for a moment, her eyes reflecting something you haven't seen in her before.

"Come to my office later, alright? Whenever you want."

"Okay, thank you, Quinn." She smiled again, wider and it made her eyes crinkle, before she left. She passed Mike who shoved the papers at her. He saw you were done and groaned.

"She did that on purpose!"

"Why would she do that?"

"Kiddo, you're really blind."

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

The next few weeks went by quickly, everyone had started paying attention to you. Mike's visits ramped up and Quinn had been going to lunch more often, ignroing everyone except you.

Other co-workers started asking about it, if you knew Quinn in some way or if Mike helped you get this job, you denied all of it. But since Mike was deep on the gossip tree, he knew they didn't believe you.

Eventually, after the torture of it all, you were leaving work when a familiar voice caught up to you. Mike!

Sure, everything was stressful, but Mike and Quinn were actually nice people. Plus, work got easier and easier the more you hung out with Quinn.

"Hey bud!" He greeted as he ran up to you. "Whatcha doing?"

You shrugged. "Probably gonna go home and watch a movie or something."

"Nice! Do you wanna come over to my place and watch one instead?"

You hesitated. You and Mike were close, yes, but still... He had been acting weirder lately. Asking about decorations and houses you liked and being more fidgety and nervous as the days went by.

But he just grinned at you. "Oh, c'mon, I'm not that bad. I'll make dinner! You know how good my lunches are!"

He was an amazing cook. He made sandwiches because they were quicker, but whenever you asked about it, he'd tell you how to make crazy meals and always brought it the next day for you two to share. (He feeds it to you and doesn't eat any of it)

Giving up, you nodded. He beamed and gave you his address. You two split up but when you got in the car, you checked your phone and saw a message from an unknown number.

"Are you okay?"

"Don't listen to Mike."

"Don't go."

Maybe someone on your floor found your number and was pranking you. Who else would do something like this? You ignored the messages and went to Mike's house.

He was already standing on the porch for you. "Y/N!" He yelled, waving aggressively as you pulled into his driveway. He hugged you when you got out of your car. You hugged back.

"Were you waiting out here for me?" You asked confusedly while you two hugged.

He squeezed you a little teasingly. "A little. Had to make sure you made it safely." He paused. "I wasn't waiting for long, don't worry." With one final dramatic squeeze, he released you and went inside.

"Arighty, you wanna pop on a movie and get settled on the couch while I serve us dinner?"

"Sure, where are your movies?"

"Upstairs, there'll be a case of 'em."

You climbed the stairs and easily found the DVDs, you shifted through them and noticed that it seemed... Empty. There were only children's movies as well.

You also noticed a child's room across from where the case was, the color you recomended to Mike. He really did listen to you! You took your favorite childhood movie and came downstairs to the best smell.

"What are you making?" You asked as you came back downstairs and into the kitchen. You watched him cook with fasination. He was so diligent when he was cooking, nothing like the relaxed laid-back guy at work.

He told you the name of it but you had no idea what it was so just nodded politely. He noticed the movie you chose. "Good pick! Go turn it on."

"Hey, Mike?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Why do you only have kid movies? And a children's room? Do you have a kid?" You asked as you began the movie and he came with plates.

He sat next to you, setting the plates down for a moment to pull a blanket around both of you and handing you your plate. "Careful, it's hot."

He thought about your questions. "Yeah, I have a kid." He replied. "I didn't want them turning on my old movies and getting tramuatized, so I got rid of them."

"That was nice of you," You said. "Giving up your movies so your kid is safe."

He smiled and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close to his side. "Thanks, bud." He said softly, resting his head on top of yours.

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

You didn't realize you fell asleep until you woke up to voices. Yelling, familiar, overlapping voices. You blinked open your eyes to find you were still covered in blankets but a pillow had been added.

"...knew it! You couldn't help yourself."

"Neither could you apparentally! You owe me a new door!"

"Use your alimony check, you mother-"

You sneeze. They both turn to you. Quinn and Mike stare at you with wide eyes. "Kiddo, how long have you been awake?" Mike asks softly, all anger gone from his face.

Quinn comes over and puts a hand on your head, running her fingers through your hair, she just stares at you silently for a moment before turning to Mike. "We talk later."

He crossed his arms. "Something we agree on." His gaze softens when he looks at you. "Feeling alright bud? Can I get you some water? Some snacks?"

You sit up, making both of them crowd around you even more. "What were you two arguing about?" You ask instead.

They share a look with each other. You've never seen them look so coordinated with each other before. "Don't worry about us, sweetheart." Quinn says. "Grown-up things."

"What? Am I no longer a grown-up?" You joke but they don't laugh. Quinn still has her hand in your hair and you surprisingly let her. "I'm giving you a... Vacation." She says suddenly.

"What?" You were confused like always with her. She glanced at Mike before continuing. "I'm giving you a few paid days off of work, you'll stay here."

Mike's eyes widened behind her. "Thank you," He whispered to her before adressing you. "You hear that, kiddo? Get to spend some time with your old man."

You ignore that for now. "What do you mean? I have to work!" You protest.

"You'll also spend a few days at my house, also paid. And no, you don't have to work." She said matter-of-factly. You were shocked at this sudden change in both of them.

She smiled before standing up. "Call me," She told Mike before turning towards the door. Or doorway. The door was completely ripped off and laid uselessly on the floor, which she walked over.

"What-" You started, but got cut off by Mike lifting you up and settling you next to him again, he pulled you into his side like last night and sighed deeply. "Just enjoy it, kiddo."

You stared where Quinn left. Dread filling you. You were trapped and you had no idea what to expect next.

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

ALRIGHT I don't know if this that good, but I like the characters! Give me your thoughts and I might make a part two! I don't like the ending but whatever.

My requests and general asks are open so feel free to drop them at anytime! Thank you so much for reading, I love all of you, and see ya!

You hated this class.

Not the subject—criminology fascinated you, had fascinated you since the day you declared your major—but the professor? He made even serial killers sound like a lecture on tax law. Every Tuesday and Thursday, you dragged yourself across Georgetown’s campus, coffee in hand, bracing for ninety long minutes of monotone misery.

But today felt… different the second you walked through the door.

The plaque outside, the one with Professor Warren’s name engraved in stiff black letters, was gone. You didn’t question it. Maybe retirement had finally claimed him mid-semester. Lucky bastard.

You slipped into your usual seat halfway back, near the windows where sunlight pooled in long golden streaks. Phone out, notebook ready, barely looking toward the front. Same routine as always.

Then you heard him.

“Good morning, everyone.”

The voice didn’t belong to Professor Warren. It was younger. Warmer. Confident but just slightly awkward, like he was unused to commanding a room. Your head snapped up.

And there he was.

Messy brown curls that couldn’t be tamed even if he tried. A gray sweater vest over a pale button-down, tie knotted unevenly like he dressed in a hurry. Slacks, yes, but the hem revealed mismatched socks—one navy, one gray—peeking out above scuffed brown dress shoes.

Not exactly the polished academic look you expected.

He was handsome, though. So handsome it made your stomach do something ridiculous, tightening in a way you weren’t proud of. He looked too young to be standing at that lectern, not like any professor you’d ever had before.

When he smiled nervously at the class, you felt heat creep up your neck.

“My name is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said, voice smoothing out now that he had everyone’s attention. “I’m taking over this course for the remainder of the semester. My background is in—” he hesitated, just for a second, eyes flicking toward the rows of students before him. “—behavioral analysis. My doctorate is actually in mathematics, but I also hold multiple degrees in psychology, sociology, and… well, a few others. I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and I read at about twenty thousand words a minute.”

Some students laughed softly, thinking he was joking. You didn’t. He didn’t smile when he said it.

“Point is,” he continued, “I’m here to make sure you actually understand the psychology behind crime instead of just memorizing terminology for the final. Profiling isn’t magic, despite what TV shows tell you. It’s pattern recognition. It’s science. It’s… people.”

He wrote Behavioral Criminology on the whiteboard in quick, messy handwriting, underlining it twice.

“Let’s start simple,” he said, turning back to the room. “Who can tell me what a geographic profile is?”

No one spoke. Of course no one spoke.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, smiling again, but this time the corner of his mouth ticked upward like he found it endearing, the silence. “Geographic profiling,” he explained, “uses the locations of a connected series of crimes to determine the most probable area where an offender might live. Criminals are creatures of habit, just like the rest of us. We all have comfort zones. Even killers.”

You should have been taking notes. Instead, you were staring at the way his long fingers gripped the marker, at the quickness of his movements, at the flush rising in your own chest when his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip mid-sentence.

You were so fucked.

By the time he segued into the difference between modus operandi and signature behaviors, you had your phone out under the desk.

Think I’m down bad for my professor, you typed to Maren.

Your best friend, though you’d only known each other for a few months, answered almost immediately. You’d met her one night at a bar downtown when your roommate bailed on you. A random conversation turned into a shot contest, and by the end of the night, she was your emergency contact and the person you texted when anything remotely interesting happened.

She went to a different university across the city—one with fancier dorms and a way better dining hall—but you’d gotten close fast. She’d told you about her dad once, a single line over cocktails. He’s an FBI agent, she’d said with a shrug, like that was normal. You didn’t press for details, picturing some middle-aged guy in a suit, serious and quiet like the dads in procedural shows.

You’re so bad… is he hot?

She texted back now, pulling you out of your memory.

Your gaze flicked up just as Dr. Reid loosened his tie, rolling his sleeves to the elbow before pacing slowly in front of the board, hands moving as he spoke about the psychology of ritualistic crime scenes.

Insanely hot

You typed back, smirking faintly before shoving the phone away, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with criminology.

Because Professor Reid was now the only thing you could focus on.

It had been a few weeks since Dr. Spencer Reid replaced Professor Warren, and you were learning approximately… nothing.

Okay, that wasn’t true. You were learning plenty about him—like the way he pushed his sleeves up when he got deep into a lecture, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the veins that stood out when he gripped a dry-erase marker like it owed him money.

But criminology? Profiling?

Nope.

Not when your brain short-circuited every time his slacks hugged his hips in ways you were ninety percent sure were illegal in at least three states. Not when he glanced at you mid-lecture with an expression you couldn’t read but felt in your chest like the drop on a rollercoaster.

And he knew. You knew he knew.

That was what made it so dangerous.

Like last week.

Most students had already filed out when you passed his desk, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Did you take notes today?” he asked casually, voice smooth but with a faint curve of amusement tucked inside it.

You froze mid-step. “I—uh, yes. I took notes.”

He nodded slowly, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Because you seemed… distracted.”

The faintest twitch of his mouth. A smirk so quick you almost doubted you’d seen it. Almost.

You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of yourself under his gaze. “I… um. Your tie. It’s a nice color. You suit it.”

Really? That was the best you had? Complimenting his tie? Jesus Christ.

He didn’t say anything for a beat. Just looked at you with those too-smart eyes like he was peeling back layers you didn’t even know you had. Then finally, his mouth tilted into something warmer than a smirk.

“Well… thank you,” he said softly, fingers grazing the fabric near his collar. “It’s actually burgundy. You know, historically, burgundy dye was expensive because it required a very specific blend of red and blue pigments. For centuries, it was associated with wealth and power in European courts. Interesting, right?”

You nodded mutely, praying for the floor to open and swallow you whole.

But after that? You noticed.

He wore that tie again. And again. Sometimes a burgundy sweater vest. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

And your test scores? They were tanking. Spectacularly.

Which led to today.

You walked into class, slid into your usual seat… and there it was.

A small sticky note stuck to the corner of your desk.

See me after class. — S.R.

Fuck.

The entire lecture blurred together. He was talking about behavioral patterns in spree offenders, and you were trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Was he going to call you out for blatantly ogling him? Tell you to switch sections before you failed the entire course because you were too busy thinking about his hands to study?

By the time students started packing up, your stomach was in knots.

Dr. Reid leaned against the edge of his desk, arms loosely crossed, as you made your way down the steps. His gaze followed you the entire time—steady, unreadable.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Your voice was softer than you meant it to be.

He nodded, gesturing toward the empty classroom. “Yeah. I’m… a little concerned about your last couple of quizzes.”

“Oh.” Your fingers tightened around your bag strap.

“They’re significantly below your earlier work,” he continued, studying your expression like he was reading more than words. “Which tells me you understand the material, but something’s distracting you.”

Your face burned. You were ninety-nine percent sure he knew exactly what that something was.

“I can… help,” he said finally, the words deliberate, slower than before. “If there’s a concept you’re struggling with. I hold office hours for a reason.”

You nodded quickly. “Right. Yes. Okay.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes lingering a second too long before flicking toward your bag. “Do you have time now?”

Your pulse jumped. “Now?”

“I mean…” He shifted, tone perfectly neutral but gaze anything but. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

The air between you felt heavier than it should. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne, something subtle but warm. His tie—burgundy, of course—was loosened just slightly, the top button undone.

And you?

You were already saying yes before you even thought it through. “Y-yeah,” you said quickly, nodding before you lost the nerve. “I have time now.”

The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, not quite neutral—as he pushed off the edge of the desk. “Great,” he said, voice steady but softer than it had been in the lecture hall. “Sit. I’ll grab a chair. Just… be honest with me about what you’re struggling with, okay?”

He gestured toward his desk chair, the one tucked neatly behind the stack of papers and worn leather messenger bag. It felt strange to sit there, like you were stepping directly into his space.

He dragged over a spare chair from the corner for himself but didn’t sit right away. Instead, he stood for a moment, arms folded loosely as he watched you drop your bag to the floor and flip open your notebook.

“I won’t judge your notes,” he teased lightly, the faintest hint of humor threading through his voice.

It earned a small smile from you, which seemed to relax him just a fraction. He cleared his throat, leaning one hand on the desk as his eyes flicked over your messy scrawl of handwriting.

“So,” he said, “what aren’t you understanding? Because before I got here, your record was… impressive. Top of the class.”

Your stomach twisted. That shouldn’t mean anything. He probably looked at everyone’s records. It was his job.

But the way he said it—like he’d actually read them, like he knew exactly what your grades had been—it made you feel… seen. Too seen.

“Is it me?” he asked suddenly, glancing at you. “I mean—do I talk too fast? I know I have a tendency to, um… accelerate when I get on a tangent.”

You shook your head quickly. “No. You’re… you’re a really good professor.”

God, that even sounded wrong. Too soft, too earnest.

“Okay.” He dragged the word out a little, then tilted his head, studying you. “So I’m not the problem. But something changed. Why the sudden drop?”

He finally sat beside you. Close. Too close. His knee brushed yours under the desk—barely, maybe even accidental, but it sent heat crawling up your spine like a lit fuse.

“I’ve been… distracted,” you said finally, voice small.

He nodded slowly, like he was turning that over in his head. “Distracted,” he repeated. “By something outside of class? Something at home?”

He sounded like he genuinely wanted to help, like maybe he didn’t want to assume the thing you both knew deep down.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. “No,” you said softly.

That held him still. His eyes stayed on yours for a moment longer than they should have, unreadable but heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Right,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “Would it… be easier to get help from someone else? Another TA, maybe? Someone you’d feel more comfortable with?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “No,” you said quickly, too quickly. “God, no. I’m—I’m sorry. This is ridiculous.”

Your fingers pushed through your hair, nerves burning through you in waves. “I’ve always been a top student,” you rushed out. “And then I get—” You swallowed hard. “I get distracted by you, and it’s not fair, and this is your job, and I just—”

“Hey,” he said softly, cutting you off.

You stopped, breath caught in your chest.

“Look at me.”

You did. Slowly.

His voice was even, calm, like he was defusing a situation, but his eyes… they didn’t waver. “You’re not making me uncomfortable,” he said, low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “If I were uncomfortable, you’d know.”

Something in your stomach dropped at the way he said it. Measured. Certain.

“But this… whatever’s distracting you,” he continued, voice still quiet, “it doesn’t have to get in the way of you passing this class. We can figure it out. I can help you, if you let me.”

He was too close now. His knee still brushed yours. His eyes lingered like he was reading more than your words, like he was peeling away excuses you didn’t even realize you were giving him.

You nodded, trying to find your voice. “Okay,” you managed.

But the air between you felt heavier than it should. Like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying.

“Can you try to tell me?” he asked softly, careful like he was handling something fragile. His voice dropped a little lower, steady but coaxing. “I promise I won’t… make fun of you.”

He said it like he meant it. Like there wasn’t a single atom in him capable of cruelty.

But still…this was embarrassing.

“I don’t want to make you… uncomfortable,” you mumbled, eyes darting away.

“Uncomfortable?” he repeated, quiet but firm enough to pull your gaze back. His head tilted slightly, curls falling forward as he studied you. “I wouldn’t be. I insist on that.”

And you believed him. God help you, you did.

So you forced yourself to look at him again, at the warm brown of his eyes, at the faint crease between his brows that said he was listening. Really listening.

“I… uh…” Your throat felt dry. “I’m distracted by you.”

It came out small, frayed at the edges.

His expression didn’t change. No shock, no disbelief. He just nodded once, slow, like this was exactly what he expected you to say.

You rushed to fill the silence. “I’m sorry,” you blurted, heat crawling up your neck.

“Don’t apologize,” he said softly.

And then he looked at you. Really looked at you. Not just the student with dropping test scores, but you. Like he was cataloguing details the way he probably did everything—methodically, thoroughly, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice thoughtful in that way of his, “psychology studies show that younger women often find themselves… attracted to older men in positions of authority. It’s fairly common.” He said it clinically, like it was just another statistic, but there was something under the words. Something warmer.

You nodded faintly, not trusting yourself to speak.

His eyes softened, but his voice did something strange then—turned quieter, almost careful. “I have a daughter your age,” he said finally.

It hit harder than it should’ve. You hadn’t even thought about it.

Your stomach flipped. Oh God. He had a family. Maybe a wife. And here you were, sitting in his office chair like some cliché, practically confessing you wanted your professor to rail you six ways to Sunday.

“You’re… married,” you said before you could stop yourself, nodding like it was obvious, because of course he was. Men like him didn’t stay single.

But he shook his head immediately. “No,” he said softly. “Single dad.” He paused then, voice dipping lower. “But I’m telling you that because… while you’re beautiful, and smart, and more than capable… there are a lot of reasons this isn’t a good idea.”

Your stomach sank, embarrassment rising like bile.

“I’m your professor,” he said first, tone calm but firm. “That alone makes this complicated. And…” He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his jaw like he was trying to find the right words. “I’m too old for you.”

It should’ve felt like rejection. Like the end of whatever this was.

But it didn’t.

Not with the way he was looking at you.

Because his words said no, but his eyes… they stayed on you too long, flicking from your mouth to the way you gripped the edge of the desk like it was keeping you grounded.

Like he was imagining something he shouldn’t be.

Like maybe he was just as distracted as you were.

The silence between you both stretched like something about to snap.

You sat there with your notebook half in your hands, his gaze pinned on you, that sharp, analytic focus that felt like it could see through you.

“I—uh…” Your voice cracked slightly. “I should go.”

You grabbed for your bag, stacking the notebook on top like you were really about to stand up and leave. Like you could. Like your legs would even cooperate right now.

But when you reached for the notebook, his hand closed around your wrist.

“You don’t have to—”

He stopped himself when you froze under his touch. His hand left you immediately, as though the contact had burned him. He cleared his throat, flustered in a way you’d never seen before. “I just meant… you’re here for help. I can still help.”

His voice had gone softer on the second help, and you weren’t sure what he meant anymore.

Still, you slowly sat back down, setting your things aside again. “Okay.”

“Right,” he murmured, almost to himself. He picked up his pen and flipped to the right page in your notebook. “So… the topics we’ve covered. Let’s run through them again.”

He was talking too quickly — you knew his tells now. He was off-balance.

You nodded like you were following along. You weren’t. Not even close.

He launched into it anyway, voice steady even if his eyes kept flicking toward you between sentences. “Okay… so, criminal profiling. It’s essentially behavioral analysis — the systematic study of someone’s choices to predict patterns. For example, when we look at an offender’s… location preference, we can infer—”

He paused long enough to underline something in your notes, then continued, “—that the closer they stick to their home base, the less organized they might be. Comfort zones shrink when the stressors rise.”

His pen scratched across your notebook as he added bullet points. “Victimology tells us just as much about the unsub as the crime scene itself. It’s about… human behavior, about what drives a person to act outside social norms…”

He trailed off for a moment, then shook his head like he was pulling himself back on track.

“And body language,” he went on, “nonverbal cues make up over sixty percent of interpersonal communication. Microexpressions, proxemics… even eye contact length can—”

He stopped again, this time because your eyes met his and held for too long.

He cleared his throat and kept going, quieter now. “Proxemics, uh… personal space. How close someone lets you stand tells you almost everything about intimacy, comfort levels…”

Your pulse jumped.

His words slowed, grew softer as he leaned over to grab a stack of sticky notes, reaching past you. His other hand came down on your thigh—not hard, just steady, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Your whole body went tight, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

His hand didn’t move.

He kept talking, the rhythm breaking as he wrote on the sticky pad, his thumb pressed against the inside of your thigh like it belonged there. “Personal space is… uh… an unspoken language. Inside eighteen inches is considered, um… intimate distance.” He faltered, the pen pausing halfway through a word.

You looked at him.

He was still holding the pen like he might keep talking, but his eyes had dropped to your mouth.

And then the words stopped altogether. The pen clattered softly on the desk as his other hand lifted, brushing against your jaw. Light. Testing.

“Spencer…” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t clumsy. It was slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made your heart stutter painfully against your ribs because you could feel every ounce of restraint he was breaking.

His hand on your thigh gripped tighter.

You kissed him back because there was no way you couldn’t, because the heat that had been simmering under your skin for weeks finally had somewhere to go.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

His eyes stayed closed for a second like he was searching for control. Then he shook his head, almost like he hated himself.

“This is wrong,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re my student. I shouldn’t—”

You didn’t even get the chance to reply before he kissed you again.

Harder this time.

Like the second he’d tasted you, there was no putting this back in the box.

The second kiss was different. Gone was the hesitation of the first — this one was heavier, hungrier, like weeks of quiet looks across the classroom had finally snapped into something you couldn’t take back. His mouth moved against yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he stopped.

His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and firm, while his other hand dragged your chair closer until your knees knocked into his. The room felt too small, too quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing above like they might give you away.

He broke the kiss long enough to press his forehead to yours. His voice was wrecked.

“This is… unprofessional,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” you whispered, just as unsteady.

His eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting himself. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low and rough. “Say the word and we forget this ever happened… because I can’t—I don’t want to stop.”

Your answer was immediate. “I don’t want you to stop.”

A sharp exhale left him, relief and frustration tangled in one sound, and then he was kissing you again, harder this time, his words breaking against your mouth between hurried kisses.

“God… I need you,” he murmured, and it sounded like a confession he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You stood when he did, the chair scraping back, both of you half-laughing against each other’s mouths when you stumbled into the edge of the desk. His hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, the curve of your hips — pulling you closer like he couldn’t get you close enough.

The moment shifted when his fingers hooked into the hem of your sweater, pausing just long enough for you to nod before he pulled it over your head.

“Jesus…” His voice was soft, almost reverent when his eyes dragged down your body, taking in the lace you’d chosen this morning without realizing you’d secretly hoped this would happen.

Your shaking hands found his buttons, fumbling them open one by one until his shirt fell loose over his shoulders. He wasn’t rushing you, but there was an urgency in the way his mouth kept finding yours like he’d lose his nerve if he stopped too long.

When your skirt hit the floor, he let out a sound low in his throat, hands spanning the backs of your thighs before turning you so your ass pressed against him.

You felt him. God, did you feel him.

He swore under his breath, his palm sliding over the lace of your thong, fingers tracing the edge slowly like he was memorizing it.

“Fuck…” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t have—”

You turned your head, breathless. “I’m clean. I—I’m on birth control.”

His eyes locked on yours, something dark flickering there.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth even as his voice dropped lower.

The lace slipped down your legs in one slow drag, his fingers deliberately teasing against bare skin until it hit the floor.

He bent you gently over the desk, his hand firm between your shoulder blades but not forcing — guiding.

“Stay like that for me,” he said softly, voice rough at the edges.

You felt the heat of his palm slide over the curve of your ass before one hand gripped at your hip, the other moving lower, fingertips brushing between your thighs until he felt how ready you were for him.

“Jesus, you’re—” He cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose before sinking his fingers into you slow, testing, like he was mapping out every reaction.

You gasped, knuckles white where you gripped the desk edge.

“Relax,” he murmured behind you, his free hand smoothing up your back before returning to your hip. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers moved deeper, curling just right, the sound of your breathing loud in the quiet classroom. He was slow at first — too slow — like he wanted to drag this out, the heel of his palm brushing you with each movement until your legs trembled.

“Spencer—”

The way you said his name made his pace change, faster now, but never sloppy. Always in control.

He leaned over you slightly, mouth close to your ear. “You feel so good,” he whispered, and the softness of his tone made it worse somehow, more intimate than you were ready for.

You barely registered him undoing his belt one-handed until you heard the quiet clink of metal.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice low but steady.

You nodded fast. “I want this. Please.”

The small groan he let out went straight through you.

“Good,” he murmured, guiding you forward so your hips met the desk edge. “Because I can’t stop now.”

His fingers slid in deep, curling perfectly until your legs threatened to give out, his palm rocking against you in slow, deliberate circles.

“God, you’re soaked,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he couldn’t believe it. His voice was rougher than you’d ever heard it, control cracking around the edges. “So gorgeous like this…”

The noises spilling out of you had him groaning low in his throat, like he was taking them in, storing them somewhere he’d never forget.

But he didn’t last long.

He pulled his hand back suddenly, unbuckling his belt with shaking fingers. The quiet clink of metal was almost as loud as your pulse in your ears.

You turned your head just enough to catch him licking his fingers clean, eyes locked on yours as he did it like he wanted you to see.

“You want this?” His voice was low, steady, but the way he nudged his cock against your entrance betrayed him — the hesitation, the barely-there tremor in his tone.

“Y-yes…” You barely got the word out.

His mouth twitched into something between a smile and a groan. “Good girl,” he breathed, dragging his tip through the slick heat of you, gathering it before slowly, so slowly, sinking in.

The stretch had you bracing hard against the desk, your body tightening around him on instinct.

“Shit—” he gritted out, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the feeling hit him too hard. A strained laugh broke out of him, breathless, helpless. “God, you’re… so tight. Tight little thing—f-fuck.”

The first few thrusts were slow, dragging, like he wanted to feel every inch of it. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to leave marks, holding you still while he moved carefully, shallow at first.

And then he groaned.

It was soft, wrecked, spilling out like he couldn’t hold it back.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself, half into the warm space between your shoulder blades. “You feel like you were made for me.”

Your head tipped forward against the desk when he pushed in deeper, his pace finding a rhythm that was unhurried but relentless.

One hand left your waist to slide up your spine, pressing gently between your shoulder blades until your back arched just right for him.

“Yeah… just like that,” he murmured, voice breaking slightly. “Let me see you. God, look at you… taking me so well.”

You could hear him breathing hard behind you, little groans spilling out between his words.

Nothing was hotter than a man who moaned.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he admitted in a rough whisper, hips snapping forward a little harder. “Weeks of you in my class looking at me like that—” His laugh was low, sharp, breaking off when you clenched around him. “Fuck, and now you’re—shit, you’re perfect.”

His words were falling apart as fast as his control was.

The slap of skin and the scrape of the desk legs on the floor filled the empty classroom, each thrust harder than the last but never rushed, like he was savoring it even as he fell apart.

“Spencer—”

He groaned at the way you said his name, hips stuttering like he might lose it right there.

“Say it again,” he rasped, his mouth close to your ear now as he leaned over you, thrusts hitting deeper. “Say my name.”

“Spencer—”

He let out a sharp, wrecked sound, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip tight enough to burn.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he panted, teeth dragging lightly against your shoulder before he forced himself upright again, pace faltering for just a moment like he was trying to hold on.

But you could feel it — he was losing the control he always lived in, piece by piece, with every sound you made for him.

“Ffffuck—”

The sound tore out of him like he didn’t even mean to let it slip. His pace picked up, hips snapping forward harder, faster, like he was finally letting himself take what he wanted.

You hadn’t expected him to be this vocal. Sure, he rambled in lectures, always had too many words — but this? These broken groans spilling out of him, the soft curses and sharp breaths against your skin?

It made your head spin.

“Christ, you feel—God, you feel unreal,” he choked out, thrusts rougher now, less careful. His voice cracked on the last word like it was physically wrecking him.

You felt his fingers dig into your waist hard, pulling you back onto him as he drove forward, the desk jerking under both your weight.

“Spencer—”

He groaned deep, sharp, forehead falling briefly against your shoulder before he forced himself upright again.

“Keep—” He cut himself off with a ragged sound when you clenched around him, hips stuttering. “Keep saying my name like that… fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

The words tumbled out of him in half-broken fragments, the usual precision in his speech gone.

One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck to hold you there, bent over the desk for him.

“Look at you,” he breathed, hips driving harder now, the edge of the desk biting into your stomach with every thrust. “Taking me like this—like you were made for me.”

His pace snapped forward faster, rougher, his groans climbing higher each time he bottomed out.

“I’m—shit—I’m supposed to be your professor,” he rasped, almost like he was talking to himself, his voice low and wrecked. “Weeks of you sitting there in my class looking at me with those eyes—how the fuck was I supposed to concentrate?”

Another thrust punctuated the words, the sound of skin on skin loud in the empty room.

“You have no idea,” he groaned, breath ragged, “how many nights I’ve thought about this. About you bent over like this—God, and now you’re so… tight around me I can barely think.”

The desk squealed against the floor as his thrusts grew harsher, his control hanging by threads now.

He let out a low, desperate moan, hips grinding deep before snapping forward again, faster, harder.

“Spencer,” you gasped again, and he swore under his breath, rough and messy.

“Say it again,” he demanded softly, almost pleading. “Say my name when I fuck you.”

“Spencer—”

A sharp groan ripped out of him, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he slammed back in harder, like he was losing himself completely.

“Good girl,” he panted, hand sliding into your hair, tugging just enough to arch your back. “God, you feel so good… so fucking good.”

He was almost whimpering now, broken sounds spilling out between his words as his thrusts turned relentless, hips driving into you over and over.

You could feel how tightly he gripped your hip, how every muscle in him was tense like he was holding on by the thinnest thread of control.

“Look at you,” he groaned again, voice lower now, filthy words spilling out like he couldn’t stop them. “Letting me fuck you like this… my smart girl, huh? Taking me so well while I lose my fucking mind over you.”

Each thrust got rougher, dirtier, his breath harsh in your ear when he leaned over you again, the length of him pressing deep inside.

“God, you’re perfect,” he muttered, voice cracking. “So fucking perfect—”

His rhythm was falling apart now, all that control Spencer Reid carried in every aspect of his life crumbling as he slammed into you, groaning against your shoulder, hand fisted in your hair.

Like he couldn’t stop.

Like he wouldn’t even if he could. He wasn’t stopping.

If anything, Spencer was fucking you harder now, thrusts snapping into you with an edge that hadn’t been there before. He was too far gone for restraint.

“God—” he groaned, voice cracking when you clenched around him again. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him like he couldn’t get deep enough, like he wanted to carve himself into your memory.

You couldn’t hold back the noises you were making—sharp, broken sounds that only seemed to drive him wilder.

“Yeah,” he breathed, almost a whimper, the word punched out of him with the force of his thrusts. “That’s it… let me hear you. You gonna come for me?”

You nodded desperately, forehead pressed to the desk, every muscle tight as the coil inside you snapped tighter and tighter.

“Say it,” he demanded, breath harsh in your ear now as he leaned over you, hips relentless. “Say you’re gonna come.”

“Gonna… gonna come—Spencer, oh my God—”

“Yeah?” His voice broke, groaning into your neck. “Fuck, good girl. Come for me. Right now. I wanna feel you.”

That did it.

You shattered around him with a cry, your body clenching tight as waves of pleasure ripped through you.

Spencer moaned so loudly when he felt it, this raw, unrestrained sound that almost didn’t sound like him. He kept fucking you through it, hips snapping hard and fast, his own voice falling apart in your ear.

“Jesus Christ—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—” His words were almost frantic now, rough against your skin. “I can’t—I can’t hold it, you feel too good—”

You felt him slip—completely lose himself—like he was right on the edge and fighting a losing battle.

“Spencer—” you breathed, and that was it.

He choked out a broken, desperate sound and slammed into you harder, faster, rough enough the desk creaked beneath you both.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh my God—” His words spilled in a mess of groans and filthy praise as he lost control completely, the careful professor gone, replaced with this man fucking you like he couldn’t stop.

He buried himself deep with one final, rough thrust, groaning your name against your shoulder as he came undone inside you, hips jerking through it like he didn’t want it to end.

After, he just stayed there, chest heaving against your back, both of you gasping for breath, sweat and heat and the faint smell of sex heavy in the air.

You felt him press his forehead between your shoulder blades, still holding your hips like he needed to.

“God,” he muttered finally, voice low, rough, wrecked. “That was so wrong.”

But he didn’t move.

And neither did you.

˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡

A few months had slipped by like a daydream.

If anyone had told you at the start of the semester that your new criminology professor—the tall, brilliant, slightly awkward Dr. Spencer Reid—would have you bent over his desk after hours, whispering filthy things in your ear while simultaneously quoting case law and statistics in that soft, nerdy voice… well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

But now?

Now it was a rhythm. A secret carved into the edges of your days.

Some afternoons, he wouldn’t even take your clothes off. He’d keep you perched in his lap as he patiently explained criminal profiling methods, murmuring about victimology while his thumb absently stroked lazy circles into your thigh like he forgot his own hand was there. Other times, he’d take you apart so thoroughly that you’d leave his office with trembling knees and no memory of what he’d actually taught you, your notebook still blank.

It was chaotic, addictive, and you were drowning in it willingly.

And now, somehow, it was October already.

The last lesson before the university break found him standing at the front of the lecture hall in a black-and-orange sweater vest patterned with tiny jack-o’-lanterns. He looked… well, ridiculous, and yet, unfairly good in it. Of course he did.

He spent half the lecture not just on behavioral analysis, but rambling off little-known Halloween facts that nobody asked for—like how the original jack-o’-lanterns were carved from turnips instead of pumpkins, or how Samhain traditions influenced modern celebrations.

You sat there, chin propped on your hand, smiling like an idiot the whole time.

When the class ended and students began filing out, you waited until the room emptied. He looked up from shuffling papers just as you approached, and his expression softened immediately.

“You survived my Halloween lecture,” he said dryly, though there was the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Barely,” you teased, glancing at the sweater vest. “Very… stylish, by the way.”

He followed your gaze, lifting the hem slightly like he hadn’t realized he was even wearing it. “It’s cool, right? Kind of festive?”

You bit back a grin. “It suits you.”

“Suits me,’’he repeated with mock offense. “That sounded very… diplomatic.”

You just smirked.

He leaned against his desk, arms folding loosely over his chest, watching you in that way that made your skin heat. He did that a lot—like he was cataloging you, tucking pieces of you away in that genius mind of his.

“So,” he said casually, but there was something underneath it. “With two weeks off… what are you going to do with yourself?”

The way he said it was almost… careful. Like he didn’t want to ask the real question: Are you going to forget about me?

“Nothing super exciting,” you said, shrugging lightly. “I’m going to visit my best friend. She’s taking me back to her family’s home.”

He nodded like he wanted to seem neutral, but there was a tightness in the gesture you didn’t miss. “Sounds nice.”

It didn’t, not to him. You could read it all over his face, even as he tried to play it off.

“What about you?” you asked, tilting your head.

He sighed softly, glancing at the floor before pushing a hand through his hair. “My daughter’s coming home from her university. So… probably spending most of the break with her.”

You smiled. “That sounds fun.”

He shot you a look. One brow lifted slightly. “Don’t pretend,” he said dryly, and you laughed under your breath.

Before you could answer, he reached for you. Just a small thing—his fingers brushing your wrist before sliding to your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss your forehead. It was soft. Almost reverent.

“I have to pick her up later today,” he murmured against your skin, “so unfortunately, I don’t have time for a… lesson.”

The implication was clear, thick in the air between you.

You smiled faintly. “Well, I’ll be impatiently waiting for our first lesson back, Dr. Reid.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Cheeky.”

He kissed you again—slower this time, lingering like he didn’t want to leave—and then finally picked up his satchel.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said simply.

And he did.

Careful, always careful, keeping just enough distance so nobody would question it, but close enough that your arms brushed once or twice as you walked side by side. He opened the door for you, leaning in slightly but not close enough to kiss you again, no matter how badly you could tell he wanted to.

“Two weeks,” he murmured, giving you that small, private smile of his.

“Two weeks,” you echoed.

You slipped into your car, the ghost of his cologne clinging to your skin, and as you pulled out of the lot, your phone rang through the speakers.

“Maren,” you greeted as you drove, voice lighter than usual.

“Hello?” Her voice was bright, distracted. You could hear the shuffle of papers in the background.

“When was I supposed to come see you again?” you asked, tapping the steering wheel.

“Oh—tomorrow,” she said after a pause, like she’d just remembered.

“Tomorrow. Okay. And why am I coming to see your family, exactly?” you teased. “You taking me to meet the in-laws, honey?”

She laughed. “Obviously. Just kidding. It’s really just my dad. I said I’d visit, and I wanna see you, so… bing bang bosh, two birds, one stone. Plus,” she added, “you can hear his FBI stories. You’re a criminology student. You’ll love them.”

“Right,” you said slowly, smirking. “Okay. Text me the address tonight.”

“I won’t forget this time, promise. Love you, see you tomorrow!”

“Love you too.”

The call ended.

And tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The next day, you drove across the city with the address Maren had texted you glowing faintly on your phone screen. Her childhood neighborhood was all winding streets and tall oaks, houses tucked behind hedges and iron gates. You pulled into her driveway with a pit in your stomach you couldn’t quite explain.

Meeting her family shouldn’t have been nerve-wracking.

But you were about to spend an entire evening pretending you weren’t sneaking around with your professor—a man who, just last week, had you bent over his desk with his hand over your mouth so the night janitor wouldn’t hear you.

You killed the engine and got out before you could spiral further, climbing the porch steps and knocking lightly.

The door swung open a moment later.

“Hey!” Maren grinned, pulling you into a hug that smelled faintly of expensive perfume and vanilla body spray.

You laughed softly, hugging her back. “Hey. Hope I’m not too early.”

“Nope, perfect timing.” She stepped back to let you in, closing the door behind you. “Dad’s out right now, so we can go hang in my room before dinner.”

You glanced around as you followed her through the hall. The house was… nice. Warm light pooled across wood floors. The air smelled faintly of old books and whatever was simmering in the kitchen. But one thing you noticed almost immediately—no family photos. Not in the entryway. Not on the walls leading upstairs.

Weird.

You didn’t mention it.

“Fancy,” you murmured instead, trailing a finger along the banister.

Maren snorted. “Of course you’d say that.”

She tugged you upstairs to a room that looked like it had been frozen in time—posters on the walls, fairy lights tangled along the headboard, books spilling off shelves. She flopped onto her bed dramatically and patted the spot beside her.

“Sit, sit. I need to know everything about this mystery man you’re seeing,” she demanded, eyes glittering.

You closed the door and crossed to the bed, perching on the edge. “He’s… older,” you admitted carefully.

Maren grinned like a shark. “We love an older man. How much older?”

You hesitated, heat crawling up your neck. “…Enough.”

Her eyebrows waggled. “Is he good?”

You smacked her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She cackled. “Answer it!”

Rolling your eyes, you finally muttered, “He’s… very good.”

She grinned like Christmas came early. “I’m glad my bestie is being fulfilled. Truly. Love that for you.”

“Jesus, Maren,” you groaned, shoving her again, and she laughed harder before launching into a string of campus gossip that made you forget yourself for a while.

You were still mid-laughter when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She glanced at the screen. “Oh, Dad’s back. And… he cooked. Great.” She rolled her eyes fondly. “Just smile and nod. He tries. He’s terrible, but he tries.”

You stood as she did, nerves curling in your stomach. Meeting parents was always a little awkward.

You followed her down the stairs, the smell of something vaguely Italian filling the house.

“Hey, Dad!” she called as you trailed her into the kitchen. “My friend’s here, remember?”

He had his back to you, stirring something on the stove.

“Hi—” you started, right as he turned.

And the world dropped out from under you.

Because Dr. Spencer Reid—your professor, the man who had you shaking in his office chair less than a week ago—stood frozen by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants instead of his usual slacks and tie.

You stopped dead.

He tensed like someone had hit pause on his whole body. His eyes locked on yours, wide, unreadable.

Maren glanced between you both, confusion knitting her brow. “…Wait. You two… know each other?”

You swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat.

“No,” you blurted, right as he said, “I’m her professor.”

You both froze, then looked at each other like oh, this is bad.

Maren blinked slowly. “You’re her professor?”

You nodded way too fast. “Uh—yeah. He, um. He teaches my criminology class.”

Maren turned to you fully, arms crossing. “Why didn’t you say my dad was your professor?”

Your stomach bottomed out. You looked at Spencer automatically, panic flashing across your face because if he thought you’d known—if he thought you’d been playing some weird game—

You shook your head so fast it made you dizzy. “I didn’t know he was your dad! Your last name isn’t Reid.”

She tilted her head. “Fair. But… didn’t I tell you he was starting at your college?”

You stared at her like she’d grown three heads. “No, Maren. I definitely would’ve remembered that.”

“Right. My bad. Forgot,” she said easily, shrugging. “Well. This is… fun.”

Spencer still hadn’t moved. His jaw flexed once, like he was grinding down a dozen things he couldn’t say.

“Maren,” he said finally, voice tight, “why didn’t you mention your friend was in my class?”

She blinked innocently. “I didn’t know? There are like three criminology lectures running at the same time at Georgetown.”

She sounded so much like him—quick, logical, a little too matter-of-fact—that under any other circumstance you might’ve laughed.

But you felt like you were suffocating.

“Uh,” you said quickly, “where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, left.”

You nodded once and practically fled, footsteps echoing too loud on the hardwood as your heart tried to punch its way out of your chest.

You were pacing tight circles across the bathroom floor, the walls closing in with every step. The air felt heavy, too hot, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly above you like it was in on the joke.

Your stomach was a pit, churning with panic.

He probably thought you knew. That you’d done this on purpose, like some deranged scheme. You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.

You dug your fingers into your hair, tugging at the roots like you could hold yourself together by sheer force.

This was bad.

This was… apocalyptic.

The knock at the door made you jump so hard you nearly tripped over yourself.

“Maren, I—” your voice cracked.

“It’s me,” his voice cut through, low, strained. “Let me in.”

Spencer.

Of course.

You fumbled with the lock, pulling the door open, and he slipped in like someone trying to outrun the situation itself. He shut it quickly behind him, back pressing to the wood for a second like he needed it to hold him up.

“Maren will—” you started, breathless.

“She’s on the phone with her mom,” he said, cutting you off, running a shaking hand through his hair.

You both just stood there for a moment, the air between you thick enough to choke on.

“I—I didn’t know,” you blurted finally, the words spilling out too fast. “I swear I didn’t—God, she never told me—”

“You promise you didn’t know?” His voice was careful, too careful, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and trying not to look down.

That hurt. “I promise! Do you think I wanted this? That I’d walk in here like—like some lunatic who planned the whole thing?” Your hands were shaking now. “My heart’s going to fall out of my chest.”

His gaze dropped to your ribcage where it was visibly heaving. He stepped forward slowly, pressing a palm over your sternum, feeling the hammering beneath. His touch was warm, steadying, but his expression was anything but calm.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, his voice almost breaking around it.

You let out a half-hysterical laugh. “Right?”

He looked up at you, panic flickering like static under the surface of his features. “This is bad. This is… oh, this is so bad. What do we even do?”

“I need to leave,” you said quickly, already turning for the door.

“No.” His voice cracked sharp on the word. He stepped closer, hand sliding up into your hair before you could bolt. “No, you can’t. That just… that makes it worse. Maren’s going to think—”

“She’s going to hate me,” you whispered, and hated how small you sounded saying it.

He shook his head, eyes darting over your face like he was trying to hold it all together with his gaze alone. “She won’t.”

“She will,” you shot back, throat tight.

He kissed your forehead suddenly, like the gesture was instinctual, like he needed to do it to keep breathing himself.

But you went still under it, body locking up, and he felt it instantly. He drew back, his brow furrowing. “What? What is it?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Oh my God, she—“

“She what?”

“She asked me things,” you got out, words tripping over each other in your rush. “About the guy I was seeing. About the sex. If it was good. How it was good. She—oh my God—”

For a second he just stared at you.

Processing.

And then it hit.

You watched it slam into him all at once — his face going through about ten different expressions in five seconds, none of them good.

“She—” his voice cracked, broke off, came back sharper. “She asked about—Jesus Christ.” He turned away, both hands in his hair now like he could physically pull the thought out of his skull. He started pacing, sharp quick movements like he was trying to outthink the air itself.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, stopping dead before pacing the other direction. “No, no, no, no, no. That’s—that’s disgusting. That’s—oh my God.”

You pressed back against the sink, heart hammering harder at his reaction. “I didn’t tell her details!”

“She asked,” he said, voice climbing, whirling back to you like you weren’t grasping the horror of it all. “She asked if I was—if I was good?” His hand flailed vaguely, like the words were too filthy to even finish. “Jesus Christ, she’s my kid.”

He looked physically pained, dragging a hand down his face like maybe he could scrub the thought off his skin.

“This is a nightmare,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes darting frantically like his brain was rewriting the last few months on the spot. “This is—no, this is like Greek tragedy levels of bad. This is—I mean, Freud would have a field day with this.”

Despite everything, a half-strangled laugh escaped you at that, but he just groaned, covering his face with both hands like he was trying to disappear behind them.

“I can’t ever look her in the eye again,” he mumbled into his palms, voice muffled and horrified. “She’s going to think—I don’t even know what she’s going to think.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching him unravel in the tiny bathroom, his shoulders tense, hair sticking up from how many times he’d run his hands through it.

Finally he dropped his hands, looking at you with something desperate behind his eyes.

“You didn’t know,” he said again, slower this time, like he was forcing the words out for both of you.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered back, because it was the only thing in this entire mess that was true and certain.

And for a long second, you just stared at each other in the cramped bathroom, the air thick with panic and heat and something else you couldn’t name.

He pulled you in suddenly, arms wrapping tight like he was holding on to something fragile. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured into your hair, though his voice cracked halfway through like maybe he was saying it as much for himself as for you.

But you just shook your head against his chest, words spilling out before you could stop them. “She—she told me her dad was in the FBI—”

“I am,” he cut in, then paused, correcting himself almost awkwardly. “Well… I was.”

You leaned back enough to see his face. “What?”

His eyes darted away for half a second before he admitted, “Behavioral Analysis Unit. Profiling. Serial crimes. A lot of… dark things.” He rubbed the back of his neck like the weight of his own history sat there.

Of course. Because the universe wasn’t done humiliating you. You should have known that.

“I—I didn’t know,” you said again, because it felt like the only sentence you had left in you.

He studied your face, then finally nodded like he believed you this time. Some of the tension in his shoulders uncoiled, but not much. He bent his head and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, breath warm against your skin.

“We can’t sit down for dinner like this,” he said quietly into your hair.

You gave a weak, shaky laugh. “Maren said you suck at cooking anyway.”

That got the tiniest huff out of him. “Cheeky,” he muttered, but his mouth curved like he couldn’t help it.

You pulled back slightly, searching his face. “So what do we do?”

He cleared his throat like his brain was working three steps ahead. “You’re going… ‘home.’”

You frowned. “As in I’m leaving?”

He shook his head quickly, hands coming down to grip your waist, grounding himself there. “No. You’re going to move your car, say you feel sick, leave…and then park down the street and come back.”

You blinked at him. “That’s… a lot of work for what exactly?”

“For me,” he said simply, fingers flexing faintly on your hips like the contact steadied him. “Because I’m stressed. And so are you. And sex decreases cortisol levels by—”

You laughed softly, nerves sputtering through it. “If we get caught, I’m leaving the state,” you muttered, and that made him grin — an actual grin, sharp and crooked.

“We won’t,” he promised, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced himself. He pulled away reluctantly, already shifting back into the picture of composure even though his eyes still had that faint wild edge. “Now go. Act like you just… threw up or something.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a storm.

When you left the bathroom, he was already back at the stove, calm, stirring sauce like nothing had happened, and you had to resist the urge to glare at his back. You found Maren curled on the couch.

“Hey, there you are,” she said, looking up. “You were gone forever.”

“Yeah, I… I threw up,” you mumbled, forcing embarrassment into your voice.

She sat up instantly. “You threw up?”

“Yeah. I think I just need to go home,” you said quickly before she could fuss more, keeping your voice weak like maybe you’d collapse right there.

She stood. “Wait—you’re not… oh my God, you’re not pregnant, right?” she hissed far too loudly.

Spencer choked on the sauce he was tasting, coughing into his fist, and you wanted to actually die.

“No,” you snapped, face burning. “God, no. I probably just ate something bad.”

She looked unconvinced but didn’t push, just gave you a quick hug at the door and told you to text when you got home.

Except you didn’t go home.

You parked down the block, heart in your throat the entire ten minutes you waited in the dark, the October air biting at your skin. It felt juvenile, ridiculous, sneaking around like this — but when you finally slipped through the side gate and saw the kitchen lights glowing warm in the dark, it didn’t matter.

He was there waiting at the back door. The moment he saw you, he unlocked it fast, tugging you inside.

“She’s in her room,” he said under his breath. “Come with me.”

He caught your hand and pulled you through the house, the two of you moving on instinct. Not upstairs. Past the kitchen, down the hall, to a heavy door you hadn’t noticed before.

His office.

The door clicked shut behind you, the dark green walls and shelves of books swallowing you both into a quieter world. The air smelled like old paper and cedar.

“You have a thing for desks?” you asked breathlessly, because humor was the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

He gave a faint grin, crossing to you in a few strides. “My room’s right next to hers. She’d hear everything. So…” He stopped in front of you, close enough you could see the faint stubble on his jaw. “…yeah. Maybe I do.”

The way he said it made your pulse stutter.

Because you were in his space now — a room lined with degrees, old case files, worn books — and you felt the shift in him immediately. Still Spencer, still nervous and brilliant and awkward, but there was something else running under his skin too.

Something he hadn’t let himself show before.

You step in closer to him, his breath warm against your mouth as he kissed you hard — not rushed, but like he needed it to steady himself. His pulse was hammering against you, his chest tight, the tension still rolling through him in waves.

“You’re panicking,” you murmured when you finally broke away, your lips brushing his.

“Just a bit,” he admitted, voice low, rough at the edges. His hands cradled your face like he was trying to focus on something solid.

“I can help you,” you whispered, your mouth grazing his jaw now. “You said… sex helps stress relief, right?”

His throat moved as he swallowed. “It does,” he said carefully, eyes on yours.

You smiled, lips grazing his ear when you breathed, “So technically… oral sex counts?”

The breath left him in a sound half between a laugh and a groan. “What are you asking to do?” he said, tone gruffer now, like you’d pulled something darker out of him.

“I want to do it,” you told him simply, and his whole body seemed to go still at the words.

Then he smirked, a slow curve of his mouth as he leaned back in the black leather chair behind him. “Knees,” he said, voice low but firm.

You sank down onto the hardwood floor in front of him, the smell of cedar and old books all around you. He watched you like a man starved, gaze heavy as you knelt between his thighs.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, almost to himself, before wetting his bottom lip and biting it softly. His fingers moved fast, unbuckling his belt, sliding his slacks open. When he freed himself, thick and flushed in his hand, your mouth went dry.

“Already hard?” you asked, fingers curling around him gently.

He hissed softly at the first touch, eyes shutting briefly. “And I bet you’re soaked right now,” he shot back, voice hoarse. “So don’t get cheeky with me… just—fuck…” The word broke off into a groan as you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly, deliberately, from base to tip.

His hand slid into your hair, not forcing, just holding you there, thumb brushing the back of your neck like he couldn’t help it. “Don’t tease me,” he warned, voice cracking on the words.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, slow and wet, and his head dropped back against the chair with a soft, guttural sound.

“Oh, fuck… that’s it,” he muttered, jaw tight, thighs tensing under your hands. “Jesus Christ, you feel—god, your mouth’s so warm—” His words kept breaking apart between breaths like he couldn’t quite keep it together.

You took more of him in, slow but steady, your hand stroking what you couldn’t fit yet.

“Fuck, yes—like that, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice cracking into a half-whine when your tongue circled him on the way back up. His hand in your hair tightened slightly, not pushing, just grounding himself as you hollowed your cheeks around him.

Every time you sank back down, his breathing changed, little moans and curses slipping out between half-formed sentences.

“God, you’re… you’re so fucking good at this,” he rasped, head tipped back, his thighs spreading wider under you. “Feels—ah, feels even better than I—fuck—than I imagined.”

You hummed around him at that, and the sound made him choke out a broken groan, hips jerking up before he caught himself.

“Jesus, don’t—don’t do that unless you want me to lose it,” he muttered, voice all frayed edges now. His other hand had come up to his face, dragging down over his mouth as he tried to keep quiet, tried to stay in control while you sucked him slow and deep in his own damn office with his daughter upstairs.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking again as you swallowed him down, his thighs trembling under your hands now, all that genius and control falling apart right there in front of you.

You took him deeper, faster now, the wet sounds filling his office, the smell of him sharp in your nose as you worked him with your mouth. His breath came out in rough, uneven gasps, the kind of sound he usually tried to swallow down when he was flustered—but now he didn’t even try.

“God—fuck, just like that—” His voice cracked, low and raw, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping the armrest like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His hips pushed up slightly, meeting the rhythm of your mouth without even meaning to.

You swirled your tongue around the head, and he let out a helpless moan, a choked-off sound like he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so… so fucking good at this,” he babbled, voice thick, words breaking apart between shallow breaths. “So perfect for me, you’re… fuck, you take me so well, sweetheart—”

His thighs were trembling under your hands now, muscles jumping every time you sank down harder, wetter, your hand twisting at the base in time with your mouth.

“Yeah, yeah—just like that, please don’t stop,” he groaned, head tipping back, curls falling into his eyes. The genius, the professor, the man who always had too many words—he was barely holding sentences together now.

You hummed around him and that did it—his whole body jerked, a rough, broken sound tearing out of his chest.

“Don’t—ah, fuck, don’t do that unless you want me to come right down your throat,” he warned, voice shaking, but there was no real heat in it. Just desperation.

You went faster, wetter, his breathing turning ragged, his voice coming apart completely as he babbled praise into the room. Whimpering.

“Good girl, so good for me, Jesus Christ—oh my god, I—” His hand tightened in your hair, not pushing, just clinging. His eyes were squeezed shut now, chest heaving as he unraveled, every part of him strung tight as a bowstring.

And then it snapped.

“Fuck—oh fuck, I love you—” The words tumbled out on a raw groan as he came, thick and hot down your throat, his entire body shuddering through it. “God, I love you so much,” he choked again, voice cracking as you swallowed, his hips jerking helplessly under your hands.

He was loud, embarrassingly so, the kind of moaning that would’ve made him blush if he wasn’t so far gone, all wrecked curls and bitten-off whimpers as you worked him through it until he was shuddering, pulling you back gently, like he didn’t even want to but had to.

“Jesus… Christ,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes still half-closed as he looked at you like you were something holy.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand as he slumped back into the chair, completely wrecked, his curls sticking to his forehead. He was still breathing hard, his thighs trembling under your palms when you rose up onto your knees between his legs. His hand found the back of your head, softer now, almost apologetic as he pushed some hair behind your ear.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice ragged, trying to collect himself. “C’mere.”

You climbed carefully into his lap, straddling him in the chair, feeling the way his body was still buzzing under your touch. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the side of your neck like he needed the quiet. You could feel the erratic thump of his heart against your chest.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

He huffed a broken laugh against your skin. “That was… yeah. Yeah, I’m… Jesus, you’re incredible.”

You smoothed a hand through his hair, curling into him, feeling the way his breathing slowly started to even out as you held him. He didn’t let go right away—like the hug itself was another kind of aftercare he needed just as badly as the sex.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were heavy, soft in a way you didn’t see from him often.

“Did I…” he swallowed, his voice catching, “was I… too loud?”

You bit back a grin. “Oh, you mean the moaning? The I love yous? The whimpering?”

His ears flushed pink instantly. “Don’t—don’t say it like that,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.

“You were loud, Spencer.” You teased, soft but deliberate. “Think Maren heard?”

The way his whole body stiffened was priceless.

“Don’t even joke about that,” he groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling might swallow him whole.

You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “Pretty sure she heard,” you whispered, just to be cruel.

He groaned again, hiding his face in your neck like he could disappear there. “I’m never showing my face again.”

“Hey,” you said softly, tilting his face back toward you. “Spencer.”

He blinked at you, all flushed and mussed-up curls, looking so far from the polished professor everyone else saw.

“I love you too,” you said, quiet but certain.

The tension in his shoulders eased instantly. He searched your face like he was memorizing it, then kissed you slow, deep, nothing like the earlier desperation—just warm and steady, like he wanted you to feel every ounce of what he couldn’t say yet.

When he finally pulled back, his hands were still cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone gently. “I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like it was only for you.

You stayed curled together in the chair, the office dim and quiet around you, both of you pretending the rest of the house didn’t exist.

There was a sudden knock at the office door.

You both froze.

“Dad?” Maren’s voice, muffled but way too close.

Spencer went pale. You scrambled off his lap like the chair was on fire, smoothing your hair with frantic hands while he shoved himself upright, running one hand through his curls like that would hide what just happened.

“Uh—yeah?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, what is it?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, dry as bone, Maren said through the door: “You do realize these walls aren’t that thick, right?”

Your stomach dropped through the floor. Spencer looked like he’d just been told the BAU was reopening a case on him.

“Maren—” His voice was sharp, panicked, but she was already walking away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, half-mortified, half-choking back laughter. “She heard.”

“I’m moving to another country,” Spencer muttered, dragging both hands down his face.

You tried not to smile too hard as you leaned close, whispering just for him: “Told you that you were loud.”

His glare was weak at best.

And in that small, stolen moment, with laughter still caught in your throat and his thumb brushing over your knuckles, you knew it.

He loved you.

And you loved him.

And nothing else mattered.

Taglist: @yokaimoon @blacksnake13 @ssyren @kimiantonelliismyhusband @shinygivergalaxy @sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy @lexxaxxus @evam0481 @lulirossstuff @coldflowermuglover @nighthowlergamez @justlivinginadaydream @nevermorexlee @tbolesar @superbeaglewitch @starneul @iqraaaa07 @imyourapocalypse @lotusflower-princess @lavendersunshine333 @mistyeyeddear @sophia-andr-07 @pyrocrow243 @msfreedom @clearlyhauntedfang @444-green-blog @edsheerantbh @biologicallyyours @sreidlovergirl @rebloggingfromtherapy @potteredjames @evenisolation

Boris(20)will also be more mature and assertive. Since Bendy got sick, their roles have shifted. Bendy was the one who would cook, do chores, and work- but now Boris takes care of it despite Bendys protest.

(Boris tells him things like "Helping you is what makes me happy." even though he is filled with worry and dread) Bendy wants to spend the rest of his uncertain life making Boris happy, and Boris wants to spend the rest of it making Bendy happy. It gets harder when Bendys condition continues to worsen.

Oswald, is still depressed, only change is that he's a little better at hiding it now. And really, he only stuck to Felix for as long/much as he did to feel some sort of comfort. Hes kind of using Felix to pretend his wife's(Ortensia) still there since they look really alike (i mean srsly I'm making them the same height and giving them similar mannerisms)

Though Oswald will eventually come to see Felix as their own person and finally treat him more like a friend and less of a replacement. This is when and only when Felix starts to like Oswald.

Felix is focused on his career, and adventuring but loves the family vibe of Micky and Oswald (plus kids) He doesn't crush on Oswald immediately, just finds him fairly handsome and sweet but doesn't explore the thought too much or tries not to.

He convinces himself that Oswalds "closeness" is nothing to read into (Oswald will eventually explain why he acted so close and apologize for using Felix, later seeing and treating him like hes Felix and not Ortensia) THATS when Felix starts to feel close to Oswald and gets a crush. NO HE WONT BE A FUCKING TWINK! but he will get a little awkward. Think like Jake English from Homestuck.

And yes, Oswald will still have feelings for Felix even after he stops seeing Ortensia in him. He'll just notice they(his feelings) didn't go away but doesn't let it show till later. Hes chill like that.

a fun flip around.

Cuphead(23) and Mugman(23)-

Cuphead is trying really hard to keep a lighthearted vibe with Mugman, since it takes place pretty recent to when they gambled their souls (ill eventually draw what happens after) But yeah- Cuphead is more hesitant to make "in the moment" decisions now, he is terrified of messing up again- but at the same time is trying to take on more responsibilities, trying to act like hes changed and grown up. He stresses himself out and is playing it up that hes in control of everything, telling jokes and always trying to "handle" things to make it up to mugman.

Mugman- Hes less bothered by things that used to scare him. i mean hes lost his soul, so why would he waste his time being good? hes been good all his life and now his after life doesn't matter. Hes going to hell no matter what he does. so.... he doesn't try so hard to follow his morals anymore. Hes most likely to stop caring all together .

This is perfect, cause hes suddenly gonna be forced to care a lot more when he realizes how stressed cuphead is.

Another role shift :) God i love issues. (really hope i can show these things about the characters in the comic T^T) I'm not the best writer.

If you got more questions or confused about smth, then feel free to comment and ill try to respond when i can. -Anyways im tired, goodnight.