FICLETS: Criminal Minds
Well, this is new. Written for PB XII
A Too Thin Line - Hotchner/Reid
There are very definite lines.
At the office or on the job, he doesn’t have to worry about them, because the job itself is a line - the darkest, most defined line in his life. His mind, the mental illness that looms just on the periphery is another line, his chalk outline, sprawled on asphalt somewhere. The rest of the lines are fainter, but no less there, the nodes and intersects what makes him who he is, what he can do, how he works.
Some lines, Spencer Reid does not cross. Some lines are carved deep into his psyche, some into his skin. Those are the lines he has to live by so he doesn’t lose himself. His life lines, he plans to say if he ever explains them to anyone, if he ever gets that far. Of course, if anyone gets that far, it will be far too late.
Hotch gets that far.
Hotch knows things that Gideon never did, the kind of things a father couldn’t or wouldn’t see. Hotch sees all those things in Spencer, like an electron microscope that can break him down into his component parts. He sees the way Spencer is the last to leave a meeting or stays late to finish reports. He notes the cant of Spencer’s body when everyone is busy looking the other way. Hotch sees and knows and never says anything, never does anything, and the waiting drives Spencer crazy.
Crazier.
“Do it.”
He’s not supposed to ask. Not supposed to speak. The problem is that the wait is more than he can take, the need is overwhelming. He’s been tied here for hours, and the ropes are burning his forearms, his ankles. He can feel the knots against the pulse points and he tries to arch his back against the restraint.
“Please.”
The crop bites into him, leaving hot red lines on his skin. He shudders and fights to be silent, but the gasp slips out. He bites his lower lip until he can feel the skin break, sucking his own blood to keep his focus, his control. He loses count of the strokes, each impact bleeding into the other.
He strains against the rope and feels his skin scream under the movement as he tries to curl in on himself. He turns his head in time to see Hotch bring his foot down, pressing his leather-soled shoe against Spencer’s neck to hold him down to the floor. He arches up in response and the tongue of the crop slaps at his upper thigh, the shaft of it striking across the back of his other leg.
“P-please.” He tastes blood and sweat and he’s staring up at Hotch with wide eyes.
“Please what?” His voice is low and rough and his grip around the crop’s handle is tight enough that his knuckles are white. Spencer wants to beg for more, but limits are lines too.
“S-sir.”
Hotch steps away and sprawls into a chair, breathing hard. His face is composed, his brow furrowed even as he undoes his slacks and works his dick out. Spencer can only watch, trembling as Hotch fists himself, stroking fast and hard so that all Spencer can see is the flushed, red head of it, the slick white of his pre-come.
Spencer licks his lips and strains at the ropes, hating his weakness, hating that Hotch knows his weakness. He ducks his head, face against his hands as Hotch comes, jerking off onto the floor. Spencer knows that they’re both thinking the same things, the things that make this impossible with anyone else - DNA, blood evidence, rope fibers, bruise patterns, lividity.
Hotch uses his foot to roll Spencer onto his back, leaving him trussed like a roped calf as he reaches down, latex glove on his hand as he grips Spencer, stroking him roughly until everything peaks in a shuddered rush and Spencer comes, jerking against the ropes and Hotch’s hand.
He stays like that for what feels like hours, pain etching new lines into his skin as every breath makes him feel the marks from the crop anew. Everything hurts and nothing aches, and then he feels Hotch’s touch, the soft press of his fingers as he unfastens the knots. The first one slipping loose is like the dam breaking, and Spencer lets out a rough, raw gasp, shock and sobs wracking his body. Hotch gathers Spencer against him and holds him, undoing the rest of the ropes one handed, while the other one keeps Spencer close. Pulls him back from the edge.
One more day on this side of the line.
Lullaby - Reid/Garcia
“You’re not going to convince me.”
“You said you’d try.”
Penelope heaves an exasperated sigh and sits down on the edge of the bed. She and Spencer have been giving strict orders to stay put and the room doesn’t have WiFi, so their options are limited. “Fine.”
“Okay.” He shifts in his chair, tucking his mis-matched stocking feet underneath him. There’s a book in his lap, some huge tome he’s been lugging around all day. “Get comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable.” She’s not. Her shoes are too tight and she spilled soy sauce on her shirt and this whole trip has been a disaster from the beginning and now Spencer wants to read to her. “You know I don’t process auditory information well.”
“You…”
“I know. I know. I said I’d give it a try.” She kicks off her shoes and moves up the bed, plumping some pillows for her back before settling on the comforter and leaning back. “Go on.”
He starts reading, his voice changing as he loses himself in the rhythm of the text. She wonders for a moment if it’s hard for him to read slowly, word by word by word, and then the words finally start to make sense in her head and she closes her eyes. “Oh.”
He doesn’t say anything in response, just keeps reading. His voice is low and almost hypnotic, the words weaving through the air. Her lips part and she presses her fingers lightly against her throat. They trail downward, grazing over her shirt, moving in slow circles over her breasts, her nipples. They’re hard and she squeezes lightly, another soft, ‘oh,’ escaping her lips.
Her head goes back and she shifts against the pillows, getting more comfortable. The story is mythic, like a fairy tale or a dream she can’t quite remember. Smoke drifts around her and she squeezes her breasts, feeling the heavy weight of them in her hands. Spencer’s voice never falters and she floats on the low thrum of it. Her stomach is tight and clenched, anticipating, and her hands smooth over her stomach. She turns her head to see if he’s watching, but he’s backlit by the light from the window, so all she can see is his shadow. It’s better that way, she thinks hazily.
She moves on the bed, biting her lip as she tugs her skirt up, fingers gathering it between her legs. Her panties are wet already and she presses against them, rubbing through the damp cotton. Reid doesn’t stop reading, never stops reading, and she works two fingers beneath the elastic. Her clit aches in the instant before she touches it and then there’s pressure and friction and she inhales, sultry hot air that smells like need and arousal. “Spencer.”
“Hmm?” He mutters softly, then keeps reading, like he can’t see, like he doesn’t know the way she’s writhing on the bed now, thrusting against her hand, pushing her fingers inside her. Her thumb moves over her clit and she breathes heavily, wanting and aching and she wants him to stop because the words don’t fill her up, there aren’t enough of them.
She gasps and jerks awake, sitting up rigidly in the bed. Spencer’s on the chair in the corner, legs tucked beneath him, eyes closed in sleep as his head rests on his hand. The book is open on his lap and the room is too warm, too stuffy, too closed up.
Spencer blinks at her. “You okay, Penelope?”
“Fine. I’m fine. Just fine.”
“Ha.” He smiles triumphantly. “Put you to sleep, didn’t it?”
“Put you to sleep, baby genius.” She gets off the bed and shoves her shoes on her feet. “I need a Mountain Dew. You have any quarters?”
A Too Thin Line - Hotchner/Reid
There are very definite lines.
At the office or on the job, he doesn’t have to worry about them, because the job itself is a line - the darkest, most defined line in his life. His mind, the mental illness that looms just on the periphery is another line, his chalk outline, sprawled on asphalt somewhere. The rest of the lines are fainter, but no less there, the nodes and intersects what makes him who he is, what he can do, how he works.
Some lines, Spencer Reid does not cross. Some lines are carved deep into his psyche, some into his skin. Those are the lines he has to live by so he doesn’t lose himself. His life lines, he plans to say if he ever explains them to anyone, if he ever gets that far. Of course, if anyone gets that far, it will be far too late.
Hotch gets that far.
Hotch knows things that Gideon never did, the kind of things a father couldn’t or wouldn’t see. Hotch sees all those things in Spencer, like an electron microscope that can break him down into his component parts. He sees the way Spencer is the last to leave a meeting or stays late to finish reports. He notes the cant of Spencer’s body when everyone is busy looking the other way. Hotch sees and knows and never says anything, never does anything, and the waiting drives Spencer crazy.
Crazier.
“Do it.”
He’s not supposed to ask. Not supposed to speak. The problem is that the wait is more than he can take, the need is overwhelming. He’s been tied here for hours, and the ropes are burning his forearms, his ankles. He can feel the knots against the pulse points and he tries to arch his back against the restraint.
“Please.”
The crop bites into him, leaving hot red lines on his skin. He shudders and fights to be silent, but the gasp slips out. He bites his lower lip until he can feel the skin break, sucking his own blood to keep his focus, his control. He loses count of the strokes, each impact bleeding into the other.
He strains against the rope and feels his skin scream under the movement as he tries to curl in on himself. He turns his head in time to see Hotch bring his foot down, pressing his leather-soled shoe against Spencer’s neck to hold him down to the floor. He arches up in response and the tongue of the crop slaps at his upper thigh, the shaft of it striking across the back of his other leg.
“P-please.” He tastes blood and sweat and he’s staring up at Hotch with wide eyes.
“Please what?” His voice is low and rough and his grip around the crop’s handle is tight enough that his knuckles are white. Spencer wants to beg for more, but limits are lines too.
“S-sir.”
Hotch steps away and sprawls into a chair, breathing hard. His face is composed, his brow furrowed even as he undoes his slacks and works his dick out. Spencer can only watch, trembling as Hotch fists himself, stroking fast and hard so that all Spencer can see is the flushed, red head of it, the slick white of his pre-come.
Spencer licks his lips and strains at the ropes, hating his weakness, hating that Hotch knows his weakness. He ducks his head, face against his hands as Hotch comes, jerking off onto the floor. Spencer knows that they’re both thinking the same things, the things that make this impossible with anyone else - DNA, blood evidence, rope fibers, bruise patterns, lividity.
Hotch uses his foot to roll Spencer onto his back, leaving him trussed like a roped calf as he reaches down, latex glove on his hand as he grips Spencer, stroking him roughly until everything peaks in a shuddered rush and Spencer comes, jerking against the ropes and Hotch’s hand.
He stays like that for what feels like hours, pain etching new lines into his skin as every breath makes him feel the marks from the crop anew. Everything hurts and nothing aches, and then he feels Hotch’s touch, the soft press of his fingers as he unfastens the knots. The first one slipping loose is like the dam breaking, and Spencer lets out a rough, raw gasp, shock and sobs wracking his body. Hotch gathers Spencer against him and holds him, undoing the rest of the ropes one handed, while the other one keeps Spencer close. Pulls him back from the edge.
One more day on this side of the line.
Lullaby - Reid/Garcia
“You’re not going to convince me.”
“You said you’d try.”
Penelope heaves an exasperated sigh and sits down on the edge of the bed. She and Spencer have been giving strict orders to stay put and the room doesn’t have WiFi, so their options are limited. “Fine.”
“Okay.” He shifts in his chair, tucking his mis-matched stocking feet underneath him. There’s a book in his lap, some huge tome he’s been lugging around all day. “Get comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable.” She’s not. Her shoes are too tight and she spilled soy sauce on her shirt and this whole trip has been a disaster from the beginning and now Spencer wants to read to her. “You know I don’t process auditory information well.”
“You…”
“I know. I know. I said I’d give it a try.” She kicks off her shoes and moves up the bed, plumping some pillows for her back before settling on the comforter and leaning back. “Go on.”
He starts reading, his voice changing as he loses himself in the rhythm of the text. She wonders for a moment if it’s hard for him to read slowly, word by word by word, and then the words finally start to make sense in her head and she closes her eyes. “Oh.”
He doesn’t say anything in response, just keeps reading. His voice is low and almost hypnotic, the words weaving through the air. Her lips part and she presses her fingers lightly against her throat. They trail downward, grazing over her shirt, moving in slow circles over her breasts, her nipples. They’re hard and she squeezes lightly, another soft, ‘oh,’ escaping her lips.
Her head goes back and she shifts against the pillows, getting more comfortable. The story is mythic, like a fairy tale or a dream she can’t quite remember. Smoke drifts around her and she squeezes her breasts, feeling the heavy weight of them in her hands. Spencer’s voice never falters and she floats on the low thrum of it. Her stomach is tight and clenched, anticipating, and her hands smooth over her stomach. She turns her head to see if he’s watching, but he’s backlit by the light from the window, so all she can see is his shadow. It’s better that way, she thinks hazily.
She moves on the bed, biting her lip as she tugs her skirt up, fingers gathering it between her legs. Her panties are wet already and she presses against them, rubbing through the damp cotton. Reid doesn’t stop reading, never stops reading, and she works two fingers beneath the elastic. Her clit aches in the instant before she touches it and then there’s pressure and friction and she inhales, sultry hot air that smells like need and arousal. “Spencer.”
“Hmm?” He mutters softly, then keeps reading, like he can’t see, like he doesn’t know the way she’s writhing on the bed now, thrusting against her hand, pushing her fingers inside her. Her thumb moves over her clit and she breathes heavily, wanting and aching and she wants him to stop because the words don’t fill her up, there aren’t enough of them.
She gasps and jerks awake, sitting up rigidly in the bed. Spencer’s on the chair in the corner, legs tucked beneath him, eyes closed in sleep as his head rests on his hand. The book is open on his lap and the room is too warm, too stuffy, too closed up.
Spencer blinks at her. “You okay, Penelope?”
“Fine. I’m fine. Just fine.”
“Ha.” He smiles triumphantly. “Put you to sleep, didn’t it?”
“Put you to sleep, baby genius.” She gets off the bed and shoves her shoes on her feet. “I need a Mountain Dew. You have any quarters?”