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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 1 year

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Dual Correspondence, Chapter 01

Pairing: HotchReid

Summary: Sequel to Correspondence, picking up where we left off. Spencer has moved in with Aaron and Jack, and everything is perfect. Until it’s not. But then it is again. And up and down they go, on a rollercoaster filled with every twist and turn that life can throw at them. Navigating such obstacles isn’t easy, or fair, with difficult foes and situations that test everything they are and dream to be together. But the thing about trying to be with someone you love through it all, is that sooner or later you realize the hard times don’t have to be conquered alone.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)

Chapter CW/notes: So fluffy you could cry. List of resources at the end for mathematical web pages, thesis paper proposals, as well as links to letters and photos and sources mentioned at the end that I will not spoil. Subscript is littered throughout because of this (if the formatting works on tumblr and ao3). Mentions of drinking and playful teasing among friends, and (also near the end) mentions of historical prejudice against the queer community. You might cry, I did, but it’ll be happy tears (this time) I promise. Self beta’d, all mistakes and inconsistencies are my bad, thank you so much for supporting me and my writing. Enjoy <3

Word Count: 8082

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

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Chapter 01

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Late July 2012

—

Dual Correspondence

The dual space as defined above is defined for all vector spaces, and to avoid ambiguity may also be called the algebraic dual space.

When defined for a topological vector space, there is a subspace of the dual space, corresponding to continuous linear functionals, called the continuous dual space.

Dual vector spaces find application in many branches of mathematics that use vector spaces, such as in tensor analysis with finite-dimensional vector spaces. When applied to vector spaces of functions (which are typically infinite-dimensional), dual spaces are used to describe measures, distributions, and Hilbert spaces. Consequently, the dual space is an important concept in functional analysis. ⁰¹

“Yes, yes okay we get it, you’re a genius.”

Spencer is cut off mid-sentence by his table companions, and no matter how many times he’d held his own in the face of those who aren’t from his typical studious academic community – it still stops him dead in his tracks. The difference now, in comparison to the incidents in the past where this would happen at conferences and board of director’s meetings, is the company.

And the intention behind the tone.

“Certifiable genius,” Penelope adds to Emily’s drolling, playful jab. Toasting the young genius with her second (or possibly third) Tom Yum Siam. “Capable of extraordinary, far reaching mathematical equations us feeble minded mortals couldn’t possibly comprehend.”

“It’s not that far reaching,” Spencer murmurs, but the warmth of their gentle teasing soothes the cold shock of embarrassment that almost took over his every nerve ending. The group is crowded together at a terra-cotta table on the patio of the local Ma and Pop Thai restaurant Hotch always insists is the best one in the area. Spencer can now verify its 100% authenticity and wonderfully traditional cuisine. No new age fusions here. The late D.C. evening is hot and darkening as slowly as possible despite the hour, and Spencer does his best to keep up with the team in the way of companionable exchange, as he discreetly checks the door over his shoulder every few minutes. Normally he would have Jack with him for such an occasion, to give him a sense of grounding, but the boy was currently with JJ and Will’s boys having a sleepover under the ex-detective’s watchful eye. Leaving Spencer to fend for himself. Two months of living in the city and he still felt a flutter of nerves every time he saw the team all in person. Especially alone.

JJ knocks shoulders with him, jostling him back to life and out of his thoughts, shaking her head at his choice of dinner conversation. Like she hadn’t known him over half his life.

“Spence, I didn’t understand most of what you just said.”

“If you’d stayed awake during advanced calculus instead of speed cramming the night before, you might,” Spencer tells her in reprimand. After all, he’d been the one teaching her class when she was an undergrad all those years ago. He’d only had one doctorate back then instead of six. “Or copying off your neighbors.”

“Cindy Erikson copied off of me!”

“And you copied off of Steven Knight.” Spencer gives her another side-eyed look. “I was short, not blind.”

“I can not imagine you short,” Emily snickers.

“I didn’t hit my final growth spurt until I was sixteen.”

“And you were teaching – no, never mind, forget I asked.” Morgan shakes his head and calls the waitress over for another round as they await the last person to arrive. The emptiness of the seat to Spencer’s other side was colder than the balmy summer air surrounding them, and he tried not to check the door again. Or his phone.

“So… stray away from theoretical physics,” Spencer concluded, stirring his drink just to have something to do with his hands.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never been out to drinks with colleagues or your doctoral students,” Morgan admonishes.

“Of course I have,” Spencer scoffs. “I wasn’t a hermit.”

“Well, what were your discussion topics?”

“Theoretical physics.” Spencer says pointedly, tilting his head and narrowing his gaze in accusation. It just made the jovial man laugh at him again, good naturedly – Spencer may never get used to that. “And advanced math proposals. It was an academic social scene, so everyone always had their thesis and experiments on their minds.”

“Old habits are hard to break,” Morgan says in sympathy. But he nudges the young professor under the table with his foot and tries to shake him out of his stupor. “You can talk about whatever you want, pretty boy. It just might be hard to follow for some of us.”

“I followed it fine,” Penelope boasts, sipping the remains of her drink through a bright red curly straw. “I also went to UCLA, remember?”

“That’s right, two geniuses at the table,” Morgan grins, bowing in a flourishing fashion. “We should only consider ourselves so lucky.”

“And don't you forget it.”

“You talk like we’re all simpletons,” Emily says in mock offense. “We discuss psychology and psycho-pathology all day, and I’m currently up to my eyeballs in statistical reports at work and if I even see a string of numbers again tonight I will lose my shit.”

“Is that your way of saying you aren’t paying for your bill?” Morgan grins.

“Oh, you’re buying? How sweet of you, Derek Morgan!”

“No, no no – the one with the six figure royalties is Rossi. He’s buying dinner.”

“I offered no such thing,” Mr. Rossi says from the wrought iron fencing where he was smoking a cigar and nursing some kind of dark liquid in a rocks glass with a single ice cube the size of a baseball inside it. “And what makes you think it’s only six figures?”

“Oh, you’re definitely buying dinner.”

“Another round!” Penelope shouted to the poor waitress who giggled at their antics and murmured something under her breath she probably thought no one at the table would understand.

“And a round of water, please,” Spencer told her in Thai, with a correct Bangkok-esque dialect that had her blinking in surprise and smiling at him. “Thank you.”

Morgan gives him a teasing push to his shoulder that pairs well with his laugh. "What was that? You can talk with the waitress but not us? That didn't look like it was about theoretical physics." Spencer rolls his eyes in answer. "See, you can be personable."

“Well, I’m not the greatest with bourgeois small talk.”

“You and Hotch had two years worth of nothing but small talk.” Emily raises an eyebrow at him over her own drink and then a mischievous glint catches in the dark depths of her eyes. “What did you two even talk about all that time?”

“Our unruly subordinates, mostly,” Spencer smirks, ducking to the side to escape another mischievous reach of admonishment from Morgan.

“But no, really?” Emily encourages, and her question gives him pause.

“Everything,” Spencer says with a smile. Near wistful in his remembrance. He ducks his head to hide the expression from his audience of seasoned profilers. “Too much to list.”

“That’s saying something for you,” JJ teases him.

“Yeah.”

The memories take him then. Of late nights, an abandoned online chess game and thousands of lines of text on a screen that go on for hours and hours. Talking about everything, and nothing, and filled with joy and companionship in between. Of calls that would go on so long they would fall asleep and still be connected long after, ticking away the seconds into the morning. Of emails and video calls, longing glances and whispered promises, aching dreams of someday and soon until finally they were… here. In the same place, for the very first time; in the same time zone, the same state and town and then living in the same house. Sleeping in the same bed. Where the nothing-yet-everything talks continued in that intimately small space between them as they lay side by side; still longing glances, still whispered promises, but no more soon. No more someday. Only now. Tomorrow. In the morning. After work. On the weekend. Promises kept and fulfilled and built upon. New memories made outside the text box on a computer screen. Spoken into existence and echoing in their ears, reminders of the oceans of time and distance they both have crossed to be…

Here.

“Yeah,” Spencer sighs, again – unknowingly repeating himself, and the whole table reacts in a wave of fond eye rolling and quiet not-so-tipsy laughter.

“You two are gross,” Emily concludes.

“Sweet,” Penelope corrects her.

“Disgustingly sweet,” Emily insists, then gestures to the group at large.” – and Hotch isn’t even here!”

Spencer was only too aware of that fact, but before he could feel his wistfulness darken and drag his mood down to sit heavily in his chest, a deep voice spoke from behind him.

“Yes, I am.”

Warm arms encircle his chest and shoulders, the familiar presence so welcoming and sudden the mere touch burns hot, and when Spencer turns to make sure his vivid memory recall isn’t playing tricks on his senses – he’s met with a kiss, warm and firm and so solidly there it takes his breath away. Still sends his heart racing. Because Aaron is there, sliding into the seat next to him, dark eyes only on him when he speaks. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“Don’t worry, we entertained ourselves just fine,” Emily responds, earning a half-hearted glare from her boss.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Rude,” she scoffs, boldly. “We kept Spencer entertained, too!”

“I could hear you interrogating him from the parking lot,” Aaron scolds her, the two bantering more like siblings than superior and subordinate, making the rest of the team have to stifle their laughter. And Spencer –

Well, he’s grinning so wide it could split his face, but he ducks his head to hide it, entirely focused on how Aaron’s hand takes his under the table, fingers interlocked, resting on Spencer’s thigh and the heavy weight of it grounds him in a way he’s still so unused to. Could drown in the sensation. It leaves him lost for words; not because he can’t find them, but because too many are running through his head at blinding speed. Adjectives in dozens of languages, lines of poetry and prose from about six different centuries worth of literature, chemical compositions and psychological terms and definitions that barely scratch the surface of what he feels when Aaron’s hand is holding on to his so solidly. Yet so easily. As if the grip makes them extensions of themselves. The coexistence more natural than breathing, how he – they – are supposed to be. Connected, together, without making their independent persons disappear. Spencer feels more himself next to Aaron, and Aaron looks so… happy.

It still floors Spencer that he could do that for another person. Make them happy.

And just like that, the night dissolves into an harmonious gathering. Not just between Spencer and Aaron, but the rest of the team as well. It’s taken some time, but Spencer has slowly begun to understand what a large, interworking family is supposed to feel like. Chaotic and uplifting and wonderful. There’s an expectation not to fade into the background, to be present, and sometimes that is still hard for him to hold onto – but the fact this group of people wants to know what he has to say, that want to help or spend time with him instead of seeing him do everything on his own (just because he’s qualified to do so) is an experience wholly novel in its entirety.

Spencer spent the entire afternoon setting up his lab and classroom, knowing full-well that it would be difficult to get everything in order without a T.A. to assist him. The school year wouldn’t start for another few weeks, and he was still reviewing applications for his assistants. But he hadn’t had to do it alone. Jack was with him most of the morning, and around lunch Will and Henry had arrived to help. The boys would be with Will most of the night so Jess could work her late shift and the team could do this outing – a 'moral function’, Aaron had told him. A team-building dinner. Or that’s what would go in the expense report, at least. Yet Spencer sat here with them, still just a consultant according to the FBI staff files – but a part of the team, according to everyone else.

Somewhere he belongs that doesn’t hold any obligation other than to be there, holding Aaron’s hand, and what could be better than that?

“So, when is the Smithsonian Gala this weekend?” JJ asks him not long after the dinner plates are cleared and the group is happily finishing their drinks at leisurely paces. “I went last year with the State Department, it’s a massive event.”

“Tomorrow night,” Spencer says, with a little less enthusiasm. Professor Blake and the dean at Georgetown had been showing the great Dr. Spencer Reid at every available occasion they could. Earning him invites to parties and meetings and even a trip to the White House to meet the President and the Secretaries of a few departments pertaining to his various doctoral degrees. Department of Energy, Department of Commerce, Department of Education and some of the senior White House Leadership as well. Spencer is sure all of them would be at the Smithsonian Gala tomorrow, too, and he thanked his lucky stars for his eidetic memory or else he’d worry about remembering the names of everyone he had met over the past few months. “I’m just glad I’m not going alone,” he murmurs with a smile towards Aaron, who had moved to wrapping an arm around Spencer’s lower back and tugging him so close their thighs brushed and their chairs were pressed together.

“Oh! You got an invitation, too?” JJ asks in surprise. “I thought only the FBI directors were invited?”

“I’m Spencer’s plus one,” Aaron says with a smile.

“Arm candy for the evening. You’re moving up in the world, Aaron,” Mr. Rossi smirked, delighting in the rude hand gesture Aaron sent his way discreetly.

“I’m sure it’ll be a night to remember.” Penelope has a smile that is purely vivacious from clear across the table, even without her bright coral pink lipstick outlining it. If Spencer didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that Aaron had sent a small glare her way at her comment. But he doesn’t mention it as their checks arrive, and Rossi does indeed swipe the combined bill out of Emily’s waiting hand. The night falling back into more lively chatter and banter than Spencer knew what to do with. All while Aaron’s hand staying within his reach, to hold whenever he pleases.

—

It has been nearly three months since Spencer left CalTech and California behind; since he’d moved in with Aaron and Jack, since they had turned one of Morgan’s refurbishing projects into a home that is filled to the brim with what used to be their separate lives. Spencer’s books that could stock a library, Aaron’s law collection circa 1997, Spencer’s paintings bought from artists on campuses across the country, Aaron’s running shoes and Jack’s soccer equipment (including a child sized goal in their small fenced in backyard). Spencer’s desk taken from his mother’s home in Las Vegas, Aaron’s desk that he’d gotten at a garage sale in college (and looked like Spencer’s desk could eat it for breakfast). Spencer’s vests, Aaron’s ties, Spencer’s sweaters, Aaron’s college sweatshirts. Books on every available surface, next to tiny toy action figures and cars Jack always forgets to put away and Aaron’s budget reports lost beneath elementary school field trip forms and Spencer’s patent proposals. It’s cluttered, it’s filled to the brim, Spencer organizes whatever he can, Aaron vacuums nearly every day and is always doing dishes, Jack can never find a pair of matching shoes, and it’s…

Wonderful.

It feels like a home.

There’s nothing Aaron likes more when he walks through the door than Jack hugging him, Spencer being there to accept a kiss pressed against the kitchen counter. He relishes in rolling up his dress shirt sleeves to tackle the dishes in the sink, to take over making dinner so Spencer can help Jack with homework and remind him of all the school activities Aaron can never remember to put into his calendar.

He loves looking up and seeing Spencer there. Catching his eye, making him smile or flush from just a look. It’s been an adjustment, not having his phone in his hand nearly every minute of the day, and sometimes they forget to speak when they share space together. But it’s a comfortable silence, and with each passing week it’s taking less and less urging to get Spencer to speak his mind. To not hold back little facts and statistics from papers he’s read or whatever just crosses his mind as his thoughts constantly churn a million miles a minute. He is the smartest man Aaron has ever met; and – he’s not afraid to admit – he’s been doing a lot more reading and research, himself, just so he can keep up. So they can lobby back and forth during a conversation, as they always have, no matter the situation or circumstance.

Living together has changed them, continues to change them, for the better Aaron hopes – and he knows that he’s still starstruck by the younger man. Every time he sees Spencer, hugs him, laces their fingers together, it feels novel and new despite the muscle memory ingrained in them, now. Dave says they are still in their ‘honeymoon’ phase, which gets Aaron’s pulse up in ways that make his head spin – implications and plans he hasn’t put into motion yet – but the nerves still haven’t settled. The amazement and vibrancy hasn’t faded. Would it always be like this? Could his heart even take it?

“Do you need help with those?”

Aaron looks up from where he’d been attempting to get his cufflinks secured around his wrists. They were an older pair, passed down to him from his grandfather, and normally he’d have no issues whatsoever putting on a suit – even one such as this, a few degrees more sophisticated than his usual work attire. But his mind was still swimming with distractions that he really didn’t want Spencer to take notice of, so he swallowed his pride and gave his boyfriend a sheepish smile. “These are practically antiques, with my luck I’ll break them. Would you mind?” Spencer grins back, and he’s still only half-dressed as well, allowing Aaron to soak in the sight as he sidles up to the older man and takes the polished silver pieces in his hands. Aristocratic hands, long and thin and most comfortable flipping through pages faster than most could blink. He easily fastens the cufflinks and Aaron can’t help the mirth warming his chest and making him laugh low and soft. “You make it look so easy.”

“So I’ve been told,” Spencer murmurs, a similar mirth reflected in his tilted smile.

“My hands are too big, my fingers keep slipping.” He was rambling, but Spencer looking at him this close, his own dress shirt barely hanging on his shoulders, fingertips dancing along the pulse in Aaron’s wrist – the light-headed sensation making him giddy, teasing, warm and seeking as he leans in so close he could nudge Spencer’s nose with his own.

“I like your hands just the way they are,” Spencer murmurs back, nearly a whisper and oh –

Oh, they were going to be so late to this Gala.

Aaron can’t resist sliding his hands out of Spencer’s reach, slipping beneath that silk dress shirt to slide along his sides, around to his back, pulling him flush against him and kissing him. Heady and slow, the younger man melting against him in the best of ways, their bodies now well acquainted with where they fit together perfectly. Like matching puzzle pieces, dips and edges lining up until there isn’t a breath between them. Any protests Spencer tries to speak are swallowed up by Aaron, twin racing heartbeats and wandering hands that could so easily slip clothing off and reveal inch by inch of flushed skin and –

A harsh knock to the door has them freezing and breaking the kiss, if not the embrace, panting for air and remembering where they were. What they were supposed to be doing.

“Are you decent?!” Jessica shouts through the door.

“No!” Aaron answers back, just as loud, Spencer biting his lip and hiding his face in Aaron’s shoulder.

“Well your limo is here, so you better get decent. You’re going to be late!” Her footsteps retreat, but Aaron is sure he hears her grumbling something about ‘men’ and ‘like teenagers’ and ‘honestly’ but it fades away too quickly. Not to mention that small make out has Aaron’s tinnitus ringing a little too harshly in his bad ear to accuse her of such (justifiable) insults.

“That’s what I was trying to say,” Spencer scolds him, and Aaron shuts him up with another searing kiss. Because he can.

“It’s not our Gala, and we’re paying the limo driver. He can wait.”

“Aaron!” Spencer exclaims, but Aaron kisses him again. All-encompassing, so easy to fall into, but he doesn’t give in. He’s quite proud of his self-restraint, actually, as he begins to button up Spencer’s shirt for him. Helping him back into his clothes all while kissing him breathless, quite literally when he tucks the dress shirt into Spencer’s black slacks and lets his broad hands grope him quite shamelessly in the effort to smooth down the material along his thighs and backside. “You’re a menace,” Spencer manages, heady and lost on a breath, and Aaron can live with that title just fine.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admits, another brush of lips, and a smile that Aaron gets to taste and savor. He finishes by fastening Spencer’s tie for him… as well as his cufflinks. Those gorgeous honey eyes narrow in accusation, when it hits him. “You didn’t need help at all.” Not a question, an observation turned to pure fact.

Aaron just hums in non-commitment, straightening the last bits of Spencer’s suit for him. “Stunning.”

“Aaron…”

“You look gorgeous,” Aaron continues, a softer kiss to those already well-loved lips, oversensitive from his earlier ministrations. Flushed pink and full and how much Aaron wants to run his thumb along them…

“What are you planning?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” If Aaron wanted to sound unbothered and even-toned, that was a skill he had in spades and he was not afraid to use it on Spencer. Tonight of all nights. The young professor is as keenly observant as any of his team and had picked up far too many tricks from the profilers for his comfort. Aaron blamed Prentiss and Morgan, entirely. When the three were together for any stretch of time chaos usually ensued.

With a narrowed gaze, Spencer doesn’t even blink as he shrugs on his overcoat. “I’m watching you.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Aaron quips, Spencer pretending not to be amused was one of his favorite entertainments in their loving banter. “We’re late.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Aaron checks his watch, just to ruffle Spencer’s feathers. “Getting later.”

A groan from Spencer has the man spinning around and going down the stairs in a huff. Which gives Aaron just enough time to duck towards his dresser and pull out a small parcel he’s had hidden in the top drawer for weeks. It silently slips into his own overcoat pocket, where it will be less noticeable to the keen eyes of the man he loves.

But as much as he tries to not smile in the slightest, he knows that there is a good chance the mirth is still reflected in his eyes.

—

The Gala is overwhelming.

The crowd is massive, dressed in suits and gowns full of rich colors and delicate jewels, nearly every hand holding a glass of some kind, and conversations are scattered about in various strengths of sound and intensity. Everywhere he turns there is someone trying to get Spencer’s attention. Be it Dr. Blake attempting to get him to make more contacts, Dr. Erikson (the dean of Georgetown) who just loves to show him off to people of the highest prestige and authority, or numerous other persons he’s already met through events such as this. Which have been many, lately, and Spencer yearns for the day that he is no longer a novelty on the D.C. academic circuit. In fact, the only person who doesn’t demand his attention, but has faithfully never left his side, is Aaron.

And God, Spencer doesn’t know what he would have done without him.

Aaron has this effortless way of commanding a conversation, words precise and to the point without too much excess – part of his time as a lawyer, Spencer is sure. Even though he hadn’t personally been invited to the gala, he blends in with the crowd far better than Spencer ever dreamed, and is able to uphold a professional demeanor with every person they are introduced to. It wasn't until they could catch a breath near a refreshment table later in the evening that he finally caught the older man’s eyes, and Aaron gave him a smile that was just for him. Not the crisp, proficiently practiced ones he graces the party-goers with, but a small grin that is easy and fluid and looks like it doesn’t hurt to hold. Spencer wishes he could just spend the entire Gala wrapped up in Aaron Hotchner, but this isn’t actually an event meant for entertainment. As far as Dr. Erikson was concerned, and Dr. Blake to a degree, this was work.

And work beckoned to him once again, not a moment later.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid you lost me.”

Spencer sighs, and Aaron’s hand subtly pressing to his lower back is the only thing that keeps him from sagging into his chair. They had managed to find a white linen table that was relatively empty to rest and escape the crowds. Which lasted all of five minutes, and now even Aaron seemed to be looking around as if in search of an exit to make a quick escape.

“Is it too abstract for a project proposal?” Spencer asks, having just relayed his Dual Correspondence theory to a couple of the mathematics professors of American University, another local campus in NorthWest D.C. that he was acquainted with from his years at MIT.

“I didn’t think so.”

“What part of that was even leading to a question?”

“The part about how I use the dual correspondence. So what I want to do is prove that the critical behavior of the classical system corresponds to a relative stability of the corresponding CSS state to bit-flip and phase-flip noise–”⁰²

“Yeah, you lost me again.”

A puff of air turns his frown into a pout, and Spencer can feel the last dregs of his ability to socialize circling the drain. Under the table, he grabs tightly onto Aaron’s hand – which was indeed larger than his own, strong and broad and still so, so gentle when he squeezes back in reassurance.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Aaron tells the professors before another tangent can be launched in the conversation. He tugs Spencer to his feet and leads him through the crowd with purpose, as if seeing someone that they needed to catch. But there’s no one in the corridor that leads to a dark, roped off hallway out of bounds to the Gala attendees. Aaron pulls Spencer towards him as they hover by the red velvet ropes on shining brass stands, and suddenly they are face to face with the dull hum of the Gala to Spencer’s back. It’s the first time he feels he can take more than a shallow breath, and Aaron’s hands on his waist center him as he collects himself. He was overstimulated, half-crazed with the need for a place of quiet, and Aaron smiles softly at him and presses a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

“Want to get out of here?”

Spencer shakes his head, they can’t yet and he knows it. “Our limo won’t be back for another hour and forty three minutes. And I can’t just leave the party, I still have to at least make an appearance with the scientific consults for the interior and —”

“I think you’ve met your quota for the evening,” Aaron murmurs, and is so close he can rest his forehead against Spencer’s own. His low, rumbling tone a soothing balm to the high chitter chatter he’d endured the past couple hours. “And we don’t have to leave the building.” There’s something mischievous in the ever so subtle upturn of his mouth, miniscule and easily missed by anyone else around. But Spencer knows that microexpression, knows it backwards and forwards and – in a way – hungers for it. His heart, which had been starting to beat heavy and dripping in anxiety not moments ago, starts to thump in an entirely new tempo.

He knew Aaron was up to something, earlier, but this hadn’t been in his estimations.

Before he can ask what the older man meant, Aaron steps back just far enough to step over the velvet ropes, taking Spencer’s hands and helping him over without tripping over his shoes. (Which were not his usual converses, and Spencer curses the oxfords he wears as he almost stumbles headfirst into Aaron’s chest). But without a single whispered word, quiet as if he was in the field searching a house for a suspect, Aaron pulls Spencer down the dark hallway and around a corner before a security guard can see them heading towards the restricted areas. Instantly the hallway goes quiet without the Gala echoing behind them, and it feels so quiet and safe that Spencer forgets to speak until they are a couple hallways away from the event. Following turns and stairs as if… as if Aaron knows exactly where to go.

“Where are we going?” Spencer finally manages when they reach the landing of a darkened, marble staircase. If he’d had his wits more about him, he’d be teasing Aaron endlessly about breaking rules and regulations of the Smithsonian while every single one of his superiors was in the same building.

“A little bird told me about an exhibit that will open next month, and I thought we could catch a glimpse,” Aaron answers, dark eyes dancing even in the shadowed corridor. “Just for a minute.”

Spencer smiles, then, and it feels so light and easy on his face he flushes a little. “A little colorful bird that happens to answer to Penelope?”

“I’ll take the fifth on that,” Aaron says evenly. “And so does my source.”

The warmth spreading through his heart is near to bursting, knowing Aaron had planned a refuge for them during the Gala in advance. Knowing Spencer might need it, without pressing it on him if he ended up fine the whole evening. A consideration that not many would have taken. If it hadn’t been for those damn NASA executives and the White House Senior Staff that wanted to be his very best friend, Spencer might have indeed been fine that evening…

But it didn’t diminish the fact that Aaron had planned an escape for him, leading him by the hand and taking care of him without an imposition. It leaves Spencer giddy and his steps lighter as they venture further into the lower levels of the Smithsonian.

He had been invited to a number of events since moving in with Aaron and Jack at the end of May. The summer months had flown by faster than they ever had in all his life; filled with setting up their home, establishing his office, helping with consultations at the BAU and other agencies setting up interviews to begin doing the same. And the events. The lunch-ins, the dinners, the small house gatherings and large conference mixers and the Galas and Estates and Country Clubs of faculty lounges that made CalTech’s look like an elementary school cafeteria. New England was filled with prestige and history and old money that so easily got invested in education when the market was good. It showed in the stone masonry and marble statues, rich colored fabrics adoring furniture and carpets, historical pieces placed sporadically about that should really belong in a museum with a plaque describing their importance and not some senior vice president’s coffee table.

Some events or meetings were with people in places that even Aaron has never been invited to before, and that surprises Spencer – knowing how long he’s worked for the justice system in the city. First for the District Attorney’s office, then with the FBI. He’d climbed the ladder not through social events, but through hard work, and Spencer hoped he would be able to do the same.

But despite all the time he’d had to invest in getting set up in D.C., Spencer is happy to say that he’d still had time for the things he’d been wishing for over the past few years.

Aaron and Spencer got their dates at the Moon Gate Garden, the Folger Shakespeare library, Aaron’s little Thai restaurant on the Southside of the city that they now frequented so often Spencer had begun a rapport with the owners. His Thai was improving every time they visited, and he loved to chat with the old woman running the seating area in her native tongue. She, in turn, loved to tease him about Aaron being ‘quite a catch’, always paired with a congratulatory wink. He hadn’t disclosed that information to Aaron yet.

Even the BAU’s cases have been good, for now. The team only had to be out of town once in July, and none at all in June. It was a relatively quiet summer full of research and interviews instead of break-neck cases, and both Spencer and Aaron were well aware that wouldn't last forever. So they soaked up every minute as much as they could. And it’s this thought that keeps Spencer’s head out of the cloud of memory and back into the present.

He observes the route they take, looking around as they reach some of the laboratories where the exhibits are planned and laid out in whatever fashion the cases will be designed. They slip into a room, and Spencer only has a moment to wonder why in the world the labs are unlocked, before the darkness and what lies within distract him fully. He can’t see what is in front of him, but his keenly perceptive eyes can see glints of light from the open door. Slight differentials in depth perception, as if the room is filled with glass at varying distances.

Spencer doesn’t get to even open his mouth to ask where they are before Aaron is flipping the lights on, and his hypothesis is proven correct.

The room is filled with vertical panes of glass. So unlike the typical display cases that one is used to in the museums, these are suspended walls of clear plexiglass. They are built in a way that creates a maze-like structure, which can be found in many museum exhibits that wish to lead the viewers along a linear path. Such as wartime exhibits or historical movements, mostly featured in time periods where the passing of each year is of the utmost importance. But this is a new way of displaying the pieces that Spencer hadn’t seen before, because all the pieces are in a collage. Each is small, square or rectangular, yellowed with age and covered in various cursive scrawls. It is an extraordinary visual effect, so simple yet so elegant, how it takes a moment to realize that pressed between the panes of glass – at just the right height of someone’s gaze – are letters. Postcards. Photographs. Memories with faded postmarks that scatter along the wall in an overwhelming display of correspondence.

A floating epistolary.

“What is this?” he finally asks, moving along the wall and taking in every name, every photo, and the theme awakens within the pieces as Aaron comes up behind him. Arms around his waist, a kiss to the back of his neck, low rumbled words Spencer can feel through his suit jacket as Aaron presses in close.

“They are love letters,” he murmurs.

But they aren’t just that.

They are love letters from men to other men, women to other women, of people undetermined to their loves who could not otherwise profess such profound feelings in a public space. Some of these letters, from these particular time periods and areas ravaged by war and society alike, were dangerous to even put in the post. But here they are, decades and even centuries later, safely preserved and beautifully displayed so that their love story – hidden when it lived – can be read now, recognized for what it was.

Spencer is awestruck. His eyes move faster than most can blink, taking in every line of cursive prose and every beautiful smile in the faded vintage photos, moving slowly along, with Aaron never breaking contact – holding his hand, his waist, not saying a word as Spencer just… takes it all in. He reads so many beautiful, heartbreaking stories so fast he doesn’t even realize he’s tearing up until Aaron is holding him. Gently rocking him in place.

Because more than that, he finds himself in those pages. He finds himself and Aaron, not just because of what they are, but because of the journey they had been through over the past two years – waiting so long to be within reach.

He licks his lips slowly, ignores how they threaten to tremble, and begins to read aloud.

“Wednesday January 24th, 1939.

My darling,

... I lie awake all night waiting for the postman in the early morning, and then when he does not bring anything from you I just exist, a mass of nerves...

All my love forever,

G.” ⁰³

Aaron holds him tighter, and Spencer reads another. And another. And the words of people who may have held each other just like this continue to fill Spencer’s mind, and the most astounding part is they are all stories he’s never heard before. These weren’t famous people, authors or poets such as Emily Dickinson or Oscar Wilde, Virginia Wolfe and Gertrude Stein. Which he had read extensively in his youth. These were lovers of the everyday kind, living their lives and finding love in the quiet places in between. However, embossed at the highest part of the glass panes, in curving opaque script, was a translation of Sappho that thrummed through his heart. Spencer had read the original text before, still knew every word, but it hit hard to read the fragment here:

"someone will remember us, I say, even in another time"

The exhibit is beyond anything Aaron could have expected, and its enormity really leaves an impact. A whole wall of floating letters, pictures, postcards and lives lived despite every pressing circumstance surrounding them. There was longing, and a level of patient impatience that Aaron wouldn’t have been able to grasp. He’d lasted two years, somehow, despite all odds – but he was still able to speak to Spencer every day they waited. Every moment. But to have to send a letter and then wait, for weeks or months, to hear from the man he loves? What an incredible feat, and he pulls Spencer back against him tighter at the mere thought.

He’d had a speech prepared.

Not really a speech, he’d written and scrapped quite a few in his office usually after the team left for the day, but he’d thought about what he would say here, for a very long time. The past few months, in particular, it had been settling over his every thought. Every time he looked over and saw Spencer there beside him, it made itself known. Reminded him of what he had to do, how he would go about it. What he would say. But all of it seemed inadequate, now, with the thousands of lines of beautiful prose hanging before them. So much love, expanded across time.

Who knew so much love could fit between the lines of mere words?

…Aaron did. He and Spencer did. He’d fallen in love before he’d ever seen Spencer’s face. Spencer had admitted to him, in the quiet of their bedroom in their house one night a few weeks ago, that he’d known he was in love long before even that. They had done that through words. Through open minds and open hearts and late night talks and the ability to instantaneously be there for each other across thousands of miles. Technology may have given them the ability, but the work – the words – were all theirs.

“I had so much I wanted to say,” Aaron murmurs, turning his head and gently nosing at the unruly curls that couldn’t be tamed even for a Gala. An auburn color that catches the light, smelling softly of sandalwood, old books, and a warmth that was so distinctive to Spencer he had to just breathe it in. Spencer turns to him in his arms, their noses brush, his next words are close enough Spencer must feel them against his cheek. “I had a plan, a speech –”

“Aaron–”

“No, let me get this out,” he insists, and breaks away only to take Spencer by the hands and turn him so they face each other. But as soon as he does, all he can see is the way the dim lights reflect in the younger man’s eyes. Honey brown full of goldens and hazels and Aaron knows he can drown in those eyes, in that gaze that watches him like he holds everything worthwhile in the world in his hands. Adoration, and a fearful kind of hope that starts to reverberate into Aaron’s own racing heart. The words fail him, again, and he has to take a deep breath to try and say anything at all –

Then Spencer smiles at him, small and beautiful, and it forces something akin to a laugh from Aaron’s too tight lungs. “Everything I thought I would say doesn’t seem enough, now.” His thumb rubs along the ridges of Spencer’s knuckles, cradling them with all the emotion that wants to burst out of him. “This, the exhibit, turned out more perfect than I planned.”

“Congratulations,” Spencer says with a small smirk.

“Shush, I’m not done,” he scolds, but the intention was well rewarded. The laugh, the smile, settled his nerves enough that Aaron could school his own expression and look into Spencer’s face, into his eyes, without losing himself in the moment. “We know what it’s like to wait endless days to be together, to send messages and speak words that we hope were enough to last us until that day came. Until days like this, where I’ve discovered that… you were the best thing I’ve ever waited for.”

He hadn’t actually meant to make the younger man this emotional this soon, but Spencer’s eyes – which Aaron couldn’t look away from for anything – were starting to gain a wet sheen that threatened to spill past his long lashes.

“I fell in love with you, all of you, before we ever had a chance to hold hands. You were the reason I started to smile again, after everything. The physical distance between us didn’t matter, because we were able to be together in ways… I didn’t know were possible. I was still with you, even through words on a screen, and you were always there for me. My favorite notification, to this day,” Aaron adds lightly, and then leans forward, a gentle kiss to Spencer’s nose that makes him blink and smile – keeping him distracted long enough for Aaron to detangle their hands.

To reach into his pocket, and pull out a small, velvet box.

To lower himself to one knee, and look up into Spencer’s shocked face.

He’d done this once before, as a teenager a lifetime ago, and he was no less nervous this time than the first time. His voice is the only sound in the room as Spencer basically stops breathing, watching Aaron with the widest gaze.

“I want us to keep going,” he murmurs. “I want us to see what else we can build together, what we can be. We did something I never thought possible, and I know we can do even more now that we’re here. Together. I want to live the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me.” Aaron swallows hard, and Spencer lets out a small sound like he wanted to answer right away and it was taking everything in him to let Aaron finish.

But Aaron knows he and Spencer are both tired of waiting another day for anything that keeps them from living their life how they always dreamed.

So he opens the box, a golden ring inside, and says as clearly as his voice will allow, “Dr. Spencer Reid, will you marry me?”

Spencer lets out the breath that he’d been holding onto with all his might. It sounds wet and high and filled with relief – his eyes burn and his heart hurts it’s beating so hard. He wants to shout his answer until it echoes around the room, but his throat feels clamped shut and his tongue won’t cooperate and all he can do is nod enthusiastically. Until that grand, dazzling smile spreads wide across Aaron’s handsome face, and like a damn breaking Spencer can finally speak.

“Yes,” he says, rushed and suddenly it all comes pouring out of him. “Yes of course I will and of course I will have you and I want to spend the rest of your life and my life and –” Aaron is on his feet in the midst of his rambling, hands on either side of Spencer’s cheeks that he didn’t even realize were wet with tears, pulling him in and kissing him breathless. Ceasing the endless stream of useless words that Spencer could barely articulate in the first place. He throws his arms around Aaron’s neck, melts into the kiss, and feels so warm and full and buoyant with every single nerve ending crackling with adrenaline and joy. “I love you,” he says between kisses, and repeats it again and again. “I love you so much.”

“And I love you,” Aaron answers, his words a deep sound that Spencer can feel in his own chest, in his aching ribs that somehow still hold in his racing heart. “With everything I am.”

“Stop talking, I can’t take any more,” Spencer whispers and sweeps in for another kiss. A longer kiss, one that’s searing with a passion that breathes promises of the future. That has them falling into each other, right there literally to the floor of the Smithsonian labs, where they forget all about the Gala or where they are or they aren’t alone in that museum at all.

And they couldn’t care in the slightest.

After all, who would dare to interrupt them here. Surrounded by so much love.

With so much more to come.

—

Resources for the Dual Correspondence

Sub01 - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dual_space

Sub02 - https://arxiv.org/abs/1710.01902

News article links to LGBTQA+ photos and letters that have been celebrated for the true love they express, and remind us of those that loved in silence for centuries.

https://www.boredpanda.com/lgbtq-gay-people-vintage-photos/?utm_source=pinterest&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=organic

Sub03 https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-38932955

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/search/pins/?rs=ac&len=2&q=vintage%20gay%20couples&eq=vintage%20gay&etslf=5948

Sappho fragment 147; from If not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, translation by Anne Carson (2003). Original script published in Ancient Greek, January 1st, 551 A.D.

The Smithsonian Exhibit is entirely of my own imagining, and does not actually exist in any way, shape or form. But God I wish it did.

—

tbc…

—

Next Chapter➡ (coming May 01, 2023)

—

Tagged list so far: @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake @derekluvbot @transpenelope @thaddeusly @whyareusernamessohardtomakeup @stilin-ski

(If you wish to be added or removed from the taglist just reach out via ask, comment, reblog tag, or DM!)

#it is hereeeee #and it was a close one ngl #i caught a cold yesterday but my excitement pushed me through #it might not be perfect but I hope it does the first story justice #thank you everyone who has been so excited to see Spencer and Aaron's journey continue #and thank you for reading #Dual Correspondence #hotchreid #Heid #katyswriting

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sky-is-the-limit · 6 months

Text

'I make guarantees.'

Phillip Graves x F!Reader

Summary: As a member of the TF141, it comes naturally to be aggravated by Phillip Graves. Pair that with every fiber of your body, mind and soul desiring him, and you have a ticking bomb ready to explode. Basically, porn without plot.

CW: Angry sex, jealousy, possessiveness, degradation, violent/explicit language, mention of blood (minor), unprotected sex.

WC: 4,712 words (oops)

Notes: I'm not a writer!

Phillip Graves was no ordinary man. He was the sort to blaze through your soul like a wildfire, allow you to feel the kind of passion and intensity you only find between the lines of a fantasy tale and then leave ashes behind, forever engraved in your skin.

As if sensing his gaze, you turned to look at Phillip. You only spared him a passing glance though, smirking just before turning back to laugh at a joke Johnny told, too crest for the other man's tastes.

This was the second mission where you had to collaborate with the Shadow Company for a more effective outcome, meaning you had to be in his overwhelming presence once more. Someone outside watching in would think that you hated each other, whenever you'd interact. You always tested his limits, toed every line that you could cross with every action, with every takedown.

Perhaps you did, deep inside. Hated him for igniting feelings in you so intense that would only resonate to you either banging your head against a wall or let him fuck you against one.

Phillip showed his interest straight away, from the very first interaction the two of you had during your first mission, his arrogance and cockiness oozing out of him as though he had no ordinary blood running through his veins. Pair that with the way he was talking to Johnny, the closest squad member to you, you had to turn down his advances, which unsurprisingly, hurt his fragile ego and ever since, all remarks exchanged between the two of you were like bullets destined to kill.

Once more, you found yourself in the common area of your temporary base, left alone to face him. Your leisure time of listening to Soap's silly dad jokes and good conversation over coffee was cut short when Phillip walked in.

Johnny did not have the patience to ignore him and his snarky comments that he had to physically get away from him, and you did not blame him one bit. Was it your pride or something else forbidding you from exiting right after?

''It's pathetic really.'' His posture was starker than usual, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips tight as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Though you had your back turned on him, you could feel his gaze devouring you whole.

The abruptness startled you, but keeping your composure, you set your coffee down on the table and turned to look at him.

''Your entire existence? I know.'' The words came out in a furious rush and you felt a bead of sweat drip down your back under your black shirt. It was a nasty habit, at that point. You couldn't even finish one argument without starting another and the one brewing was the second one that day.

''How you flirt with him to get my attention, Y/N.'' Phillip's voice was low and irritated, and it set your emotions ablaze, a roaring inferno within your mind.

“Of course, because it's always about you. I definitely talk to my squad member specifically to get your attention, silly me.'' The minute he walked in, you prepared yourself for this. It would be abnormal for an interaction between the two of you to not turn into an argument.

''He's so boringly predictable that I caught you looking at me at least 50 times. Go on though, I do enjoy the show.'' Arrogance was dripping off his tongue like second nature, along with that all familiar smirk that made your insides hurt.

''Don't you ever get tired of hearing your own voice, Graves? Or do you get off of ticking every box in the 'how to be a perfect narcissist' list?'' You shrieked, hating the way your voice came out your throat but the way in which he threw his shoulders back and laughed in a cruel tone made you see red.

Suddenly he was much closer, leering down at you. It wasn't clear to know who moved first, or who would next.

''Me? A narcissist? You're the one who wants every man's attention on you.'' He growled lowly and stood to full height, his demeanor making you swallow thickly as he loomed closer and stared you down. Out of habit you straightened your spine, lips curling back into a scowl.

''Shut your fucking mouth, Graves-" The blood running through your veins was pumping hot, you wanted to pour it out and paint everything around you red, so it matched the fury riding you with every word he threw in your way. Phillip's response didn’t ease you any.

''Is that what you did to earn your spot hm? Fuck your way to the top?'' His tone dripped with scorn as he responded to you, his words carrying an edge sharper than a sword.

''Say that again, Graves. I fucking dare you.'' Spitting the words with teeth bared, and fists clenched as you circled each other, you poked at his chest firmly, the muscles twitching beneath your fingertips.

Your gaze met his with stubborn defiance, nearly ready to just explode and punch him. Maybe that would make you feel better, knocking some sense into his enormous ego.

There was nothing you despised more than another man undermining your career and progress, belittling you as if you were not greater than all of them combined when holding a sniper riffle in your hands.

What made it worse, was that you knew Graves was doing that to get a reaction out of you, to push your buttons without meaning a single word pouring out of his mouth. It was a facade, you knew that. The first thing he ever said to you, was to compliment your skills, which made his intention even more infuriating.

''You could try that with the Shadow Company next, I promise to give you a higher rank if you use that mouth-'' It was as though your hand had a brain of it's own, moving automatically with force to meet with his cheek and the corner of his mouth, leaving the tender skin red to the touch and the corner of his bottom lip reddening with drops of blood.

''Is that all you got?'' He mocked, his voice gravelly as his fingers wrapped around your wrist tightly, preventing you from moving an inch. Your anger dissipated in the favor of fear the very second you saw his expression.

You were volatile and explosive, but that's how you craved it, and even then, your desire to be fucked by him had trumped all your wrath, in fact, your rage had just heightened it. It was pure madness and the was no rational explanation to it nor that you cared to find one.

Glowering, hands itching to hit him once more, you turned on your heel, aiming for the door and intending to get black-out drunk with Simon as you assumed that he was downing his fifth beer by then, when he grabbed you by the back of your neck and hauled you against him.

You struggled, clawing and scratching his arms as they banded around you and held you trapped. He was chuckling in your ear, you could feel how turned on he was, and your inner voice was crooning that you got just what you wanted, but you ignored it. You wanted to fight yet your body had something entirely different in mind while a flow of slick started to soak up your panties as Graves pressed his manhood into you.

''You fucking-'' The thoughts running wild through your mind interrupted your own words, the ebb and flow of your gazes intensifying by the second though it felt like an eternity of his blue eyes piercing through your soul like he could sense every filthy fantasy hiding behind them. You didn't dare to move and in the end, you didn't have to.

You were both breathing heavily, tension wrought to the extreme as you were staring at each other, not really fathoming how you ended up like this. It was pure excitement, trepidation, like you were desperately waiting for something to happen.

This was the culmination of whatever instinctive, subconscious game the two of you had been playing from the very first mission you'd embarked on collaborating with him, a game of push and push between the two of you until the breaking point.

Graves pushed forward, his lips brutally meeting your own. He bit down on them, hard and cruel, loving the cry you whimpered out as he savored you whole. His hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it, tugging the hair there to tilt your head to his.

The agony was a pleasure as you reciprocated his intoxicating kiss, angry and violent as you teared at his lips. Your sharp teeth aggravated the wound on his lip, and you tasted blood on your tongue.

''Fucking brat-'' He instantly pulled back, his fingers grasping your jaw to keep you in place.

You shivered at his words, a new heat blooming over every surface of your body. Your cheeks tingled and you squirmed in his grip, squeezing your thighs together as you calculated your next move carefully.

"You're such a bastard!" You quirked your head as you breathlessly yelped, almost fearlessly before sliding your arms free of his hold and threaded them into his hair before pulling him in to capture another kiss, hotter and even more passionate than the last.

Phillip responded in an instant, letting his tongue slide against yours, hungrily whilst he tangled his free hand in your hair, gripping painfully, deepening the kiss, like it could be the last thing he ever does.

Your body seemed to burst into a flame of mingled rage and lust, and you knew he felt the same from the desperate, almost angry growl he made the sensation overwhelmed you both.

Sinking your nails into his scalp, you pressed your hips hard against his erection, feeling him gasp into your mouth before lifting his head to take another look at you, his fingertips never leaving your jaw.

Phillip licked his lips unconsciously as he stared down at you, but before you could say anything, he had brought his face once more closer to yours, his eyes half-lidded and full of desire.

''And you're a fucking slut.'' Once more your hand was lifted in the air, intending to slap him for a second time, but he caught it as it swung for his face and took hold of your other before you could attempt it again. With one swift move, he maneuvered your body around and pinned both of your wrists in a firm grip behind your back before your brain could catch up to what was happening.

Head shaking, arms straining as you tried to break out of his hold, huffing and giving in when he only held onto you tighter, walking both of you closer to the wall, pressing your front hard against it. Panting, furious, your heartbeat thundered somewhere in your throat. The Commander's form was a solid taut weight caging you in, imposing, all muscle, a hard line of his desire against your lower back.

''Someone needs to fuck that attitude out of you, Y/N.'' The words made your toes curl and your hips arch, betraying how desperate you looked, splayed out on his command center for his pleasure. The side of his face was so close to yours that you could feel him breathing down on you, his lips at the shell of your ear.

The other hand that wasn’t currently wrapped around your wrists moved to hold your jaw, squeezing tightly to the point of discomfort.

Briskly, he released your arms, spinning around to pounce on the man before you and quickly pressed your back against the wall once more so you can be chest to chest.

''And that's gonna be you, Graves?'' You met his fire with your own, staring unflinchingly into the heated pools of stormy sea. The question was as close to begging as your pride would allow.

''No one else can. No one else can fuck you the way you deserve but me, soldier.'' He stated, face lowering to yours and his tone low and menacing, the promise of retribution sent shivers down your spine.

The grotesque snarl of words should have made you put him in his place, despise of the outcome. Any other day you would have, but instead, your body had different plans.

''Is that a threat, Commander?'' You croaked out, a smirk settling on your face. How you managed to still be coy in a situation where you knew you had no power was insane and the look on his face confirmed it as his fingers around your jaw grew tighter and you winced in pain.

''Oh, I don't make threats, Sergeant. I make guarantees.'' There was that deep chuckle again. The one that vibrated up his throat until it bubbled out to bless your ears and slither goosebumps down your spine.

Darkly, he challenged your moral compass that was screaming for you to get away from his intoxicating presence. The smirk formed on his lips was wicked, provocative. The prey was finally caught.

''Let's see how far your arrogance can take you then, Commander.'' With a hint of sarcasm, you challenged him back, deliberately imbuing his title with a sensual cadence. His skin was flushing to you calling him by his rank, a blotchy red slowly encroaching from his throat to his cheeks. It was an interesting kind of power to have over someone.

For a few seconds he just stared you down, eyes adapting the darkest shade of blue. The sensation simmering down in your abdomen was quickening the pace of your heartbeat trying to burst out of your ribcage in a mingle of fear and arousal. It was taking over every single nerve in your body and there was no way of stopping it, not that you desired to.

With a quick use of his brute strength he hoisted you up, having you scrambled to wrap your legs around his waist while his hands moved to your ass to hold you up.

''You won't even comment on the fact that someone could walk in right now and see you in such a mess, Y/N?'' Phillip murmured gravelly, his lips biting the soft skin of your throat intending to break the skin as he was backing you closer to the table behind you, quickly hoisting you to sit on it. He settled between your legs, hands gripping just above your knees.

''God, you must be so fucking desperate for it, huh?'' He was right, of course. The possibility of someone walking in was more than enough to let shame start creeping in your system and yet all it took was one look at his face. The way the moonlight was shining through the window to define his cheekbones even more, experience visible through the wrinkles decorating the corners of his eyes as they stared into your soul.

''You're taking your sweet time with this, Graves. I'm starting to think that you're all bark and no bite.'' You can’t help the smug smile that spread across your lips as you saw the flare of anger flash in his eyes, finding the way he was so quick to be irritated, quite fascinating.

That little defiant glint still sat in your eyes, and he was absolutely determined to remind you who was in charge by the end of the night.

"Oh, I'll show you how I bite.'' He growled, thrusting his clothed erection against your center, a loud whimper escaping your lips to the friction.

Gasping, you felt his lips leaving a wet trail down the length of your jaw before he settled in the hollow beneath your ear, an erogenous zone he’d discovered, devoting his attentions there. All your body could do in response was cling to him, mewls and sighs falling haphazardly from your lips.

“I dream about your cunt,” He stated, lifting his head up, smoldering eyes locked on yours as your elbows struggled to keep your balance against the wooden surface.

"How it feels. How it looks. How it tastes. I dream of fucking ruining you till you can't move to save your life." Every filthy word out of his mouth was a direct attack to your throbbing core as he maneuvered your hips upwards to yank the fabric of your jeans down to your ankles, legs exposed to the cool air of the stone room. Your gaze followed his, eyes glued hungrily on the obvious wet spots in your panties.

''Fuck- Do it then.'' Clearly, you weren't thinking when your mouth formed the words, "Fucking do it, already-" But it was spoken harshly between the ragged breaths of your desire, and it was all the invitation he needed.

"You're not the one who gets to make commands here," He growled, taking a sinful pride in the drawn out whimper that he had dug out from you.

''Pathetic.'' And so he lifted one of those large hands to your face and pressed his thumb into your mouth, the pad of it resting on your bottom row of teeth as he dragged your jaw down, forcing your mouth wide open.

Trembling with a sudden onslaught of unexpected arousal at having someone else's fingers between your lips, feeling the flutter in your soaked cunt again only this time it was more intense, fiercely with your legs shaking to the sensation.

Your hands moved on their own as Graves' thumbs pressed deeper into your mouth, gliding and pressing at your tongue as you slid them down the length of his body, feeling every defined muscle underneath his blue shirt, going lower and lower, until you were curving one palm around the shape of the Commander's cock confined within his dark shaded jeans.

Impatience took over you, lifting the hem of your shirt, hastily tugging the fabric up and throwing it to the side and before you could touch him again, his hands were at your sides, sliding over the mounds of your breasts and then there was another tug and a louder ripping sound as he teared your bra at the front.

His own pupils, now blown with a heated desire, locked into your glazed expression. Having his fingers toy with your mouth earlier had already caused a small string of saliva to run down your chin and he couldn't help the smirk starting to flicker onto his lips. He had barely started to touch you and you already looked all sorts of fucked up.

Your outrage couldn't even register before his warm mouth was on your skin, sucking at your nipples, pinching and biting and rubbing the soothing pad of his thumb over each one after any rough treatment. The chill of the night air was an electrifying contrast to the warmth of his mouth and hands as you were openly moaning and writhing to the way he massaged and teased every inch of nakedness before him.

''Me or you?'' You hum innocently to his previous remark as you pressed your palm against him, stroking the long line of heat firmly, and he hissed as his hips bucked forward just as desperately, his hands suddenly coming up to catch both of your wrists, bringing them down to your sides, the grip just tight enough to sting.

Indignation flashed in those midnight blue eyes. There was something off from his normal heated gaze. This look he was giving you was more than just argumentative, more than just fired up. It was absolutely primal. The heat had shifted. While usually he was more reminiscent of a volcano during an eruption, now he seemed to be the moments before, it was a slow heat. Dangerous.

"I'm not in the mood for games.'' Graves breathed heavily, bending over you to nip at your lips before hearing the sound of his belt touching the ground to finish what you started, freeing himself.

You couldn't tear off your eyes from the obscene sight in front of you as he took himself in one hand while the other came to rest high on your thigh, his thumb brushing against your core, tantalizingly close. He stroked himself once, twice, pressing himself against you and pausing for a moment, just long enough for you to grow restless.

He sighed, the sound more like a growl than anything, steam escaping from his nose.

''I should've done this a long time ago.'' He ripped your legs apart, tugging onto your dripping underwear until it was on the ground, grunting as your slick coated his fingers before he rubbed his cock against your entrance. Every part of your body tightened, a bare spark of pleasure almost exciting you when his cockhead scraped your clit.

You couldn't believe that someone you absolutely despised was giving you some of the best pleasure you'd ever felt. Wanton moans fell from your lips as he jackhammered your cunt. His hand tangled in your hair and yanked your head back.

''You like that hm? You like being treated as a little slut?'' His voice was raspy and full of lust before he pushed forward, drawing all air from your lungs with a loud yelp as he buried himself deep inside you.

''Commander-'' Despite your efforts, the call was loud, urgent. He didn’t start slowly. He was rough, punishing, desperate, taking you with everything he had, as though he was claiming you right where anyone could walk in to see it.

Phillip sped up his pace exponentially, sweat breaking out across his forehead. ''Answer me-'' You became a boneless mess under the power of his ruthless thrusting, slamming into you with such force that you were sure there would be bruises where his hip bones met yours tomorrow.

''Fuck- Yes, damn you!'' You mewled loudly, then covered your mouth with one hand, fearful of passersby. He pulled your hand away, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up into his eyes as he took you against the shaking table.

''I can tell by the look on your face." He said gruffly. ''You can’t get enough of me can you?'' You placed your forehead on his shoulder, embarrassed to look at him.

''Look at me, Y/N.'' He said in response to this. You slowly looked back at him. ''Good girl.'' He muttered, grabbing your hips and pounding into you.

His hips bucked slowly, riding his twitching length inside your warm folds as he withheld his own noises. ''Beg for it, go on." He gave a firm, sharp smack to your ass, gripping on it tightly whilst using the sound to hide the low groan he released.

He didn't want to hold back any longer, but he refused to let you have your way, especially when you were already so close to come undone under his touch. Your dripping cunt was leaking onto him with every deliberate thrust, letting him glide in and out with ease.

He hunched back over you , pressing his chest down onto you as much as he could without breaking his hold on your arms. "Fucking beg-" He gave a feral groan before sliding out of you without the intention of going back in. A strangled whine escaped you, once again, jerking your hips back against him, trying to provoke him, to get him inside, get him to continue, anything. He refused to relent.

"Whimpering doesn't count, doll." He whispered against your ear. His tone is hard, unyielding. Prick.

His stubbornness was torturous for the both of you. It was a battle to see who could break their composure first and he was about to go fucking berserk. Eventually, you lost it. It wasn't until he had pulled back and dragged his tip to the entrance of your sopping cunt once more that he finally heard you gasping a loud breath as he slowly prodded against the heat.

"Please- Fuck, just- please!'' Your desperate response seemed to please him enough, the sudden build-up of pressure and heat in your body was allowed to be released as his length was quick to plunge into your body, sending the entire table to lurch backwards slightly.

The sounds coming out of your mouth were obscene, not really caring that the two of you were doing such a private thing in a place that anyone could walk into at any moment.

He was not gentle, or tender but you hadn’t expected Phillip fucking Graves to be that. His thrusts came fast and hard as he took his pleasure cause that was what he thrived in. Take and take and take, though you gave gladly, growling out praise in ragged whispers that you couldn't barely grasp.

You grabbed tightly onto his shoulders, screaming out in delight as he fucked you into you in a brutal. You felt your legs tingle and your mind go numb. All you could focus on was the warm feeling in your stomach, the bundle of nerves within you going crazy.

The hot tears continued to pour down your cheeks with each merciless thrust ripping through your body as your teeth pierced the soft skin of your lip, the taste of iron touching your taste buds whilst the wet slaps of his body against yours filled the room, accompanying the pain shooting through your core.

''Crying? Is this too much for you, baby?'' There was sarcastic, mock-disappointment in his tone, the repetitive press into you and the wonderfully satisfying stretch of his cock only deepening the catharsis of the intimacy you were sharing with him.

He grabbed your hips and started pounding you with newfound vigor. You could feel yourself clenching around him. It wouldn't be long before you peaked. You dipped a hand between your legs and started rubbing your clit, willing the moment to come faster. You closed your eyes and sighed, both in pleasure and exasperation.

''Too good- Commander-'' This time, you needed no further prompting and there wasn’t a single hint of brattiness in your tone as you submitted to his request fully, whining for him. Waves of ecstasy pulsed through your body, overwhelming you. Noises you didn't recognize poured out of your lips as your body began to spasm and convulse around him.

''That's my fucking girl.'' His last words came out in a rough growl as he pulled out of you again, before thrusting back in, so hard that you started seeing stars and shriek with pleasure.

The room was filled with your sounds, no longer able to control the moans and whimpers that left you as pounded into you, white dots clouding your vision to your orgasm overwhelming your body hard, shattering as he thrusted and swirled, setting off a wild pulsing in your clit that triggered your insides, and you came all over his cock with a scream followed by a shudder of shaky breath.

Graves kept his ever-the-rougher pace, holding you tighter and tighter, but you felt the slight stutter in his hips that suggested that he was close to his own climax. He started gasping out sentences, heavy statements that surmounted to desperation. ''You're mine, fuck- all mine-''

You could feel yourself growing light-headed in the best way as his embrace restricted your breathing to a further degree, and you gasped sharply as he said your name, the syllables transforming into a vicious growl just as he sank his teeth into your shoulder, deep enough to draw blood and deep enough to make you cry out in pain.

Cleansing, freeing pain, the kind that purged every transgression you knew you’d enacted against him, and him against you.

He followed shortly after as he began to shake subtly, his movements sporadic and wild as he lost control of his body. You surrendered yourself to his control as he pumped aggressively into you, dictating what he needed from your body as he arrived upon completion whilst tightening the grip on your hair almost painfully as he emptied himself inside you.

The weight of his body collapsing against you felt almost comforting in that moment, gasping and absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles into your scalp where he’d just been tugging your hair by the roots.

''So..'' he started, his voice strained and weak. ''Learned your lesson yet?'' Cocky bastard.

You chuckled quietly, and you could feel him smile against your skin.

''Think I might need a few more lessons, Commander.'' Shamelessly, you admitted, feeling your cheeks heat up as he lifted his head to take another look at you.

''I might have to thank the fucking Scot after all.''

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