Fanfic Recs

Nowadays convenience, comfort and caution were virtually non-existent concepts. They took what they could get, when they could get it.

“—so Gracie puts this flower in my hair and she tells me I look pretty and if I love her I’ll wear it all day, and I think, Great, I think, Greatness, because this is my day off and no way would Steve McGarrett show up at my door on my day off, right, Steven?”

This he can lose himself in, even if it's only for a few minutes, an hour, a stolen night here or there.

He had known he could get Hotch into bed, but he hadn’t realized he could get Hotch to fall in love.

Spencer can see it in the moments in between.

He realizes that Hotch knows. Hotch knows he knows. Hotch's eyes have started to track his movements around the bullpen with a purpose, dark and weighty.

“But you’re naked, tied down, blindfolded,” Spencer said, slowly tracing the metal back and forth over Hotch’s abdomen, getting closer to his hips with each stroke. “There’s a man over you holding a knife to your body. Why are you safe?” Hotch focused in on Spencer’s voice, focused in on his own heartbeat. “Because it’s you,” he answered.

It’s Hotch’s forty-fifth birthday party and he’s not feeling very festive.

The first time they have sex, Hotch takes off his tie and uses it to bind Reid’s wrists together and to the headboard.

“I’m not an addict,” Hotch growled out, covering the last foot between him and Reid in one step. He nearly towered over Reid at the moment, intentionally standing up straighter than normal to do so. “You will be,” Reid replied with a surety that he both felt and thought his friend might respect at the moment.

There’s something between them for months before anything happens. When it does, sometime around Reid’s second Christmas with the B.A.U, it isn’t true-love and emotional declarations and ‘fuck Haley’. It’s a single kiss, tasting very faintly of the whiskey Hotch has had a little too much of, and it ends with Hotch pulling away and saying, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the way it’s always been, like this. A secret, a feeling, a touch. But nothing else, nothing more.

Not every relationship lasts forever. Not every romance ends in happily ever after.

Sex doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t heal, doesn’t cure, and it won’t erase the roadmap of scars seared across their skin and psyches. The only thing sex accomplishes is sex, and they both know it.

A late-night encounter.

You're beautiful. It's not just the lines of your face, or your hair, or your hands. It's all of these things and more. There's a radiance about you, Spencer. A light, so bright it burns.

"What do you think will happen if you let your guard down?" "I'll fall in love."

“What are you doing?” Danny cries out, and in the back of his mind he knows he should probably point his gun at Steve as well but he finds that he simply can’t. “Have you lost your mind?!”

Danny decides to show Steve the true meaning of Christmas, and does it by dragging him to New Jersey.

The ocean has become one of the only constants in Spencer's life.

The point is that Reid academically understands love letters but he's never written one himself and, anyway, he's got terrible handwriting. He opens his email instead.

When a fist slammed in to the drywall of the partially-finished home, the only reason people gasped and stared was because it was Spencer Reid who punched the wall.

Jack wants his dad to be happy.

Hotch digs his thumb down, pressing harder against Spencer’s throat and it’s a hollow ache that seems to fill him up. His blood is pounding under his skin and he’s all contact points – his head, his hand, his throat, his dick – and nothing in between, phantom body instead of phantom limbs. “No one’s bruises but mine.”

Hotch and Reid get a push towards each other from an unexpected source, but often, it's easier to admit to what you want than it is to actually take it.

It was not the ending of a romance-novel, where two people who are meant to be together fall into bed, have amazing sex and climax together on page 295.

It goes on like that for months, and then Q realizes that James Bond is "hanging out" at his flat.

Bond says television gives him a headache, but sometimes Q finds him at it anyway, usually when Q’s been tucked away for the morning in this room of unapologetically bright computer screens. Bond’s eyes are always a little glassy and his hands are always buried knuckle-deep into one of the sofa cushions. Q kisses him to make his mouth soften, at least, and he says, “You don’t have to do that.”

"You're wasted on Q-branch, you have the voice for a phone-sex call-in line." The words slipped out of Bond's mouth without forethought, although he had plenty of time to think in the sudden pause that came afterward and stretched on for endless moments. Bond hadn't realized until now how Q was always there, with an immediate reply. In all their banter Q had never before been at a loss for words. Ever.

"You should have sex with other people," Q says once.