Title: Hands On
Criminal Minds
He has nice hands – musician's hands – and she imagines him playing Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin – always classical.
Warnings: Smut

Spencer Reid has very nice fingers. Nice hands, really.

It's not a thing that Emily's consciously paid attention to before; when she thinks of Reid, she thinks of information, rather than any physical attractiveness that he might possess. He's delivering a profile when she notices it for the first time, actively looking away from the Detective that's been making eyes at her all morning.

She watches him, and wonders "why not?" He's intelligent, sweet, and, now that she's actually paying attention to it, pretty damned good looking.

He gesticulates while explaining the finer points of paraphilia to the local police force – something she finds a little bit ironic, considering what she's imagining those fingers doing to her.

They're lithe, but strong, she thinks – a musician's hands. She's never heard him talk about being able to play an instrument, but the foundations of music are mathematical, and she knows that he's very, very good at math.

She'd dated a musician in college once – a drummer. His hands weren't really anything special, but then for him, drumming had been less of an art than it had been an excuse to hit things with sticks. He'd been a little rough, a little handsy, and she'd known almost straight away that it wasn't going to last long. Still, she'd gone out with him three times before walking in on him fucking the Jazz Band tenor saxophonist.

She imagines that Reid would play the piano – Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Tchaikovsky – always classical. She imagines him using those hands to the tune of the 1812 Overture, and goes a little red when she realizes that he's looking at her. They're back at Quantico now – it's late, and they're going home. They're still in the bullpen when she asks if anyone's interested in a late dinner, knowing that a) Morgan will insist they go to a specific all-night diner, and b) that he'll end up going home with the waitress whose shift finishes at midnight. She's counting on it this time, even if it means paying for the half-eaten cheeseburger he'd left in his rush to walk the waitress to her car.

It's just her and Reid now; it's not uncomfortable, but then, it never really has been. Well, she corrects herself, it had been for a while – after Georgia, after Hankel – but their friendship's mended now, and she finds the things he talks about fascinating. He's telling her about the history of magic mushrooms, of all things, in between bites of pecan pie, á la mode. She tells him about some of the more rebellious experiences of her childhood, even though part of her is screaming not to. There's a moment of shared silence between them – a moment of solidarity – and then her crème brûlée arrives, and he starts talking about butane torches.

She drives him home, because he'd taken the VRE into Quantico five days earlier – the day they left on their case – and she's surprised, but not disappointed when he asks if she'd like to come inside.

His apartment is a little like she'd expected – a lot of books (books she's read, books she's heard of, books that look as though they'd require genius IQ simply to understand the title) and she feels her heart beat a little faster in anticipation when she sees the upright piano in the corner of the room. She lets her right index finger strike Middle C, the slightest amount of dust sticking to her finger.

'Do you play?' he asks from the kitchen, where he's making coffee, even though it's well after midnight.

'Not for a long time,' she answers, fingers brushing away the rest of the dust. In her mind, the beauty of music has been twisted, warped. She doesn't remember the richness of the sound so much as she does the strictness of her mother, the repetitiveness of the scales she played over and over again. When she plays, it's a chore. Only when she hears others play is it music.

'Music is helpful in activating the neurons of the temporal lobe,' he informs her, bringing two steaming mugs to the kitchen table. It's another ten minutes before she's actually aware of the fact that his hand is resting on hers, because really, it's not just his hands that she's interested in. They'd just been the tipping point. She lets her thumb rub up against his, and it's not long before she begins to feel his touch on other, more intimate places.

He turns on the CD player – Beethoven, which does not surprise her in the least. The volume is low, but she's fairly sure that soon enough, they'll be employing other means of making noise.

His hand sneaks slowly beneath her shirt, resting just below her breast. She lets the profiler in her take over for the briefest second – he's shy, but not inexperienced, which makes sense. He has an effortless, unintentional kind of sexy about him. He's the kind of guy that could just as easily dominate as be dominated, even if his domination comes in a different kind of form.

It's a lot of give and take, as he backs them towards his bedroom, the frantic removal of shirts and pants leaves them both in their underwear. The bedroom itself has a smaller bookshelf in there – obviously the more frequently read titles. She's not particularly interested in that though. She's interested in the bed and the owner of the bed, whose hands – those strong, lithe hands – are running up her back to unhook the black bra that she'd shrugged on early today, in another state altogether. Her breath hitches when his lips touch her nipple; they're soft, yet hard at the same time. She lets her fingers wrap around his hair, pulling his head closer towards her. He sucks a little harder, and she can't help but let out a moan.

'Spencer…' The name seems strange on her lips – he's always been just Reid – but it'd seem even stranger to call him by his last name when he's doing these wonderful things to her. She can't really remember the last time she'd felt so loved – like someone actually cares about her as a person, rather than just a one-night stand.

'You're beautiful,' he whispers in her ear, and the words seem so much more believable coming from his lips, the same lips that can recite a dozen facts without a moment's hesitation. Anything she says in reply will seem so much less believable in comparison.

'You're…amazing,' she tells him, knowing full well she can't properly convey how she feels in just those two words. She feels his hand – those fingers – slipping down the front of her panties, and then she doesn't even think that words themselves would be enough. It's a moot point though – the way he's touching her clit, in slow, soft motions mean that talking isn't going to be a viable option for a while at least. One hand grips the comforter of his bed, while the other is pressing down between his shoulder blades. His lips move from her neck to her mouth as she comes, the scream caught in his kiss.

'Oh God,' she manages, as he withdraws his fingers.

'Did I…? Was that okay?' he asks, sounding a little bit anxious. She lets out a shuddery breath as his fingers brush her cheek.

'That was a little more than okay,' she gets out, finally, her voice about half an octave higher than usual. 'You're amazing,' she repeats, a little stronger this time, with a little more confidence.

'I…' He seems flustered at that, as though he's not quite sure what to say.

'Trust me, Reid – Spence – that was…fantastic.' Fantastic, yes, but there's still a throbbing reminder at her thigh that she's not the only one that needs release tonight. 'Do you, ah…condom?' she asks. He replies with a shaky nod, leaning over her to the nightstand, piled high with books.

She's content to lie back and watch as he falls back to his knees, and pulls his cock free. It's long and thin – very much in proportion with the rest of him – and she is incredibly turned on by the sight of him fumbling to get the condom on.

Once he's ready, she divests herself of her own underwear, and lets her hand join his to guide him in. He slides in easily; she's already soaking wet from their previous venture. She puts her hands to his ass, non-verbally encouraging him to move a little faster. He obliges, but his own hands are never still – he touches her face, her breasts, her hair, the long, calming strokes a counterpoint to the speed of his thrusts.

They fall apart within moments of each other, both breathing heavily. 'Oh…wow,' he says, and she can't help but choke out a laugh.

'No statistics?'

He shakes his head silently, and she laughs again as he pulls out. There's a brief moment of silence before he asks, 'Uh…did you want to stay the night?' He's back to that endearing nervousness again, which makes her feel a little more comfortable about her own fears.

'I'm not sure I can walk right now, let alone drive,' she says with a small grin. But that's not an answer to the question he'd asked. 'I'll stay,' she adds, and he gives that excited, puppy dog smile.

She leans into his embrace, those strong, lithe hands wrapped around her waist, and falls asleep to the soft, echoing symphonies of Beethoven.