#CM fics

[saiilorstars]

Ch. 40: The Pretty Dancer

[Story Masterlist] // [Aitana’s Masterlist]

Fandom: Criminal Minds // Pairing: Spencer Reid x OFC

Taglist: @ocappreciationtag​ @arrthurpendragon​​​​​​​ @maaaaarveeeeel​​​ @stareyedplanet​​​​​​​ @averyhotchner​ @foxesandmagic @kmc1989 @midmourn @caplanbuckybarnes ​​​​​​

If you’d like to be a part of Aitana’s taglist, please let me know!

Also available on Fanfic ○ Ao3 ○ Wattpad

Aitana was a mess when she met her grandmother for the first time after four years. The good news is that it was all on the inside and so nobody could tell a thing.

Julieta Serrano was the matriarch of the Serrano family. Her word was law on most occasions. She could be strict, sharp, and some would even say headstrong. She was a traditional woman who believed in the most traditional Mexican customs and values…but Aitana mostly remembered her grandmother as the woman who used to dance with her, the woman who would make her "hotcakes" (pancakes) in the mornings when they were together in Mexico, the woman who taught her how to sew, plant and grow gardens, etc.

Julieta was her abuelita, her second mother, and it pained Aitana to have to stay away from her for years.

When Julieta finally arrived in D.C., Aitana was a nervous mess. She held an undeniable guilt and worried about what Julieta would say when they met again. Julieta had no idea what happened to Aitana, much less about WIP and Aitana didn't want to share the story and cause any harm to her abuelita's health. She was, after all, 70 years old.

So, Aitana kept her recent "doings" short and as close to the truth as possible. She traveled around the country a lot for her job. That wasn't a lie. She met new people and had to stay away from home for a while — that also wasn't a complete lie. It was lucky that Julieta was more entertained with the idea of the upcoming Day of the Dead festival where Aitana would dance after years of not dancing. It was both a gift and a curse. Each day was different.

The day of the festival, Aitana was up early. Julieta was also up that early. Aitana had stayed at her parents' house to get ready with her grandmother and mother, the former of the two knowing exactly what Aitana should look like. She went through numerous prayers with her grandmother for the sake of a good (and safe) competition and show. Pamela worked fervently to apply Aitana's makeup while Julieta also attended to the hairdo.

Somehow, they only just made it out of the house on time.

"Vamos mija," Pamela said as they made a hasty exit out of their car in the parking lot. "Let's go! You still have to put your dress on!"

"I know, I know!" Aitana exclaimed, struggling to get out of the car without pushing off the great big flowers off her hair. "I'll do that inside!"

They had been given the spacious community center for costume changes. There were already various other competitors in the lot getting ready to head inside. It was on her way inside when Aitana saw the last message on her phone before she would have to hand it over to her parents (her dress had no pockets whatsoever).

Good luck, sprinkles! We're all here, ready to root for you!

Penelope

Aitana felt the cheers in her heart. She was beyond nervous, perhaps on the border of throwing up. She would have to force herself to remember what the others told her before all this, especially Spencer's words.

~0~

While the competition prepared itself to begin, the festival had already started with its dozens of stalls of business and games. Half an hour after arriving, JJ joined Rossi and Spencer with a downcast face.

"Henry's wiping us clean," she told the team of her sorrow. She pointed over her shoulder back towards the stalls. "There are so many games and he wants to play them all."

Rossi snickered. "Is that where Will is right now?"

JJ nodded grimly. "Yeah. Hotch is getting it pretty bad with Jack too. They've tagged-team."

But at the same time she lamented, Penelope and Morgan came over with a series of bags in their hands. Penelope was grinning from ear to ear.

"I love this place!" Penelope exclaimed. She raised her hands, displaying the various small bags all swishing against each other.

"She might need an advance on her paycheck," Morgan warned and chuckled, prompting an elbow on his side.

"I have not wasted that much!" Penelope defended herself then went back to grinning. "Besides, everything here is so cool!"

"You've never been here?" Rossi asked, thinking it strange since Penelope did celebrate Day of the Dead.

"I didn't know the city had one!" Penelope said, sounding irritated with the matter. "I'll have to thank Aitana afterwards. Has anyone seen her?"

"Not yet," Emily answered. She and Spencer were approaching the group, Emily looking slightly disappointed. "We tried sneaking around the building to wish her good luck."

"She," Spencer corrected, throwing Emily a sharp look, "She tried sneaking into the building. I told her we could've just texted her like Penelope."

Emily rolled her eyes and waved him off. "A text isn't good enough!"

"Hey," Penelope said with a pout, "It was the best I could do in this situation!"

"Don't feel bad because you didn't want to trespass, Penelope," Spencer said, still throwing looks at Emily.

"Wuss," Emily muttered under her breath.

She was doing it for him, after all! He was just too oblivious to see it! Of course sending Aitana good luck texts was good but it would be even better if they got to wish her good luck in person! Plus, it would be a good opportunity to nudge Aitana and Spencer a little closer. He would wish her luck, inevitably sparking a little conversation about Day of the Dead trivia and thus one step closer to the goal! It was perfect!

Except for security.

And that was damn offensive because they were FBI agents. Spencer had shut down Emily's ploy to use their badges to go inside, saying it was abuse of their power and whatnot. It had been a failed mission from all angles.

"Maybe we should go wait by the stage," Rossi proposed, eyeing the bags around Morgan's wrists. "And maybe find a truck for all of those."

Morgan rolled his eyes but Penelope was none the wiser about them. She dragged Morgan after Rossi, prompting the others to do the same. Halfway there, they heard somebody call for them.

It was Elia, Aitana's best friend, walking over to them. She was dressed to the nines in a traditional folkloric dress. It was white at the bodice with puffy sleeves, with a skirt of bright pink, gold, and red.

Penelope was immediately dazzled. "Oh my goodness! That is a beautiful dress!" She exclaimed. In her attempt to touch said dress, her many bags bumped Elia's side and chest. "Sorry!"

Elia chuckled. "It's alright."

"You look really nice," Emily remarked, smiling like the others. "Is that how Aitana looks?"

"No," Elia shook her head. "This dress is traditional to the region of Michoacan, Mexico. It's where my family's from. Aitana's family is from Jalisco so her dress will be from that region."

"So what are you doing here?" Morgan asked, checking his watch. "Don't you guys go on soon?"

"In about half an hour," nodded Elia, "But it's my tradition to come out and scope the area for some good luck vibes."

"There are plenty of acorns for that," Spencer said, prompting the others to give him strange glances. "In Norway, acorns are seen as objects of good luck. It dates all the way back to Norse mythology when the Norse thought that their God of thunder, Thor, favored oak trees. They would put acorns on their window sills in hopes that no lightning would strike down on them. In reality, lightning is attracted to oak trees."

"Huh, so you do do that," Elia said after a moment of silence that they'd all used to process the information. "Aitana told me."

"Oh…" Spencer lowered his head, lips pursed.

"You know, we have good luck objects too," Elia said, smiling mischievously. "Traditions, really."

"What is it?" Rossi asked curiously.

"We light a candle with a picture of la Virgen de Guadalupe on the front." Elia laughed softly at their reaction. "It's true! I'm pretty sure that's how I passed my biology class in the 10th grade." She was much too proud of herself even after the years.

A couple minutes later, Elia bid the group goodbye. She did point the group towards the stage and a specific aisle that promised the best view. According to her, their routine was second to last in the lineup.

They followed Elia's directions and went to the fourth row on the right. They would've chosen the first but according to Elia, the second through fourth rows were always better. No craned necks nor soreness. As they took their seats, they saw Aitana's family sitting in the second row.

The show began pretty soon, starting with the young competitors — the children. JJ thought it was absolutely adorable and even threw the idea out there that Henry should participate in some kind of dancing club later on. Will merely shook his head.

Penelope was dazzled with all the costumes — she paid more attention to that rather than the dancing. "When Aitana comes out, of course I'll pay attention to her!" She assured the team when Morgan pointed it out.

In truth it was pretty easy to get lost in the costumes and the dances, especially since none of them ever got the chance to see dances like this upclose. When it was finally their friend's turn, they all straightened up in their seats, ready to cheer Aitana on. She was the fourth and final female dancer in her group.

Penelope lost it as soon as she saw Aitana. "YOU GO SPRINKLES!" She yelled above the crowd's applause.

Aitana almost matched the color of her dress. Unlike Elia who was in shades of pinks and yellows, Aitana's dress was a more ruffled version. It was white, for starters, with stripes of red, orange, yellow, blue and green at the hemline of the skirt, the ruffles around her waist and the ruffled collar over her chest. Her short hair somehow sustained a huge headband with a bouquet of brightly colored flowers. Large earrings dangled from her ears.

It was honestly a blur of colors when the music began. Aitana couldn't afford to look at anything and lose concentration. Her mind buzzed with the steps she needed to take. She knew damn well that everyone was watching but nobody more than her grandmother.

The music was loud, energetic, and the atmosphere was phenomenal. Everyone watched attentively, listening to the traditional music, cheered for their favorite contestants, and applauded at intricate steps. When it ended, it didn't really end. The crowd cheered for more than a couple minutes afterwards, keeping the dancers in their spots taking their bows. They were tired, sweaty, and worst of all still pretty nervous.

That didn't matter to Penelope and the rest of the squad. They all cheered for their "sprinkles". Some even joined Rossi with a 'bellissima!'. It was a whole ride, one that had Aitana flushing and laughing at the same time.

They would have loved to greet her coming down the stage but her family was of course already waiting for her. She was engulfed in multiple hugs and kisses from her family, so much she lost track of who had done what.

"So you liked it, abuela?" Aitana waited anxiously for her grandmother to answer.

Julieta didn't think about it for a minute before nodding her head. "Claro que sí!" She laughed. "Ah, te veías tan hermosa bailando mi pequeña!" She pinched Aitana's cheeks like she always did when Aitana was younger.

Aitana went into a series of laughs after that. Her grandmother tended to be slightly dramatic — she had told Aitana she looked absolutely beautiful dancing. Aitana really doubled that when she knew she must look like a mess after the routine. Love was blind indeed.

"My sweet girl!" Julieta insisted, her thick accent emphasizing her words even more.

"Aitana, your co-workers are here too, you know," Mateo said once he managed to pull their abuela back and give a view of Aitana. "You should probably say hello at some point."

"Well of course," Aitana rolled her eyes playfully. "I invited them. I'll be right back," she told her parents. She hunched the sides of her dress skirt enough to walk quicker then headed off.

Penelope had spotted Aitana way before she approached them. "Oh! Oh! You were absolutely wonderful! Come here!" She wrapped her arms around Aitana in a tight hug. "Absolutely wonderful!"

Aitana chuckled. "Thanks, Penelope." When she managed to pull away, she looked at the others. "Thank you guys for coming. It means a lot, honestly."

"You were amazing out there!" Emily said, giving Aitana a side hug, for she was also holding one glass of unknown alcohol in the other hand. She wouldn't live with herself if she got a drop of it on Aitana's beautiful dress.

With so many compliments, Aitana didn't know what to do with herself.

"So when's the next competition?" JJ asked and suddenly the rest of the team was already on board.

"Woah, hold on," Aitana's hands went up in front of her, "I just barely made it past this one. I have no idea when or if I'll participate in another one."

"You did great in this one," said Spencer, "I don't see why you wouldn't be able to handle another one."

"Because not everyone can handle your kind of level, Dr. Reid," Aitana retorted. He playfully rolled his eyes at her. "I think I need a break…I just don't know how to break it to my grandmother yet…"

"You should probably figure it out because she's coming here," Morgan said.

Aitana laughed. "Yeah, right."

"Aitana?"

Aitana audibly squeaked, fully panicking.

Morgan smirked. "Told you."

Aitana was going to smack him but her grandmother arrived at that moment. She stayed right where she was. "Abuela," Aitana glanced at the woman.

"They're going to tell us who won," Julieta said, surprising the others with her English tongue. Up until now, Aitana had never said whether or not Julieta even spoke English.

Aitana nodded. "Okay, yeah, I'll be there. I was just talking to my friends/co-workers."

"Oh, los del trabajo dondé viajas todo el tiempo?" It was clear that Julieta spoke far better Spanish.

Aitana cleared her throat and nodded her head. "Si," she said, "Son ellos."

"Hola, yo soy Emily," Emily stepped forward to shake hands with Julieta. The latter was startled with the direct conversation, but slowly pleased. The others rolled their eyes, of course Emily would pull that card.

"Julieta Serrano," the older woman said, shaking hands.

"Me gustó mucho la interpretación. Aitana estaba muy nerviosa."

Julieta let out a small laugh. "Very nervous, I know," she nodded. "I told her it was nothing to worry about."

Aitana smiled dryly at the pair. "Yes, thank you for that."

Julieta patted her granddaughter's shoulder. "We have to go back."

Aitana nodded. "I know." She looked at her friends and before she could say a thing, they were already flooding her with good luck wishes. She honestly never felt so much love from one group of people, besides her own family of course.

As Aitana and her grandmother headed back to their family, the rest of the team made way for the stage again. The rest of the competitors were gathering on stage, with only a few stragglers coming later. Aitana was one of them but still fine.

The presenter soon returned as well, announcing the beginning of the naming. The third place winners, the runners-up, had been the youngest selection of the competitors — 12 year olds. Then, the heat started when the announcer called upon Aitana's team and another. First and second place was between them. For a few minutes, it was impossible not to squirm and that went for both teams. They were both equally nervous.

And then, they called second place. Aitana's team stepped forward to receive their congratulations and trophy, which they did so happily.

Aitana had such a good laugh explaining to Penelope — assuring Penelope — that she was perfectly content with second place. Penelope might as well have heard blasphemy.

"But you were amazing!" Penelope exclaimed, still throwing glares at the stage despite there being no one there anymore. "You deserved first place! I should give them a piece of my mind!"

Morgan curled a hand around Penelope's arm immediately. "Easy there, baby girl, if Aitana's happy, shouldn't we be too?"

Penelope frowned. "You know what I mean!" She huffed.

"I think we all know what you mean, Penelope," JJ said, patting Penelope's shoulder.

"I'm glad you have my back," Aitana laughed softly. "But let's save that for when I really need it, okay?"

"Another competition?" Penelope jumped on the idea, making the others laugh.

"No, no…I think I'll be taking a break again," Aitana admitted, "This—" she gestured to her dress, "—is a lot of work and juggling it between work and school is too much for me. Maybe I'll go back to it after I graduate."

"Sounds like a reasonable idea," said Rossi, "Don't want to spread yourself too thin."

"Exactly," nodded Aitana. "But thank you guys for coming. It really does mean a lot."

"Of course, we're glad that you're happy. I think that's the most important thing here," Emily said, looking at the others to make sure they agreed. They did.

"Well, we do have the rest of the day to look forward to," Aitana said, beginning to smile again, "And we go all night."

"A concept some of us won't be able to do," JJ said as she gestured between her son and Jack in the distance with Will.

Aitana chuckled. "Right."

"Aitana!" Her mother called and when Aitana looked back, she saw her family was waving her over.

"You should go," Morgan said, "We'll be good."

"I just — I'll meet up with you guys later, I promise," Aitana said, raising her hand as evidence, "I don't want you getting lost or doing something worse."

"Oh don't worry about us," Morgan said, "We know how to have fun. Even Reid."

Spencer didn't appreciate the fact that everyone laughed. "Ha, ha."

"Don't go pulling pranks on each other here," Aitana warned. She backtracked a few steps when she heard her mother calling again. "You piss off the wrong person and I won't help you again."

"We said we were sorry," Spencer said, "And after your stunt with the shoes, believe us we will never include you in any prank ever again."

Aitana grinned. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Aitana!"

Aitana winced. That was her mother's angry voice. She knew it well enough from her childhood. "I'll see you guys later!" She grabbed the sides of her dress and hurried off.

~0~

Throughout the day, the team would see each other in different places like the stalls, the tasting competitions — Emily won by a landslide — and the mini-dance competitions. It was a variety of fun and by nightfall, it only got better. Music blared in the air, attracting chunks of people at a time.

"Oh my God, is that Morgan?" Aitana barely stifled her laugh as she watched Morgan try to learn a dance routine with a couple of the other competitors from earlier.

Penelope was fascinated by the sight. Spencer thought Morgan resembled a cat…a very bad one…

Aitana laughed that time. "You're kinda mean," she told Spencer, oddly fascinated as well.

"Look at him!" Spencer gestured a hand at Morgan. He was laughing too. "Any chance you got another opening for a student because I think Morgan will need it stat."

"I don't see you trying to learn," Aitana pointed out. "At least Morgan is making the effort.

"I'll try!" Penelope suddenly exclaimed. Her hand clasped around Spencer's wrist. "And so will he!"

"What!?" Spencer's eyebrows furrowed. "No I won't!"

"Oh, yes you will!" Penelope assured him then grabbed Aitana's hand. "And Sprinkles is going to teach us!"

Neither Aitana nor Spencer had a say in the matter. Penelope yanked them to the dancefloor.

"I really don't — Garcia!" Spencer cried.

Penelope was not letting him go for anything. On her other side, Aitana was laughing.

"Just follow my lead!" Aitana told the two.

Penelope trusted her enough to let go of her hand. Aitana moved two steps down and so Pebelope did the same, pulling Spencer with her in the process. When it was time to retake the steps in the opposite direction, he and Penelope crashed into each other.

Aitana could not stop laughing. It only got worse the more steps she introduced. In the end, Spencer pried Penelope's hand off to escape. It was a matter of life and death to him.

"Oh, c'mon!" Penelope called to him when he broke free.

"No! I'm done!" Spencer declared, making it a warning for both women. "I refuse to make myself look like an idiot across all cultures!"

Aitana was a laughing mess. She had to clutch her stomach seconds into it. Spencer gestured at her to prove his point.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Aitana said in-between her laughs. "You're just too funny, Spencer!"

"You think I'm funny?" Spencer said, dropping everything to take the words in.

Aitana nodded, having to step out of the dancing altogether before people crashed into her while she laughed. "I think you're hilarious sometimes but you don't know it. Which just makes you funnier."

Penelope smirked at Spencer. The latter was too tired for any more of that stuff, so he took off without saying a word.

Aitana didn't agree. "Oh, Spencer! C'mon! Spencer!" She chased after him. "Spencer, this is a really big dress — don't make me actually have to chase you!"

Of course after hearing that, Spencer came to a stop. He turned around and watched as Aitana finally managed to catch up with him.

"This dress is not meant for running," she said, taking deep breaths in and out. "Also kind of tight."

"Sorry…" Spencer felt the urge to say.

Aitana laughed. "What? No. This is my fault. Sorry for back there…Penelope is just too much sometimes and it's always funny."

"I'm a terrible dancer," Spencer said, shrugging. "It gives everyone the perfect ammunition."

"We're all bad at something. I'm terrible at drawing. Like, the worst, actually."

Spencer smiled at Aitana. "But you're really good at talking about space."

Aitana had to laugh again. "Spencer, I'm trying to make you feel better, not the other way around."

"It's fine," Spencer dismissed it as he usually tended to.

Aitana nodded, hearing the tone behind his voice. "Hey, I got an idea. Why don't I go get changed out of this dress, and then I'll show you the other best spots around this place that don't involve dancing whatsoever?"

Spencer's brows raised with surprise. "Um…yeah, that…that would be nice."

Aitana beamed. "Great! I'll be fast, I promise! Don't go anywhere, okay?"

Spencer chuckled. "Promise I won't."

Aitana beamed even more. She grabbed the sides of her dress and hurried off again. Spencer watched her leave, feeling about a thousand times better than before. He had to be careful not to let Morgan anywhere near him.

Aitana returned a bit later. She had changed into warmer clothes but kept her hairdo the same. She easily took Spencer with her and brought him to what she considered were the better parts of the festival. Spencer pointed out that many of them included food.

"Spencer, never tell a woman she eats too much," Aitana warned as she bit into her chips and salsa.

"What?" Spencer flinched. "Oh my God, no! I wasn't saying that you — I wasn't—"

Aitana laughed at his stuttering mess. "Easy there before I short circuit the wires in your brain. Here, try some." She offered him the salsa bowl to dip a chip in.

"I've tried chips and salsa before, Aitana," Spencer said, "I'm not that lost."

"Yes, but this is authentic Mexican food. Trust me, our spices hit differently."

Spencer shrugged. He reached for a chip and dunked it into the salsa bowl. Aitana watched him giddily, and perhaps a bit mischievously too. Spencer didn't understand that face until the spice started hitting.

"Oh my God!" He had no choice but to swallow it down since it was already chewed.

Aitana snorted into a laugh watching him struggle. "I told you it wouldn't be that soft stuff you buy out there."

"My mouth is on fire!" Spencer fanned himself.

"Oh, it's not that bad!"

"Yes it is! You lied!"

Aitana shook her head. "Here, try something else —"

"No!" Spencer shooed Aitana away from him. "I will seriously never trust you again!"

Aitana couldn't help her laugh. It was too much for her again. "You're being overdramatic."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"My mouth feels like it's on fire!"

"C'mon drama queen," Aitana curled an arm around Spencer's arm, "Some aguas frescas should clear this up."

"Do they have spice in them too?"

"Some of them might but it's just — Spencer!" Aitana laughed as Spencer bolted from her side. "You have got to be kidding me! Spencer! Come back!"

"No!"

Aitana chased after him nonetheless.

[kryptonitejelly]

draco malfoy x reader (female)

the one where Blaise notices the Malfoy signet ring on your finger.

send draco requests.

-

The air smells like a combination of Draco and yourself, but mostly Draco - notes of citrus overlaid with the scent of tea and smoky wood. His sheets are cool against the surface of your skin, a sensation which lends a sharp contrast to the warmth of his bare chest against your cheek. You can feel one of his hands tracing patterns onto the skin of your back, as he other hand fiddles absently with your fingers which you have splayed out across his chest, a lazy post-coital haze surrounding you both.

“Who knew the Draco Malfoy would be one for cuddling,” you say teasingly your fingers tugging lightly on the long slender digits which are still tangled with yours. This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, your naked form flush against Draco’s in the same bed in which he had you legs hooked over his shoulder, his name a litany on your lips just mere moments ago.

“I’m not,” he scoffs with a roll of his eyes, as he manages to squeeze your fingers in his, a subtle battle for dominance among you both.

“Alright then,” you say both suddenly and with a calculated carelessness as you push your hands, fingers still tangled in his against his chest as you make a move to sit up. The covers slip easily down your skin with no clothes to act as friction. It exposes you, your nipples hardening upon contact with the cool air. You’e barely managed to get up when you feel the arm wrapped around you shift, fingers pressing more firmly into your hip to pull you back down.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Draco questions. He keeps his tone indifferent but the arm which has tightened around your body tells a different story.

“I’m sure Theo likes to cuddle,” you express matter of factly, keeping your expression innocent and it earns you an icy gaze from the blonde, cool grey boring in you. Draco observes you for almost a full minute before speaking.

“I’m sure he does not,” is what he finally says as a retort, his tone more disgruntled this time.

You open your mouth to disagree only to feel your back pressed flat into the mattress, Draco’s body now covering yours, his movements swift. You see the glint in his eyes as he lowers his head towards yours.

“Draco,” you breathe his name out. He doesn’t respond but presses his lips to yours. His hands find yours, fingers tangling together, pinning your hands above your head. You kiss him back, teeth nipping his lip lightly which earns your a low growl from the back of his throat. You can feel Draco hardening, his length pressed against your stomach. Your almost miss it with the competing sensations overtaking your body - lips, hands, skin, but your brain manages to register the feeling of Draco slipping cool metal from the signet ring on his last finger onto your index.

-

“Well, well, well - look who decided to join us,” Blaise calls out too cheerily, taking in the sight of you and Draco walking into the small sitting room in what had come to be Draco’s side of the Malfoy manor.

“It is surprising that I’m joining you in the sitting room of the Malfoy manor,” comes Draco’s reply which earns a good natured chortle from Theo and an eye roll from Pansy.

“Well, you can’t blame us for thinking that you two would be,” Blaise pauses for dramatic effect, “…otherwise occupied.” His unsaid words clear.

As with the rest, you and Draco had been childhood friends. However, years of tension that neither of you had acted upon had only cumulated more recently, and with Pansy’s blessing, into this, whatever it was. You both hadn’t yet spoken about it, the touching, sleepovers, sex, and there had been no outward proclamations to the world at large that either of you was anything other than single, and yet - it was no secret among anyone who knew either of you that you were both very unavailable.

“You mean book club?” You managed to keep a straight face as you question Blaise too innocently. It earns you a smirk from Draco and an amused chuckle from Pansy, your joke clear as you stop by the table facing the floor to ceiling windows which they are sitting by.

You reach across the table for a handful of blueberries from a bowl beside Theo’s elbow when you feel Blaise grab your wrist lightly, his fingers curling around, as he holds your wrist up in triumph, brandishing it around. You place your free hand flat down on the surface of the table, stabilising yourself as you lean forward into Blaise’s pull.

“I didn’t know book club members were all given the Malfoy signet ring,” he grins wildly at the discovery. The group’s gaze flickers to Draco’s hand, noticing the lack of the ring, usually a mainstay, on his the last finger of his left hand.

“If I join book club could I get one too?” Theo quips cheekily as you feel your cheeks start to heat both at your current plight as well as with recollection of what had been a subtle act of possessive on Draco’s part earlier.

“Zabini,” Draco says, tone still even as he reaches over, his hand curling around your forearm, tugging you out of Blaise’s grip, while ignoring Theo, “if she’s wearing the Malfoy signet ring don’t you think you should think twice before manhandling her?”

“Is she yours Draco,” Pansy adds to the chaos, an equally wide smirk on her face as Blaise lets your wrist slip out from his hold with ease while throwing you a wink.

“If you thought otherwise then you lot must be more dim than I thought ,” is all Draco says as he sits down. He lets you drop onto the chair beside him before reaching over to pull the piece of furniture and you closer to his side, the drag of it on the floor audible.

It earns him a whoop from Blaise, two hands thrown up in the air from Theo as he yells “finally”, and a laugh from Pansy who blows a kiss at you.

Draco slides his arm across the back of the chair, before looking at you brows lifted slightly, but his question is clear, you’ve never spoke about this and Draco wants to know - are you okay with this?

“I am,” you say as you lean forward to press your lips briefly against his. It only causes a louder ruckus at the table.

[alana-reid-2005]

they really told us to trust the process

[hoe4hotchner]

hi! can i request a hotch fic with shy!reader? like the reader has been in the BAU for a while and is known to be quiet and they start trying to open more to the team (specifically hotch) and the reader jokingly keeps calling hotch “oldman” or “grandpa” and like they get rlly close and the team wonders if their dating or not? thank you!! :))

Old man | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!Reader CW: Fluff, Alcohol consumption somewhere in the middle, one kiss. WC: 1.3k

           Working at the BAU had been a whirlwind for you. You’d joined the team a little over a year ago, but even after all this time, you still found yourself feeling quiet and reserved around your colleagues. While they were all kind and welcoming, it wasn’t easy for you to open up, especially when everyone else seemed so close-knit. You were known as the team’s quiet one - efficient and hardworking, but not particularly outspoken.

           Your interactions with Hotch, however, had started to shift things. At first, you admired him from afar, his calm and composed demeanor had made you both nervous and intrigued. He was older, wiser, and had an air of authority that made you hesitate to speak up. But slowly, something began to change.

           It started with small things. Hotch would catch your eye during meetings, offering a slight nod or a barely-there smile when you shared an idea. You noticed how he’d linger after team briefings, giving you subtle encouragement in his own way, telling you that your insights were valuable. It was these small moments that made you feel more comfortable, and a little braver around him.

           Then, one day after a particularly grueling case, you found yourself standing by the coffee machine with Hotch. You were both exhausted, the silence between you comforting. You took a sip of your coffee and glanced at him, noticing how the lines around his eyes seemed a little deeper, the exhaustion written on his face.

           “You alright… old man?” you teased quietly, barely looking up from your cup as you spoke.

           For a moment, you weren’t sure how he’d take it, but when you glanced up, Hotch was smiling - an actual, soft smile that made something in your chest flutter.

           “Old man?” he repeated, with an amused arch of his brow.

           You shrugged, suppressing a grin. “You’ve been at this a lot longer than the rest of us, I mean except for Rossi,” you said, feeling a surge of bravery. “Just calling it like I see it.”

           Hotch chuckled, a sound you rarely heard from him. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, his voice warm. “Though I don’t feel that old.”

           It was a small exchange, but it opened the floodgates. After that, the teasing became a regular occurrence. You’d throw in a playful “old man” here and there, and Hotch would respond with a dry comment about your youth and energy. The team noticed, of course they did. Morgan would give you side glances, smirking whenever you slipped the nickname into conversation, while JJ and Emily exchanged looks with each other.

           The banter became a way for you to feel more at ease, not just with Hotch but with the whole team. But there was something special about the way you and Hotch interacted, a certain closeness that wasn’t there with anyone else. He’d seek you out in quieter moments, asking how you were doing, offering advice on cases or just sharing a cup of coffee during the rare downtime. You started to open up more, sharing little pieces of yourself that you’d kept hidden for so long.

           Then the team began to wonder. You could see it in the way they observed the two of you. During briefings, when Hotch would speak directly to you, his voice a little softer than usual, you’d catch Morgan’s raised eyebrows or Rossi’s grin. JJ had asked you once, out of the blue, if you were seeing anyone. When you’d said no, she’d hummed in response, her eyes darting briefly to Hotch’s office.

           But you weren’t dating. At least, not in any official capacity. Sure, there were moments that felt like something more - like when Hotch would brush your hand as you passed files to each other or the way his gaze lingered on you a little longer than necessary when you were deep in thought. But neither of you had acknowledged it, not yet.

           One evening after a case, the team had gone out for drinks. You were sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of wine, when Hotch slid into the seat beside you. You smiled at him, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence, and leaned in slightly.

           “Old man, out at a bar? Didn’t think you had it in you,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.

           He chuckled softly, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I’m full of surprises,” he said, his voice was low.

           You sipped your wine, feeling bolder than usual, perhaps from the alcohol, or maybe just because it was Hotch. “Guess I’ll have to stick around long enough to see them,” you replied, your tone playful but with a hint of something more.

           Hotch turned his head slightly, his gaze catching yours. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that made your heart skip a beat. He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’d like that.”

           Your breath hitched, your pulse quickening as you stared at him. There it was again - that tension, the unspoken connection between the two of you that was growing stronger by the day. You smiled softly, the warmth in your chest spreading.

           The team noticed. Over the next few weeks, the teasing from Morgan and Emily grew more frequent. “So… you and Hotch, huh?” Morgan had asked one afternoon when you were both working late.

           You’d blushed furiously, stammering something about it just being a joke, that you and Hotch were just colleagues, but Morgan didn’t seem convinced. “Sure, whatever you say, kid,” he’d said with a wink, leaving you flustered.

           But the truth was, even you weren’t sure anymore. You and Hotch had grown close - closer than you’d ever imagined when you first joined the BAU. He made you feel seen, appreciated, and more comfortable in your own skin. And as much as you teased him about the age gap, there was something about Hotch that made you feel safe, cherished.

           One evening, after the rest of the team had gone home, you found yourself in Hotch’s office, helping him sort through case files. The room was quiet, the only sound was the rustling of papers and the occasional hum of the air conditioning. You’d just handed him a report when his fingers brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

           You looked up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. Hotch's gaze softened, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “We’re not… you know, dating, are we?”

           The question hung in the air momentarily, and you immediately regretted asking it. But then Hotch smiled a soft, almost tender smile that made your heart race.

           “Not yet,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “But I wouldn’t mind if we were.”

           Your breath caught in your throat, and you stared at him, wide-eyed. He stepped closer, his fingers grazing your hand, and you felt the familiar warmth of his touch.

           “Well… what are you waiting for, old man?” you teased, your voice shaking slightly with nervousness and excitement.

           Hotch chuckled, leaning in just a little closer. “I guess I’ll just have to stop being so old-fashioned.”

           And with that, he closed the gap between you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was gentle, sweet, and everything you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for. When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you smiled, your heart pounding in your chest.

           “So… we’re dating now?” you asked softly, your fingers curling around his.

           He nodded, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Looks like it.”

           And from that moment on, the team didn’t have to wonder anymore.

[sincerelybubbles]

Spencer holds your hand while you argue.

"Physical connection with a partner, especially during tense moments, is proven to aid in communication and connection."

It's something you found odd at first - annoyed, you tried to shrug him off, but he persisted, fingers clutching yours and dipping his head to hold eye contact. Now, though, you appreciate the habit.

"You have to trust me to do my job," you're saying, one hand linked in his and the other tapping along his forearm. "I'm the exact type the unsub is looking for. Emily will be right beside me, she'll have her gun-"

"But you won't," Spencer interrupts, squeezing your fingers and avoiding your eye.

The connection reminds you that he's simply concerned for your safety, not doubting your ability to do your job. Still, annoyance flares in your chest and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

"He's looking for women he finds attractive - women with my eye color, my weight, my height, my hair color. He's got military background, he'll notice if I'm armed."

"He'll notice if you're wearing your vest, too," Spencer argues, nostrils flaring.

You both know that this argument is pointless. You're not going to say no to Hotch's assignment and it's been cleared by him already. Spencer doesn't have the rank to outvote him. Still, it's important to you that he understands, that he's comfortable, that he trusts you.

You keep holding his hand, returning his squeeze, and massaging his other forearm. You're in a small office in the small-town sheriff's office the team set up in. You can smell the sour dust in the air and the Texas heat causes sweat to gather on your forehead.

"Love, Emily will be right there. Morgan will be in the bar, too, and Hotch and Rossi will be outside. They're not going to let anything happen."

"I don't like it," Spencer says, voice firm. Compromise isn't clear - you can't say no, he doesn't want you to say yes.

Despite your best efforts, you sigh. Truly, you're just proud of yourself for not letting the eye-roll escape. You kind of think you deserve a reward for the effort.

You want to tell him that he doesn't really have a say in any of this. You're leaving in twenty minutes to get ready with Emily and JJ. An hour after that, you'll be in a bar pretending to sip a vodka cranberry and waiting for your unsub to hit on you.

Instead, you lean forward to catch Spencer in a hug, untangling your hands and looping your arms around his neck. "I know."

You meet him in a soft kiss, brief because of the setting. It's the best comfort you can offer him.

He sighs softly against your forehead when you pull away, hugging you tight.

"I'll be there too. Outside with Hotch and Rossi. I don't care where Hotch wants me."

"Okay," you whisper into his shoulder. Despite how high-strung you are considering the circumstances, the hug is calming you down, rapidly slowing your heartbeat.

He's right, as always -- the physical connection has you calmer instantly.

[dalamjisung]

A muted shade of green ✧ Spencer Reid

genre: fluff, light angst

word count: 6339

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: Dr. Spencer Reid is simply adorable. And you actually think he might be perfect. Until, that is, he isn't.

a muted shade of green masterlist // next chapter

His apartment is a muted shade of green and you always wonder why is it that he painted it so dark. The book covered walls never fail to impress you, making you smile into the ether that was this place with its shelves and shelves of worldly stories. His taste, you think, is more towards the classics and refined tales that carry significance and importance in the world of literature. Dostoyevski, Austen, Orwell, Doyle. Though here and there, in some corners of the living room or thrown haphazardly in the kitchen counter, you see peeks of contemporary names, the ones you’re sure you sold him a long, long time ago. Murakami, Zadie Smith, George. 

You met Spencer when you first moved into D.C., about a year or so ago, and sometimes, you really think that it was just yesterday when you first saw him with his purple scarf walking inside your store.

“Excuse me.” 

You have too many books in your arms to even see who is talking to you, but you apologise nonetheless; it’s the least you can do for your first customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment, apologies for the mess, we literally just opened.” In your defence, you had been so busy unpacking all the new orders and organising things into shelves that you absolutely forgot to put the plaque with your opening hours by the door. You can hear his shoes clicking and clacking around the place, and a wave of anxiety washes through you. If he leaves with a book– luckily two– you will have made your first sell and that just might remind you that of the reason why you decided to do this in the first place.

Carefully putting the pile of Maggie Nelson’s on the counter, you finally turn to face him, tired smile from ear to ear when you see him holding two books already. “You found something you like?” You gently ask, voice calm and fingers fidgeting while you wait for an answer. “Many things, actually. I’m quite glad to see a wide variety of books here, it’s been hard finding something new to read lately.” 

His voice is pointed and it echoes in the empty store. The clock on the walls says it’s 7:58AM and you suck in a breath; it’s definitely too early for someone to be looking for books, but maybe he wants entertainment for his commute, maybe he needs a distraction for the way, or maybe he is odd like that. 

It must be cold outside. The man is wearing a purple scarf  inside what looks like a wool coat, and somehow, he fits in there, in your store. He looks like the kind of person who would be buying books as early as 8 in the morning and you’re not sure if that is adorable or unhinged. 

“Just these, thank you,” The loud thump of the pile of books he deposits by the cashier makes you gasp. “You have a great selection here, I was lucky you open early!” The twinkle in his eyes is what keeps you from telling him that that, in fact, was a big mistake. In the middle of rushing to get the keys from the landlord in time, get the deliveries, get everything sorted and organised, you had completely forgotten to put out the hours for the shop. 

“I am glad you found us here! Do you live nearby?” At this point, you’re just trying to make conversation as you bagged his items, smiling at the titles and happy to see your favourite book in the midst. “I live just across the street, actually,” He said, giving you his card. “You’ll see me a lot, I’m afraid.”

“And what should I call my most loyal customer, then?” One look down at his card and you would know, but you wanted him to tell you himself. 

“Spencer Reid.”

There is not really a sound reason as to why you walk so freely into his apartment. The first time he asked you to do this, he was going on a case and needed someone to water his plants. As it turn out, your store is quite literally across the street from his building and you don’t really mind the mindless task, so you tell him to not worry, you’ll take care of it. It had been a few months since you two met, five or so, and despite taking you some time to truly understand, you got used to the fact that Spencer created a routine for both of you, knocking on your shop’s door every Monday at precisely 8 in the morning. With time, you stopped questioning him even when you had many, many questions– was he even reading all these books? If yes, how?! Every visit, he left with three books or more, and unless he pulled all nighters every night, those were simply sitting on his desk. 

Instead, you start putting a few titles aside whenever you spot them. You start it with ‘A Gentleman From Peru’ by André Aciman, short and sweet. Next week it was ‘A Little Paris Bookshop’ by Nina George. Then ‘Cultish’ by Amanda Montell. And just like this, you two form your own little book club, his visits extending beyond their usual thirty minutes into the better part of the hour to talk about the plot, the characters, the arcs. You know there is quite a lot you don’t know about Spencer, of course there is, but you learn more and more with every little debate you two have. You learn about his morals through the character he likes, and his dreams through the plots he enjoy. You learn about his photographic memory that allows him to quote his favourite sections to you, and you learn that he is a very logical man through his hatred for the inaccuracy of investigative books. You learn and you learn and you learn and you find out that you like learning about Spencer. More than you like learning about anyone else, that is, and now, every time he walks in, you can’t help but get excited, smiling as you only imagine what you would learn that day. 

Sometimes, you did notice the absence of your favourite customer. He would disappear for weeks on end and then act like nothing happened, and you get it; he doesn’t owe you anything, you’re just the lady that sells him books, but you feel like there is something that is starting to bloom when, every time he comes back, he brings you a book. “I thought you’d like it,” Is all he says before leaving with his bag of new reads. For a moment, it’s like an exchange, but Spencer never demands anything of you; never asks for anything more than new books and recommendations. 

It’s quite rewarding finding the books you sold him scattered through the apartment. There are a couple in the kitchen, open split on the counter and you smile fondly at the clumsy way he marks his books. There is no folded page, no book marker, no random picture; just his book, cover facing up, open and splitting the spine in half enough to crease. You shake your head, smiling like he’s done this just to rile you up.

“Oh my god, don’t!”

You don’t mean to shout but it’s too late. His eyes widen in shock and he immediately freezes, mouth stuck in a little ‘o’ shape that makes you blush. “What did I do?” 

The wince in your expression is as visible as the light of day when you speak. Your hands hover in the air, unsure of what to do now, but still trying to do something. “The book, Spencer,” The words come out like a whine, and if you start stomping your feet you might as well look like a child. “The spine. The book. The– oh my god, the noise!”

The way he laughs at you is contagious, and you start laughing with him, face hidden behind your hands in embarrassment. Owning a bookshop doesn’t come for free. Your particularities when it comes to your literary treasures are enough to scare any sane person away. “You know, there are worse sounds than a book’s spine breaking,” He mused, closing the book before walking to your counter. His nimble fingers drum a soft rhythm as he waits for you to go around and charge him for the book. It’s a symphony, almost; so loud in your quiet store that, for a second, your heart is tuning in, thumping as his fingers do, beating to the song he creates. 

“You don’t have to buy it,” It’s a little ridiculous how airy your voice sounds then. Aren’t you a little too old to have a crush? “It’s okay if–“ But he doesn’t even let you finish, rattling off some facts about the writer. Most of the time, actually, he is rattling off some fact about something, and some you know, some you don’t, but you never interrupt him. You like hearing him talk. 

You miss hearing him talk. Whenever Spencer leaves, you miss him. You miss the knock on your shop’s door at 8AM. You miss the shy little chuckles. You miss the purple– the constant, always there purple. A wave of sadness hits you then, looking around the apartment with a longing expression. 

The first time he calls you over, it’s not really an invitation. A week before it happens, he doesn’t show up for your Tuesday unboxing and you have to carry all the new orders inside by yourself. It takes double the time and despite the effort it takes you, it’s the absence of his coy chuckles and snarky commentary that leaves you breathless. When you open the boxes, checking inventory to make sure there had been no issues with your order, you find the book Spencer asked you to get him. It’s one of those special books, so old and unique that you could only get your hands on it because you had contacts in the space. “Huh,” You frown at that– it isn’t like Spencer to forget something. Hell, it isn’t like Spencer to forget anything. Before you can cower away from doing it, you send him a text. You have his number saved in the system, and this feels wrong, it really does. Using his personal information that he gave to you as a client felt wrong. But for a second, it makes you stop biting your nails in anxiety. 

Your book is here. 

It’s Y/N, by the way. 

He doesn’t answer right away and you wallow in your regret for as long as you can. Your shoulders hunch forward as you line up the new arrivals in the shelves. Your frown sits on your forehead all day while you help other passing customers. Your hands brush against the book, all ready and wrapped up and sitting on top of the counter. You hate waiting; you hate waiting for someone or for something to happen as if you’re praying for a miracle. Literature has taught you many lessons in life. It has shown you countless of love stories that could’ve been resolved with a simple conversation. It has told you about people that waited and waited and waited until time passed them away. It has taught you that waiting is simply delaying the inevitable. 

But what literature has not taught you is that, sometimes, waiting truly is all you can do. 

That day, you don’t get a message back. 

You get a call instead. 

“Y/N?” The familiar voice on the other side speaks before you can and your shoulders tense up. Something is wrong. He sounds hoarser than usual, airier, too. 

“Spencer,” You say back, clearing your throat of any remnants or indicators of how nervous you are. “Spencer, are you okay? You sound rough.”

Even his laugh sounds weak and a zap of worry rushes through you. “I’m fine,” He mumbles, and you know he’s saying it out of politeness. “I just got sick. I think I have a cold, it’s nothing much, really.”

The relief that washed over you in crashing waves is almost embarrassing. Even though he is not there to witness it, your face still flushes in a dramatic red. “Oh. I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you–“

“It’s not a bother,” The way his voice interrupts you, so strong and concise, makes you chuckle. “You’re not a bother. I uh, I’m glad to hear my book arrived.”

For a moment, you both stay quiet. You, on your end of the line, are nodding like he can see you. Except he can’t. Except he is waiting, probably, for you to say something. Do something. “I can bring it to you. If you want.”

This time, there is no pause. “Yes. I mean, yes, please. I– I don’t have anything new to read and–” Spencer pauses to cough and you start moving immediately. There is no one in the store and you quickly change the sign to ‘closed’, grabbing his book and your bag before locking the door behind you. There is a pharmacy at the end of the block and you keep your cellphone balanced between your shoulder and ear while your hands make sure you have your wallet with you. “Sorry.”

“No problem at all,” You cross the street in such a hurry that you don’t notice the traffic, getting a symphony of horns calling you out as you run to the other side of the street. “Shit…”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You tease, laughing a little and entering the pharmacy with purpose. “So just a cold, right?”

“Y/N, where are you?”

“Out,” There is no need to be vague, but you don’t want to give him a chance to protest. “I should be at yours in fifteen minutes with the book.”

“Just the book?” He asks in such a suspicious tone that you can’t hold back a laugher. 

“What else?” Thank god for automatic cashiers speeding up this entire process. You are in an out in less than five minutes and before he can even answer, you are almost at his door. Admittedly, you are speed walking, almost running, in a futile attempt to get there sooner. “Which apartment do I buzz?”

“Apartment 23.” And that is the end of the call. 

By the time you make it to his floor, panting just as you hike the last step upwards, he is already waiting for you, and you can’t say you’re terribly bothered to have a man like Spencer Reid waiting for you by the door. “Spencer,” You still admonish, a small smile playing on your lips. “You shouldn’t be out and about like this.” 

“Then who would let you in?” The mischief in his expression, much like that of a child making an innocent joke, makes you giggle, nodding in agreement. “Do you want to come inside? I promise everything is clean, I’m not a slob or anything.”

“Yeah, let me come in so I can give you your stuff.” 

“I knew it wasn’t just the book,” The coughing fit that followed has you rushing your hands, pulling things out of your bag in a desperate attempt to get him the medicine you bought. This had always been your curse, the flustering anxiety of wanting to help but being unable to take your time. Shaky hands push the book towards him, with the medication and some old receipts stuck to it. 

“Oh shit, sorry!” You squeak, grabbing the receipts and shoving it back in your bag. One of these days, you’d have to close the store early to clean this thing. “But uh, yeah, I got you some cold medicine and your book. I’m sure you know this with your big brain and all, but you need to take this before bed, cause it makes you drowsy, and this other one in the morning since it has caffeine! And you should be good in no time… hopefully!”

In life, a pause is not always a bad thing. It’s a time to think. A time to appreciate, to enjoy. It’s a time to be. A pause, however, from the man whose brain worked a thousand miles an hour, doesn’t feel like something to be thankful for. “Is… Do you not like that brand? I didn’t want to get the generic thing, I don’t know why, I–“

“Thank you.”

At first, you barely hear it. For someone whose voice is so rough and hoarse, you’re surprised he can still sound so smooth and airy. Your reaction is obvious; he can see the blush in your cheeks and the way you bite back a smile. “Y/N, thank you, I really appreciate it,” He says it again and now you think he just wants to get a rise of you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” You shrug, faking humbleness while you keen at his praise. “I wanted to.”

“I know.” 

There is a dance that happens after that, one that you find yourself enjoying quite a bit. Spencer is more present than ever, and you’re getting used to having him around. It’s like you two broke the glass wall the kept you at a safe distance, and now is when you two discover each other a bit better. Like how you find out that, when Spencer’s hand lays on the cashier counter, just an inch or less away from yours, you feel the heath that it emanates. Like how your fingers curl and your palms itch at the sight of his shaggy curls falling on top of his beautiful eyes. Like how his laughter is deep when it’s true and dry when it’s forced. Like how he can read 20,000 words per minute, but he chooses to read 183 instead just so he can read you passages out loud.

You are not sure what he has learned about you, or if he even cares to learn something about you, but the thought still makes you smile. “What’s gotten you so smiley so early in the morning?” 

Ah, yes; another thing you’ve learned about Spencer Reid– he is as quiet as mouse when he wants, and as loud as an elephant when he doesn’t. “My god!” You jump, hand immediately going to your heart to try and keep it from beating our of your chest from the shock. “Spence! You scared me!”

“I’m so sorry,” He laughs, raising his hands in the air, shaking the two cups of coffee he is holding. “I come in peace.”

“And with bribery, I like your style.” 

His style doesn’t change, still haven’t. For ages, you think he buys you coffee at the nearby cafe. You don’t really know the name of the place, some cliche Cafe something something, but the one time you’ve been in there the coffee was terrible and the music too loud. It’s hard picturing your shy, smiley book-lover in there, trying to order something without raising his voice. It’s only when you see the go-to paper cups on his counter, on the fourth or fifth time you come around, that you realise Spencer has never gone to that cafe to begin with. 

The cups are still there. You make a point in spotting them every time you come over– next to the microwave, close to the paper towels. The reminder that this man has, in fact, been making you coffee most mornings validates the fluttery feeling you have whenever you think of it. It makes it somewhat logical. “I must be spending too much time with him,” You mumble to yourself, pushing your sleeves up and getting to work. You are there for a reason, and if those wilting plants die on you, you fear that you might just never be invited back. “Why does he even have plants?” 

You don’t know much about Spencer’s job. He hasn’t told you anything about it except that he travels a lot for it, but you can imagine it is something of importance– a man like Spencer was someone of importance, after all. In your mind, you can imagine him walking into an office down by the Financial District, working with big corporations as an advisor. Yes, you can absolutely see him as some sort of advisor or consultant, but something about him working in finances doesn’t sit right with you– he is yet to talk to you about crypto investments and how to better implement a payment system into the store. Shaking your head, you switch it up. Financial services, aren’t quite right, but maybe an editor, working in a publishing house. With the way he devours books and how well-rounded his personal library was, you could see him as a Publishing Director instead, reading manuscript after manuscript. 

The thought of him reading brings a smile to your face. In his living room, there is an armchair that sits next to the large window on the west wall of his apartment– he says he likes how the sunset hits and makes the pages look warm and golden, turning words into a burning fire of knowledge– and you can practically see him there, blanket over his legs, books and books pilled next to it. It’s your own little secret, how every time you come over, you grab a book, any book, and you sit there for thirty minutes, forty, fifty, an hour; until the sun has completely set and you have to get up to turn the lights on. 

Today, when you sit down, when you bring your knees up, when you drape the blanket over you, something feels incredibly right and incredibly wrong. On the pile of books next to you, right at the top, lays a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. If you remember correctly, which you usually do, last time you sat down at that spot you managed to read up to chapter five before the sun was gone. When you grab the book and you see the bookmark you gave Spencer the second time he visited the store, and you frown– usually, he’d pick up from where you left off. “How long has it been since you last came home, Spencer?” You muttered out loud, grabbing the book regardless. Because even when it breaks your heart to know something has been keeping him away from his precious nook, it fuels your heart to know he leaves your book where you can easily pick it up. To know he doesn’t mind you sitting on his armchair, to know he doesn’t mind you reading his books, to know he doesn’t mind you settling, somehow, in his house. 

A knock on his door, however, breaks you away from your precious moment of rest and relaxation. For a moment, you can’t move, frozen in place light a kid that has been caught doing something wrong. It’s only when they knock again that you move, shuffling to the door to look through the peephole. “Who is it?” You ask, voice weak and shaky. 

“I have a delivery for Spencer Reid.”

How silly you feel in that moment, hand over your heart as you take a deep breath in relief. Unlocking the door, you smile to the USPS guy. “Sorry, he isn’t home right now. I can take it for him.” All you have to do is sign it and close the door, but once you put the package on the counter and your eyes catch sight of a note scribbled on top of the box, all those butterflies inside of you slow down. And find perch. And for a second, make you miss them just like you miss him. 

The first time you think Spencer might have a girlfriend is when he comes into the store with a certain look in his face. He is practically glowing and his eyes don’t leave his phone for a second. “What has you smiling like that?” You two are close enough to ask these kind of things now, making jokes about each other as if you have been friends for ages. “Or uh, who?” Even though you started the conversation, you want to end it now. There is a sour aftertaste in your mouth when you suggest another person to be cause of his happiness, and you know, right there and then, that that is just your jealousy speaking. At this point, you’ve been harbouring a crush on Spencer for the almost two months and there’s only so much a girl can take before exploding. 

“Oh, it’s just a friend.” Somehow, this answer doesn’t settle you as much as you hoped it would. 

The second time is when he brings a woman around. She is blonde, and loud, and colourful, and you eye her carefully. They are matching costumes, and for a second, without even saying, you already feel left out. It’s stupid, being this green over someone so pink. If Spencer was purple, and if you are green, than that woman was pink– she is happy and light and exciting. Next to her, you… well, you are as muted as his green walls. “Y/N!” He calls for you with such a big smile and you just don’t have it in you to pretend to be busy anymore. 

“Hey Spencer,” It comes out quiet and a bit distant, but he doesn’t seem to notice, not with the way he is going back and forth on the ball of his heels. “And hello, ma’am. Welcome, I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the owner. Please let me know if you need any help.”

That day, you two barely talk, but that’s okay, because Penelope, as she introduced herself to you after you help her find a specific book on coding, speaks for both of you. She says that it’s lovely to finally meet you, and mentions how much she has heard about you, and you think this is a very cruel thing to do to your poor, squeezing heart. But you push through. You pretend you’re tired, you apologise for the distance, and you lie about a cough. It’s better if they stay away, you say, but Spencer doesn’t buy it. Instead, he buys Penelope her book and leaves with promises of coming back the next day with your usual coffee. 

After that, you don’t see Spencer for two weeks.

It’s a bittersweet feeling when you get the text that he is back. After almost a week and a half without seeing him, you miss Spencer. He created a space for himself in your life and in your store, and when he is gone, it’s just not the same. But just like how he did, you created a space for yourself in his apartment. Suddenly, the muted green walls aren’t claustrophobic or smothering, but comforting. They are safe. Familiar. They are Spencer. And just like you said, you miss Spencer.

“Y/N!” 

You should be happier to hear his voice, but it’s not the same. The fluttering in your stomach is still there, like a slow buzz trying to come alive, but it’s not the same. Not when the note on the box, flashing like neon signs behind your close lids, has been tormenting you and your poor heart ever since you made the mistake of opening the door. “Y/N? Are you here? The door says open…” At one point or another, you have to come out of hiding and face him. Delaying the moment, though, is the best defence plan you’re able to come up with– if you look into Spencer’s eyes, if you see that pretty smile he has every time he comes back from a work trip… you’re fucked. 

“Y/N, I need you to tell me if you’re here!” It’s not the same. 

His voice. It’s not the same.

Usually mellow and undulating, Spencer sounds stiff, like he’s holding something back. Something new. Something… heavy. There is an edge to him right now, so sharp and cutting that it has you stepping out from behind the Science shelf in pure curiosity. And just like people say, curiosity killed the cat. In this case, however, it almost kills you. 

When you turn the corner to find him by the door, the first thing you see is a man. He is tall and handsome and oddly serious. The way his brows are pulled together make you falter, steps slowing down and mouth opening to ask if he needs help.

That’s when you see it. 

More like you catch a quick glimpse of it, the shinning spark of metal to your side, and you do a double take. You have to do a double take. It’s like your brain doesn’t believe what you’re seeing, and you move your head so fast you feel your neck tensing up in that way that makes your eyes water. “WHAT THE FU– OH MY GOD!” There is no way to throw yourself against a wall graciously, arms over your head and fear written all over face. You land in an awkward angle and your shoulder takes the brunt of the shock, making you gasp in pain while your legs give our under you. 

Of all the ways you’ve imagined Spencer, him holding a gun up to your head was never one of them. “Y/N!”

“Oh my god!” You think you might pass out– you’re breathing too fast and your chest is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing to the point of physical pain. There is a ringing in your ears, muffling the entire conversation between Spencer and the other man and even though you try, you can’t look up; you’re frozen in a state of distress. For the first time since you met him, you’re scared of Spencer Reid. “I– I– Oh my god, I c-can’t– I can’t b-breathe, I can’t–“

“Y/N, look at me! Look at me, you’re okay, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” The moment his hand touches your shoulder, you’re shrinking away. 

“Who are you?!” You manage to gasp enough air into your lungs to scream at him. One shake hand moves to the back of your neck, pressing down on the sore nape as you finally move to look at him, crying and all. “Spencer, who are you? Who is he? What is happening? Why do you have a gun in my bookshop, why–“

“Ma’am, I need you to take deep breaths,” The other man quickly holsters his gun and you actually think you might be going insane when flashes you a badge. “I’m SSA Derek Morgan, I work with Spencer. We are with the FBI.”

Federal Bureau of Investigation. Spencer is a fed. And he never told you. 

“The FBI…?” You whisper, eyes going wide and breath hiccuped in your throat. “S-Spencer, you work for the FBI?” Nothing about this makes sense to you. The gun, forgotten in his left hand and now pointing down and away from you, is all you can look at. The gun that looked heavy and cold. The gun that those hands hold– the same hands you’ve wished and, admittedly, dreamed of holding yours instead. The gun, the gun, the gun.

The gun. You’ve never seen a gun before, not this close. In museums, of course, and in movies and shows, but never in real life. You don’t have interest in it either, having voted, without fail, for anti-gun laws and representatives. Anything and everything about this, about seeing him with that deadly weapon, feels wrong, and you really think you might be sick soon.

“Kid, put it away, you’re freaking her out.” 

Then is when you catch sight of the Spencer you know. It’s the clumsy actions, looking almost freaked out himself– his hands fumble with the holster and it takes him a couple of tries to fit the gun properly. That’s when you know for sure– you are going to be sick. “Trash,” You mumble, trying to get up but falling again and again. “Trash, pass me the–“ But there is no time and you throw up right there and then, between the cashier and the nonfiction section. 

“What just happened?” 

“Morgan, get her some water– there, over the counter,” The rapid successions of words make you feel a bit better, a cadence of tone and rhythm that has your hands finally stabilising. “Y/N, you’re in shock. Adrenaline kicked in and left, and you pressured crashed, which is what made you nauseous. You need water, and to come sit by the counter.”

It’s funny, how in any other circumstance, you’d be ashamed and embarrassed to have gotten ill in front of him. As far as you know, Spencer is a germaphobe and this surely counts as germs. But as he grabs your hands, gentler than you’ve ever seen him grab any book in your store, and brings you to your chair behind the counter, you wonder if he forgot or simply doesn’t care. Both options don’t make sense. “Spence, what is going on?” Your voice comes out winey and rough, and there is no way to hold back the pained wince when you feel the sting spreading through your throat. Sip by sip, you try your best to drink the water and soothe yourself, but nothing seems to help. 

Nothing until you hear him next to you, small and quiet and, dare you say, meek. “I’m sorry.”

As much as you’d like to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he does. “I see…”

“It was just… it was new, having someone not know I’m FBI,” His thumbs play with each other and you’ve known him long enough to recognise that Spencer is nervous. “And we started getting closer and I just didn’t find an opportunity to tell you.”

“There were plenty,” You clarify, feeling a bit of a bitch for the bite in your voice making him gulp. “But it’s okay. I’m not… I’m not anything of yours, I guess, so it’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t say that. You’re my friend.” That hurt.

“Do you point a gun at all your friends or am I just special, Spence?” It is supposed to be a joke, but the memory makes your bottom lip start wobbling again and you feel stupid. You feel so, so incredibly stupid right now that you can’t even begin to explain why. “Sorry, I’m just– I’m not okay.”

“I know, and we’re sorry,” There is such raw honesty in his words and he manages to make you smile a little. Your hand is still shaking, but you stretch it out towards him regardless. It’s a conscious decision to hold onto his wrist, covered by his jacket, than to reach out for his palm, and from the way he looks at you, you know he recognises the effort. “But you need to come with us.”

“Why?” You cry out, a single tear coming out of the corner of your eye. At this point, the shock is going away and you’re more overwhelmed than anything else. You’re scared and confused and overwhelmed and it’s his pulse, beating again and again, that brings you back to Earth. “Why do I need to go with you? What is going on?”

“Y/N, when you were housesitting for me, you received a package, right?”

In the midst of everything, the memory of that day, that box, that note, all fade. Frowning, you shrugged. “The delivery man knocked and said he had a package for you… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I–“

“No, no, no, you didn’t, you didn’t. Please.”

“Ma’am, when you signed for the package, did you use your name?” The man, Morgan, ask, and all you do is nod. Of course you signed with your name. “Kid, we need to take her to the office now.”

“I am not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

Finally, some energy in you. Some strength. Your voice echoes in the empty shop, and the chair tips back when you stand up on stiff legs. Looking at Spencer is hard, when you feel the burning of your rage inside, but you still do; you still meet those pretty brown eyes, you still stare him down until you practically force the answers off of him. “The package… did you see who it was from?” 

“Spencer, are you insinuating you’ve pointed a gun at me because I read a message your girlfriend wrote on the package she sent you?! Because I didn’t mean to– I didn’t! It just… It was there, right at the top and I–“

“She is not my girlfriend,” He immediately cut you off, hands waving in front of him in a visual demonstration of desperate denial. “Not at all! I don’t have a girlfriend! I was–“

“We can deal with this later,” Morgan is quick to interrupt, sighing as he looked at you. “Y/N, we re really sorry to disrupt you like this, but this is for your own protection. Please lock the store and let’s go.”

It takes time for you to gather everything you need. You are not a disorganised person by any means, but suddenly, you can’t remember where you put what. Your bag is thrown under the cashier, and your keys are, for some reason, in the Fiction shelf. Your glasses are in your head the entire time, and Morgan has to point that out to you. The more you look, the more flustered you get, yet somehow, you make it to the car. Morgan is driving and Spencer is on the passenger seat, and the way they keep talking to each other using words that make no sense to you make you want to scream. “Spencer.”

The heaviness of his name, said with such emotion,, lingered in the air. His eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror, and he nods. “Yeah?"

“Spencer,” You whisper again, eyes wide in shock as reality starts to dawn. “Spencer, if she’s not your girlfriend, then who the fuck is Cat Adams?”

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

AAAAAhhhhh I'm trying something new >.< I've been a massive criminal minds fan for a long, long time and Dr. Spencer Reid has my heart <3

Please let me know what you think, this is my first Spencer fic and I'd love if it got to turn into a series!

[mrs-weasley-reid]

JULY REC FICS

Hello, my sweets!! I wanted to try something out to provide my full and utter support to all the amazing writers I've come across in the form of monthly rec fics (starting this month). Join me in giving them love through comments and reblogs. It really is a joy to hear how you're doing as a writer. It makes up for all the angst we write lol

I will be going based on what I've read recently and not by the date the fic was posted. And the number of fics will depend on how much I've read the entire month. Also, please respect these writers. Some contents are 18+, so MINORS should not be interacting in any way, especially when the authors themselves specify it.

— ✿ — ✿ ✿ — ✿ ✿ ✿

Spencer Reid

✿ a question unasked by @easy-there-leftovers ↳ SOOOO ADORABLE. I'm a workaholic craze gal, so it speaks to me on a silly level.

✿ missing the happy hormone by @lavenderspence ↳ I'm a sucker for Spencer fluff this month, what can I say? This fic Tina made had my waterworks going on for about a minute because it's so sweet

✿ desk duty by @reiderwriter ↳ All you have to know is the amount of evil laugh I made while reading this

✿ the theory of love by @ophelia-is-complex ↳ Genuine intimacy is quite a challenge to write, but THIS ONE, this one had me in a sappy mood

✿ like nothing matters by @cerisereids ↳ gagged and had to pause the reading so many times because HELLO— had me spiraling at work

✿ the devils disguise by @qlossytbh ↳ I said I sobbed a little bit, but I actually cried so much I ended up taking a nap and felt better afterward. It's all fluff, though, don't get me wrong. I'm just very dramatic when the red devil's on the clock

✿ not so funny by @reidmania ↳ Angsty, that made me wanna start a fight with some random twiggy tall guy. Sooooo good!

✿ cloaked in passions touch by @raekensluver ↳ If you don't like Spencer's hands, you're fucking lying to yourself!!!!!

✿ language of devotion by @gghostwriter ↳ I'm in love with reid, and this fic just had me stumbling back onto his lap like a good gal

✿ this req response by @mandarinmoons ↳ Sorry, I'm not sure what the title is, but it's so adorable and got me to go to work, so kind of a lifesaver tbh

✿ hallucinate by @gghostwriter ↳ Oooo, this one was so cute, hehe. Honestly, I lean towards Spencer fluff lately just because I've been too overstimulated with work this past month, so READ THIS ONE ITS CUTE

✿ it's golden, like daylight by @dudeitiskarev ↳ I actually felt like I was reader the entire time I read this. It's well-written and so adorable and something that should be framed in a museum

✿ much ado about nothing series by @incognit0slut ↳ binged it all morning, and I was whipped !!! It's ongoing, so if I have to wait, so does everybody else

— ✦ — ✦ ✦ — ✦ ✦ ✦

Aaron Hotchner

✦ choiceless hope series by @hotchfiles ↳ This series had me rolling over my bed on a Saturday. A lot of feelings getting played (mostly mine)

✦ beanstalk by @solardrop ↳ I kid you not; I was giggling like a weirdo when I read it. And that itself deserves the recommendation.

✦ too busy being yours by @hotchfiles ↳ Lari knows how to get a sick gal to giggle. I love bau!rossi!reader. I love Rossi as reader's dad, so I enjoyed it more than I thought I would

✦ ignorance by infatuation by @boneblushed ↳ Oh, this one was a nice snack while on my break at work. LOVED IT SO MUCH

✦ hungover by @basketonthedoorstepofthefbi ↳ Mmmm, such a good read! Plus Jemily is there sooooo

✦ from across the bar by @hotchscoffeecup ↳ Evil laugh ensues. A nice cuppa of some good ole kinky stuff

✦ doomed by @hotchfiles ↳ guys, I stopped my car in the middle of driving home just to read it, so it's THAT good. Honestly, I strongly encourage everyone to read all of Lari's works! She's my writer crush, if none of you realized it by now

✦ a bunch of cuties in love by @lavenderspence ↳ hehehehehehe this definitely did not remind me of that one older guy I used to flirt with who had an adorable younger brother that I babysat🤭

✦ schrodinger's cat by @none-of-your-bullshit ↳ angst on a Saturday morning is like taking a shot of soju before 11 am, and this one felt like it <3

how about you also comment your top 3 fave fics for this month to spread more love to our great writers?

[girlkisser13]

hair pulling with spencer reid

pairings: sub spencer reid x dom fem!reader

warnings/tags: smut (18+), oral sex (r receiving), hair pulling, dry humping, cumming in pants.

divider by @plutism

you can hear him underneath you, moans muffled by your thighs clamped around his head. you can feel his hair moving against your thighs, tickling them while his mouth is busy pleasing you.

he’s been not so subtly grinding against your foot while he eats you out, already achingly hard just from his face being between your thighs.

you’re sitting on your kitchen table, gripping the sides of it while spencer sucks on your clit. you throw your head back, letting out quiet moans. you’re squirming from the pleasure you’re feeling, and spencer’s letting out little whimpers as he continues to dance around your cunt with his tongue.

every time his tongue enters you, your body leans forward. you need to grip the counter so that you don’t fall on his face. not that he’d mind.

“are you close?” he looks up at you, kitten licking your clit while you take a breath to talk. you’re too busy with the pleasure you’re feeling, so you just nod and push his face closer towards your cunt.

while he begins suckling your clit, your hands drift up to his brunette locks, pulling slightly. spencer lets out a very loud whine at the gentle sensation of you tugging his hair, and shifts his hips faster against your foot, bucking up when you continue pulling his hair.

“fuck, you’re really desperate from doing this? huh, spence?” you can’t help but tease the blushing man between your legs.

he lets out a little whine and nods, pressing kisses to your clit. you let out a whimper, and arch your back, pressing your cunt closer to him. spencer can feel himself leaking precum into his boxers, and you throw your head back, tugging his hair even harder.

he can’t resist anymore, reaching a hand down to his pants, rubbing himself through the material. you see his movements, but can’t bring yourself to stop him when his eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

“aw spence, does that feel good?” you chuckle, pushing his hair off his forehead.

spencer slowly opens his eyes to you looking down at him with a small smile. he returns it, but then his eyes drift down to your neglected cunt in front of him, dripping just for him.

his eyes widen, and he removes the hand playing with his clothed cock, letting it fall on your thigh, while his other hand grips your other thigh, keeping them apart.

“i have to make you cum,” his eyebrows are furrowed, and you can’t resist tugging his hair to pull him towards you.

his tongue pushes inside you, and you find yourself arching towards him. his hands move to cup your ass, pushing you further off the edge of the counter, almost sitting you on his tongue.

“spence, what has gotten into you?” a few seconds ago he was touching himself, and you were more than happy to help him out.

“i’m already…close…you know?…” he trailed off, embarrassed that he admitted he was getting himself off to eating you out.

you can’t help but let out a small moan at the fact that he can feel like this because of you. your legs clench around his head when his tongue enters you while his nose bumps against your clit.

your toes start curling from the pleasure, and you let out moans and whines that go straight to spencer’s cock. he shifts his legs together to release some of the tension, and looks up at you.

he can almost see your hard nipples through your shirt, and can see your head thrown back in pleasure. your thighs are clenching around his head, suffocating him, and spencer can feel himself getting so close to cumming.

you’re harshly rolling your hips against his face, chasing your impending orgasm. spencer has taken to humping your leg again, moaning against your cunt when he can breathe.

you look down at him, his chestnut curls were splayed out on your thighs, you give them a sharp tug as your head falls back, and you cum with a shout of his name.

spencer moans out into your cunt, vibrations helping you through your orgasm, and he cums in his pants.

you’re both panting as you come down from your respective highs. spencer can barely keep his head up, and drops it onto your thigh. his eyes slide shut in bliss, and you notice the wet patch on his pants.

you run your fingers through his hair, pulling a smile from the genius.

“hi,” you say softly.

“mmm hi,” he mumbles out, grinning at you.

“i think i’m going to have to carry you to bed, honey,” you motion down to his collapsed legs on the floor.

both pairs of eyes narrow in on the cum patch on his pants, and you chuckle to yourself.

“i didn’t know you liked having your hair pulled,” you tease.

[angellic4l]

thank you’s - s.r

in which; sunshine!bau!reader is demeaned by an officer on a case and season2!spencer sticks up for her.

content: fem!reader, reader described as having ‘girly’ flair, sexism, mention of blood/bloodstain, mainly fluff, protective spencer, and i think that’s it but lmk.

a/n: i just rawdog it and write on tumblr as a draft so i have 0 clue how many words there are. also, thank you all so much for the love on my first fic, i adore you all. these are my babies now and i hope you love them.

Warm sunlight warms the skin on your back while you’re crouched down at the latest crime scene, examining a bloodstain on the concrete floor. Despite it being November, it’s still considerably warm in Texas, a big contrast to Virginia weather for sure.

Despite official policies about dress code and such, you’re still a fun person, so you like to add your own girly flair to the professional attire you sport almost every single day. It doesn’t harm anybody, it doesn’t break any rules, and it’s cute.

However, pair the cute flair you add to your clothes with your enthusiastic, optimistic, ‘happy go lucky’ personality, and the fact that you’re a woman, and it causes people to make their own assumptions - typically sexist ones.

After doing bloodstain analysis on the red splatter that coats part of the parking lot’s floor, you go to stand up from your crouching position. Mid motion, you spot a small note on the floor, tucked under the wheel of a car. Crime scene analysis requires everything and anything to be processed, and the unsub has yet to make contact with authorities, so you make the decision that it’s worth looking at before motioning for Spencer to come over after seeing him somewhat idle.

He begins to make his way over from the other end of the parking lot as you stay crouching, waiting for him to come over because you don’t have gloves on. What you don’t see after you turn back around is an officer, an average sized male with blonde hair who appears to be slightly older than you, approaching you at the very same time.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, workin’ for the FBI? You sure yer pretty little brain can handle allathat, darlin’?” A man’s voice; a thick, Texan drawl, coated with a somewhat flirty tone, yet at the very same time, it’s seeping with disdain - ambivalence.

Unfortunately, you’re used to that tone of voice and can recognise it all too well. It’s not going to be the first time you hear it, and it certainly won’t be the last, no matter how progressive times are or how you express yourself.

Standing up, spinning on your heels, ready to give the - officer? that’s poor - a rehearsed response to ensure your own safety, yet keep a boundary, you see Spencer stood behind the average sized, blonde haired man that you don’t recognise. He’s giving the officer one of his looks, his face saying everything, as usual, despite the officer not being able to see it.

Spencer’s fully aware his face is saying everything without it coming out of his lips, he’s completely baffled at how someone could say something so demeaning to anybody, much less you. You’re probably the sweetest person he’s ever met, always so supportive and enthusiastic. He feels protective of you. He doesn’t even realise he does until the words are out.

“She’s perfectly capable of doing her job, if not more so than other male agents, not that it concerns you whatsoever. And I’m perfectly capable of reporting a sexist comment to your supervisor.”

Spencer’s tone is defensive, no, protective, and you can feel heat rushing to your cheeks. It’s the bare minimum - sticking up for someone to a discriminatory comment - and you know that. It’s more so that Spencer hates confrontation, but he’s doing it, and it’s for you. Thank God for the Texas weather masking your fluster as warmth.

With the threat of his supervisor being involved, the officer offers a mumbled apology before walking away, almost as if his ‘tail’ is tucked between his legs, like a scolded puppy. A soft laugh elicits from your lips at the sight. Once the sexist officer has gone, Spencer’s eyes find you, his expression changing to one of concern.

“Hey, you okay? That was demeaning,” the brunette offers, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck, a habit he has, typically more often around you.

“‘M okay. Used to it, unfortunately. Thank you, though, Spence. That was sweet; I know how much you hate confrontation,” you say, giving him a soft smile as you do.

It’s Spencer’s turn to blush now, you calling his actions sweet and that soft smile - god, that smile - flushing his cheeks a light pink while his hand still rubs at the back of his neck.

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me. Anyway, you called me over here. What did you find?”

With his question, you’re quickly reminded of why you did call him over, before the sexist comment and mini confrontation that’d ensued with the officer’s presence, but there’s something you want to do first.

“I don’t need to thank you, but I want to,” you reassure him before stepping forward, moving closer to him, leaning up on your tiptoes, turning your head to face Spencer’s cheek, and slowly placing a chaste kiss to his already pink cheek.

Spencer’s eyes widen before they close, realising what you’re doing and wanting to savour the feeling of your lips on his skin. Unfortunately for him, the brief contact is gone just as quickly as it had started. He opens his eyes again and moves his right hand from the back of his neck to touch his cheek, realising what he did in front of you, and acting as if he was wiping away your lip gloss stain.

“Oh, uh.. thanks. Anyway, the, uhm, you called me over to see…?”

Silently, secretly, he wills the feeling of your lips on his skin to never leave his memory, not even when he’s old and grey, and maybe, just maybe, he wishes that you’ll be by his side when he is.

[saiilorstars]

Ch. 38: What Goes on Behind Closed Doors

[Story Masterlist] // [Aitana’s Masterlist]

Fandom: Criminal Minds // Pairing: Spencer Reid x OFC

Taglist: @ocappreciationtag​ @arrthurpendragon​​​​​​​ @maaaaarveeeeel​​​ @stareyedplanet​​​​​​​ @averyhotchner​ @foxesandmagic @kmc1989 @midmourn @caplanbuckybarnes ​​​​​​

If you’d like to be a part of Aitana’s taglist, please let me know!

Also available on Fanfic ○ Ao3 ○ Wattpad

"I'm not trying to say I don't like her, but…" Aitana's whispers had both Penelope and JJ snickering behind her, "I feel like we would do a whole lot better if Strauss wasn't coming with us."

The three women stood in the bullpen huddled beside JJ's desk.

"Because you don't like her," Penelope patted Aitana's shoulder comfortingly.

"No!" Aitana flushed miserably. "I—"

"It's alright," JJ said, patting Aitana's other shoulder. "We all go through it."

"So when do I get past it?"

JJ's smile widened, giving the impression that there was no getting past it.

"Oh great," Aitana muttered. She trudged glumly towards the elevators, prompting the other two women to follow.

Strauss had helped deliver a new case for the BAU, a local one, that she was going to oversee herself. The cause involved a prestigious military school where she was good friends with the head. Somerville Military Academy was their destination in the sunny lands of Florida. The bodies of five boys were found hanging in the middle of a forest outside the school.

"There's still no sign of Josh Redding," Penelope informed the group on the jet. She was constantly vigilant on her laptop until they would land. As of now, Josh Redding was the only survivor of the mass suicide and yet was also their prime suspect.

"We'll join the search when we land," said Hotch, putting it as their top priority for the meantime.

"So, the Somerville Academy was founded during World War II?" said Morgan more as a question since it was one of the very few things the team knew about the school so far.

Penelope nodded her head from her seat. "It is hard-core old school. They don't even have a website. Socioeconomic breakdown's all over the map."

"Yeah, so are the ages," said JJ with a concerned face, "Students are 12 to 18 years old, on the same campus, in the same dorms." That, to her, was a huge mistake given the decent gap.

"Same personnel has worked there for a lifetime," Aitana added from her case file, albeit with a tone of reluctance. If the entire workforce at the school had been there for decades it meant there was a high chance of their loyalty being tied to the school and not the actual students.

"Ron Massey has been superintendent for 30 years," Strauss said, "He's an alum, as is the majority of the staff there. Lieutenant Tawes has been his second in command this whole time."

"These type of places have their own infrastructure. If it ain't broken, they ain't gonna fix it," Morgan said and saw Aitana agreeing with him.

"That's probably why they banned modern technology," Spencer concluded, "They didn't need it back then, they don't need it now."

Rossi had been reading more on the file and was startled towards the ends.. "Aggressive motto — "vivere est vincere."" He looked up at the others. "To live is to conquer. The school raises soldiers. Suicide is not part of that mantra."

"Bailey Shelton was only 13 years old. He was one of the youngest students there," remarked Spencer. If he was right, there were only a handful more students around that age in the entire school. "His death is probably the key to the others."

~ 0 ~

Despite the grim atmosphere of the school, the weather was perfectly sunny outside. Massey was already waiting for the team when they pulled up to the school.

Strauss was the first one out of the car and consequently the first to greet Massey. "Colonel Massey, Erin Strauss. This is the team I spoke with you about."

"Agent Hotchner," Hotch introduced himself and shook hands with the Colonel.

"This is Agent Morgan—" Strauss said, prompting the agent in question to shake hands with the Colonel, as well as the rest of the agents she introduced, "—Agent Jareau, Agent Serrano, Agent Prentiss, Agent Rossi, Dr. Spencer Reid, and Penelope Garcia." The last two only gave waves.

"So shouldn't the flag be at half-mast?" Morgan asked when he spotted the flag up high on its pole.

"I haven't told the boys yet," Massey said stiffly. The news shouldn't have been that much of a surprise.

"Do they know who we are?"

"I'll tell them when the time is right."

Loyalties, Aitana thought. It was all going to circle back to that.

"I've called all of the parents. They're driving from up and down the East Coast. In fact, Josh Redding's have just arrived," Massey said, gesturing to the couple across from them.

"We'd like to speak with them," JJ said, glancing at Aitana for confirmation they were on the same page. The brunette nodded.

"They're in the chapel," said Massey.

"And how are they?"

"As you'd expect."

"All right, we'll get started," Aitana announced, turning to JJ. At the same time, Massey called for a Cadet to guide them to the chapel.

The two agents followed the Cadet and were promptly left with Josh Redding's parents. The agents figured it was best to get straight to the point. The quicker they found Josh, the better.

"Why did you send Josh here?" Aitana asked cautiously. It was pretty common for troubled boys to be sent to military school and she was almost positive this was the case here too.

"Because he was getting into a lot of trouble," said Mrs. Redding.

There it is. Aitana merely nodded.

"And he was always angry and…"

"He was being a teenager," Mr. Redding interjected. Although he was just as upset as his wife, there was an undeniable accusation in his tone.

Mrs. Redding did take offense and snapped back at her husband. "You were gone, Will. All the time." She then looked at the slightly awkward agents. "He was nearly 6 feet tall by the time he was 14. With a bad temper, and he was punching holes in walls, and he wouldn't listen to me anymore."

"He could be belligerent," Mr. Redding only half agreed, "But this — this was extreme."

"Why?" asked JJ.

"We had to force him."

"I was afraid he was gonna hurt himself," Mrs. Redding said almost frantically. "Or someone else if we didn't get him some help."

"How was Josh taking Bailey's suicide?" JJ asked them.

"We only talked once after that," Mr. Redding replied, "Phone calls are a privilege here."

"Was that difficult for Josh?" Aitana went off on the fact that phones and texting were practically a teenager's life. The answer, however, didn't support that.

"Josh has never been much of a talker, but I think he felt a real responsibility for Bailey and the other boys in the hall."

"Did he ever tell you why Bailey may have killed himself?"

"No…"

Aitana and JJ sensed they were losing the parents once the tears started flowing in. They had the good sense to end the session there.

"So, what do you think?" JJ asked Aitana once they were alone. She was smiling strangely, something Aitana picked up on fast. "This is what you're training for, remember?"

Right. Aitana should have figured JJ would eventually start doing this. One year into college meant Aitana was one step closer to becoming the team's official liaison and with that it meant she would have to start conducting service hours.

"Truthfully," Aitana put her hands behind her back, her eyes falling over the rather dank chapel if anyone asked for her opinion, "It looks like the parents are against each other. Blaming each other for Josh ever being here."

JJ nodded in agreement. "I thought the same thing."

"Maybe that was also a driving factor for Josh's behavior here, whether or not he killed those boys."

"I concur. Let's see what the others got."

"Yeah." Aitana followed JJ out the chapel.

They regrouped with Penelope inside the library. The blonde already had most of her equipment set up and was merely waiting for company and instructions.

"That's going to fall on you," Aitana said when Penelope's fingers danced along some kind of device set up near the window.

"Shh!" Penelope waved her off, trying to focus on straightening the device. Aitana and JJ practically held their breaths trying to give Penelope the space she needed to keep working.

"Boo!" Someone exclaimed. Spencer grinned at the three women who had jumped at his call.

"Jeez, you scared us!" Penelope rubbed circles over her heart. "I thought you were a ghost!"

"You know, older buildings like this emit a low enough frequency that you can't consciously hear," Spencer started explaining on his stride in, "Because the sensory overload can't be explained, it wreaks havoc with your emotions, inducing fear, panic, and dread, hence the feeling of being haunted." He handed JJ a manila file which she then turned over to Aitana.

Penelope was entranced with the logical explanation. "What about the visions?"

"Your eyes overcompensate for what your ears are missing. That said, I do know a 3-year-old boy that once met a friendly apparition named Leverett Saltonstall."

"He was nice?"

"Very nice."

"So you don't think there's any ghosts or spirits?" Aitana cocked her head at Spencer. He shrugged; his expression was answer enough. "You're the biggest Halloween fan I know and yet you don't believe in spirits?"

"One thing is to celebrate Halloween and the other is to believe in the supernatural," Spencer said, trying to take the file back from Aitana.

She flicked the file against her chest, raising an eyebrow at him. "It's real," she said calmly, to which Spencer merely nodded. He was just passively agreeing with her, setting her more off. "Alright," she decided to prove him wrong, "I was in Mexico once, visiting my family and we took a trip to the cemetery to pay our respects to our family members who were gone. It started pouring rain while we were giving a few prayers to one cousin and we still had one more cousin to visit. My mother said that if that cousin wanted us to come by his tomb, he would help stop the rain. Guess what happened then?"

Aitana's smile widened when she saw Penelope's curious face leaning towards her with anticipation of what happened next. JJ looked between the two opposite sides, bemused at the whole situation. Spencer refused to look any kind of emotion; stoicism was the way to go.

"What happened?" Penelope finally broke the silence with her whisper.

"The rain stopped," Aitana answered without taking her eyes off Spencer. She saw the corners of his lips quirk and before he pronounced the whole thing a coincidence or perhaps a weather mishap, Aitana added: "It stopped right after my mother said it and the sun shined. It started raining again after we finished our prayers with our last cousin."

"Woah," Penelope whispered, eyes dazzling with fascination.

"What do you say to that, Dr. Reid?" Aitana raised an eyebrow at Spencer. She presumed he had a lot to say.

All eyes were on Spencer, that much he knew and felt, but it didn't compare to Aitana's gaze. Hers did something he couldn't really explain but was strong enough to make him doubt himself.

"Weather itself is a strange phenomenon," he finally said, albeit slowly, and clearing his throat, "It's-it's not uncommon for it to suddenly stop and start."

Aitana hummed. "If you say so, or you could just say it's unexplainable?"

Spencer's lips pursed then tightened as a smile tried worming its way out. Usually when someone challenged him, it was to compete or sometimes to shut him down but Aitana showed neither quality. She was playing, and for some reason it was a different type of fun for him. For that spark, it was hard to continue debunking Aitana.

Aitana took his silence as his admission of defeat. She let the file fall against his chest, thinking it was fair if she gave him the file if she won the conversation.

Spencer took the file into his hands, letting out a sigh admitting he was accepting of it. Not at all bad, he thought to himself on his way to the table.

The rest of the women turned to follow but not before Penelope and JJ exchanged knowing glances.

"You'd think the laundry room would be closer to the dorms," said Spencer as he grabbed a seat and opened the file. "It's on the opposite side of the campus instead of the basement."

"Leaves of 3, let them be," Rossi said just as he led a scratching Emily into the room. She was red all over her forearms.

"Oh, man. Poison Ivy," Penelope hurried to her bag. "Alcohol swabs, stat!"

"Thank you," Emily said gratefully, throwing a glance at Rossi and his smug face. "You know, if I've got it, so do you."

"I'm Italian. It knows better," he retorted plain and simple.

The others snorted.

"Where's Massey?" Rossi asked Hotch when the remaining of the team joined them.

"He's meeting with the victims' families," Hotch replied, "They're arriving now. Serrano, JJ, how are Josh's parents?"

"Upset," JJ said first, "They sent him here to keep him away from trouble."

"Not to mention they're blaming each other for Josh being here," Aitana added. "They're a straw from turning on the school, really."

"Tawes made it seem like these guys are the only family they have," Morgan said on his way to grab a seat.

"You make it sound like a cult," Strauss said irritably.

"Uh, it kind of is," Rossi clarified for her in case she had yet to realize it, and she hadn't.

Strauss didn't appreciate the accusation. Her tone sharpened. "This is a well-respected institution."

"They're not on trial," Morgan pointed out.

"The integral part of the investigation is going to be understanding what these victims lived every day," Hotch redirected the group before they got off topic. "And with whom. Bailey Shelton killed himself in Josh Redding's room."

"Was Josh in the room that night?" asked JJ.

"According to the records."

Penelope took her cue to start looking things up for them.

"Dave, you find anything in the woods?" Hotch's eyes fell over Rossi and Emily.

"Josh's tent was secluded. His things were left behind. He just took off," said Rossi.

Hotch nodded. "Massey said he never got any respect from Josh."

"And Josh's own parents said he was impossible to control," added JJ, thinking it was relevant.

"His course load indicates increased isolation," Emily started listing, "Isolated, smart, angry. That could be a budding psychopath."

Strauss raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying? Josh Redding killed his classmates?"

The team looked at each other grimly. Strauss drew in a breath, settling down on the next course of action.

"Then he's not missing. He's on the run."

"And he's had one hell of a head start," Aitana sighed, "What's it been — a week?"

"With all the skills he could ever need," Rossi said pensively.

~0~

The next day, the team regrouped with a different point of view for their case. Treating Josh Redding as the unsub changed their course distinctly starting with the fact they were no longer searching for a survivor but for a culprit.

The team set up in the library that morning with take out for breakfast and at least a half dozen coffee cups on the table.

"Ok, so how did he do it?" Emily asked the winning question. "How did Josh control 5 strong kids?"

"File under 'come back to later'?" Aitana cleverly responded but still hid behind her cup of coffee as reactions happened. It wasn't the most professional answer. Emily thought it was a fair thing to say.

Morgan took a different avenue. He thought of the smaller details. "Josh supervised the cadets both in the bunk and the laundry room. That could explain how the sheets got out."

"Yeah, so what does "we're sorry" mean if it wasn't written for suicide?" asked JJ, searching amongst the group for a good answer.

"What if Josh wanted them to apologize for something? For their sins?" Strauss chimed in. As far as her answers went, it wasn't the worst one yet.

"There's no record of bad behavior, but all of these guys were Alpha males," Penelope informed them. She was nose deep in her laptop with information on the students in question.

"They were all upperclassmen who might have bullied Bailey. The message was carved under Tucker Calhoun's tree for a reason," Hotch said, prompting Penelope to let out a low hiss.

"Yeah. We need to know more about that kid." She pulled up Tucker's personal file to go over again.

"What are you looking at?" Rossi asked Spencer as the brunette busied himself rather silently for the last half hour.

"The M. E.'s report. Bilateral fracture of the pars interarticular of the C2 vertebra."

Everyone took a moment for Spencer to explain it again but since he too was nose deep in his work, it took Penelope asking him to repeat it for him to notice.

"Classic hangman's fracture, but only one of the 5 victims had it."

That was certainly interesting.

"Which one?" Emily wondered.

"Tucker Calhoun."

Penelope's nose crinkled. "Jeez, who is this guy?"

"The others suffered rotational fractures, hanging was secondary," Emily concluded, "Staging the crime scene. Josh is more sophisticated than we thought."

"And vindictive. He wanted Tucker to suffer," added JJ.

"Makes one wonder why…" Aitana's eyes swept over the dank library. If this was the room full of education and it was in this kind of condition, she could only imagine how the rest of the school was like. One thing was for sure, if she had children she would never send them to this archaic school.

~0~

"Why the hell would Josh hurt them?" Mr. Redding was beyond irritated with the accusations against his son. Mrs. Redding was folding Josh's clothes in the room but her face was a deep scowl growing by the second.

Aitana and JJ felt quite awkward about the situation but Hotch kept the session going. Awkward or not, they needed to get to the bottom of things.

"Has Josh been more distant this year?"

"Well, his course load is extreme," Mr. Redding said curtly.

"Did he specifically complain about anyone to you?"

"I already told you no."

"Okay, well, you did say he was frustrated being saddled with the younger cadets…?" Aitana took her shot and almost immediately regretted it. Mr. Redding looked like he could murder.

"That boy Bailey cried himself to sleep every damn night," Mr. Redding snapped.

"Maybe Josh had had enough of that," JJ offered.

At the same time, Mrs. Redding threw the last piece of folded clothes into the duffel bag they brought. She turned around, glaring openly at all three agents. "He met him outside. Bailey's father couldn't come into this building. So Josh folded his clothes, his towels, everything, all so that his dad wouldn't have to walk past this room. That's what my son did. That's who my son is." She grabbed the duffel bag and handed it to her husband. The two of them stormed out of the room after that.

~0~

Penelope finished setting the last picture of their victims on the board for the team to see. Under each boy's picture was a number of high importance.

"No one told us about a point system," Emily said irritably. She and Rossi came to find out from one of the younger cadets who also told them Josh Redding was never supposed to be on the trip in the first place. He didn't have enough points.

"I'm not that surprised there's a system like that," Aitana remarked. She leaned against the edge of the bed, crossing her arms and taking in each number of points the boys had. "I went to Catholic school — they had something similar to that only we lost points too. For the stupidest things."

"What did you lose them for?" Penelope curiously asked.

Aitana's face scrunched. "My skirt was two inches shorter than permissible."

"You naughty girl," Emily snickered, causing the others to do the same. Only Rossi merely shook his head.

"Not like that!" Aitana groaned. "I hit a growth spurt, alright?"

"The first and last by the looks of it," Morgan's remark had the whole team laughing. Even Penelope and Spencer, the ones who rarely laughed at others, had to hide their laughs behind their hands.

"Derek Morgan, I hate you," Aitana declared with a very childish huff.

The only way that the laughter stopped was with Hotch's return. Together, they studied the amount of points the boys had. Unsurprisingly, Tucker Calhoun had the most points out of the boys.

"So who approves these points?" Aitana asked. While Hotch looked away, she grabbed a case file and smacked Morgan on the back of the head with it.

"Massey," Hotch replied, eyeing Morgan for the fact he was fervently rubbing the back of his head. The rest of the team were quiet witnesses.

"Well, maybe Tucker was his little pet," Rossi suggested, "Leader of everything."

"Steamroller types like that, they don't let anybody get in their way," said JJ, "Nothing was nice about that kid. It sounds like he strong-armed everybody."

"Well, then the points are for bad behavior, only they're not calling it that," Penelope said bitterly. She thought the whole system was horrible enough.

"We should look at the points of everyone who died in those woods," Spencer said, prompting Penelope to get back on the computer. "My guess is they were all bullies. Except for Josh.

In the midst of their search, the team got word that Bailey's father had been found murdered in the same woods as the previous victims. Emily and Rossi were sent to examine the scene.

In the meantime, they had discovered something very important. Chris Shelton had hung the boys, not Josh. It was easy to reason why he had done it — the boys bullied Bailey until he committed suicide but it made no sense why Josh had been part of the vendetta.

"We should focus on how he got out there in the first place," Aitana said over the phone. She walked straight into the library, giving an acknowledging nod to the others in the room. "Yeah, okay, see you then." She hung up and met the others waiting gazes. "Anyone want to take a crack at this mystery?"

"It's all got to connect back to Massey," Morgan said without a moment's thought. It was no secret he held quite a disdain for the Colonel. "A man like Massey sets rules but is the first to break them. He's been left alone to run these kids' lives and nobody questions him."

"Oh, man, that sounds so sad and scary when you put it like that," Penelope said, shuddering at the image.

"His policies are a combination of many other philosophies. I'm not sure where his actual leadership lies," Spencer said thoughtfully but clearly troubled with the lack of clarity.

"Only that it does…lie, that is," Penelope trailed off in hopes that Spencer would understand her. He didn't. "It's a joke."

"Oh," he straightened in his seat, "Good joke."

Morgan and Aitana smiled and shook their heads simultaneously.

After a couple minutes, Penelope discovered that the school did have a cellphone, a hidden one. "It's not listed under Massey. The account was opened by Tawes."

"If Massey's lying about something as simple as a cell phone, what else is he hiding?" It sounded a lot to the others like Morgan had long ago made his mind up about the Colonel and they couldn't really blame him.

"I don't think we should let you keep going one on one with Massey," Penelope voiced her concern.

"I'm good," Morgan said in a low mutter.

Aitana shrugged. "You're not wrong. That catholic school I told you about — surprise! The headmistress was the devil. I wasn't that bad of a student, you know? And yet somehow I wound up with detention way too many times."

"For all we know, you could've been a bad listener," Penelope wagged a finger at the brunette.

"I was not!"

"Or at least a violent one," Morgan said, pointing to his head for evidence.

"Oh please," Aitana crossed her arms, "You and Spencer do a lot worse to each other in your little prank wars."

Spencer bobbed his head, about to speak when Morgan called out to him. "Don't you dare agree with her. She's not as innocent as she looks. Half those detentions had to be well earned."

"Did not," Aitana insisted, "I literally got detention because the headmistress swore she saw a tattoo on me."

Morgan's eyebrows raised curiously. "And do you?"

Aitana adamantly refused such an idea but her mischievous smile betrayed her.

"Oh, you do!" Penelope pointed excitedly at Aitana.

Aitana put her hands behind her back. "I was...a teenager. That's what every teenager does."

"Not true," Morgan said pointedly as he 'happened' to walk by Spencer's chair. The latter felt the silent jab of Morgan's words.

"I was getting another degree — there's nothing wrong with that!" He exclaimed, frowning enough to make Penelope chuckle beside him.

"So what is it, then?" Morgan asked Aitana. "And where is it?"

Aitana's smile widened; nothing was able to take the mischief from her. "What it is: none of your business. Location...left to the imagination."

Penelope laughed like never before. Morgan then revealed that Penelope had once told them she too had a forbidden tattoo somewhere on her body.

"Alright, Pen," Aitana walked up to the table and high-fived the blonde.

"It's fun being spontaneous," Penelope told Morgan and Spencer as a means of reasoning for her choices.

Morgan shook his head with bemusement while Spencer seemed more reluctant to keep discussing the matter, even being in the same room while it happened.

"But don't you ever tell my parents about it," Aitana warned the trio, "They don't know about it."

"Aren't you 27?" Morgan raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'm Mexican — that means nothing to my parents." Aitana pretended to shudder at the idea of being caught.

~0~

Later in the day, JJ returned with Hotch from the coroner's office. While Hotch stayed back with Morgan in the hallway, JJ told the others about the interesting details the coroner had said about the boys.

"The M. E. said Bailey had blisters and burns, fingertips were raw, his trachea had internal scarring."

Penelope shuddered in her seat. She couldn't believe her ears. "That's awful." Everyone else agreed except for Spencer who had stayed relatively quiet for a few minutes. It was unlike him for the situation. He spoke after several minutes had passed by.

"Guys, that could be damage done inside an industrial-size dryer."

The whole team froze but no one looked more horrified than Penelope. She genuinely wished she had stayed behind in her office.

"That's how Massey's breaking these boys," Emily concluded. It was a crucial piece they needed to fit in their puzzle.

"But...but in all the materials it says they don't believe in corporal punishment," Penelope said weakly, still unable to believe it right away.

"Bailey writes about each of those boys and how they bullied him," Rossi said, gesturing to Bailey's diary they had acquired earlier in the day. His father must have read it and wanted revenge."

"Well does it mention Josh?" asked Aitana.

"Not at all."

"They why would Chris Shelton go after him?"

"What if Massey lied to Chris Shelton?" Emily introduced the new theory. "And set Josh up. And he convinced Shelton that Josh was responsible for Bailey's suicide."

"Plausible," JJ said but her tone hinted at a hole she still looked at. "That still doesn't explain how he found the secluded woods."

"Wait, where's Mr. Shelton's phone?" Spencer asked, already looking around for the phone.

Enily picked up the evidence bag off the table. "It's right here." She turned it on and went through the contacts. "It's got a couple of contacts on it, Somerville Academy being one of them."

Spencer intently watched her. "Any unknowns?"

"There's one unknown. It's a text." Emily opened up the message and saw a strange set of numbers.

"What are they?" Spencer still wanted to know the exact numbers on the screen.

"252-5727...and 802-8448." Emily looked up at the others, nose crinkling. "What?"

Something had gone off in Spencer's mind. He got up from his chair within the second and headed for the map on one of the boards. "Those aren't phone numbers. That's latitude and longitude." He tapped the spot they had labeled as the campsite for the boys.

By nightfall, the team had deduced that Massey was trying to take Josh out through Tawes. Time was of the essence.

"Massey was in his office," Emily told the group through the comms. when they took off in their cars. Only Penelope and Spencer stayed back to monitor them.

"He has no idea we're onto him," Rossi said plainly, "He's too arrogant to realize."

The three cars drove to their respective assigned locations. In the end, Hotch and Morgan's car was the lucky car to find Tawes and Josh, both seconds away from committing murder.

With Josh in custody, the team were able to straighten up the facts and form a tight case against Colonel Massey and Tawes.

~ 0 ~

"I am not telling you where it is." Aitana couldn't help but laugh at Morgan. He was tailing behind her as soon as they stepped out of the elevator. "Nor what it is!"

The team were returning to begin their paperwork before going home.

"I bet it's on the leg, isn't it?" Morgan asked, smirking down at the brunette. "That's where my guess was for Garcia."

Aitana paused by the desks and looked back at the blonde in question. "And was he right?"

Penelope shook her head. "Nope," she popped the answer. "I don't even have one."

Morgan's finger pointed directly at Penelope, eyes narrowing in flatout disbelief. "Don't even start denying it."

Penelope smiled in return.

Morgan's head then turned back on Aitana like a swing. "It's on your back, isn't it?"

Aitana rolled her eyes. "Not even close."

"Give it up already, jeez," Emily told Morgan with a shake of her head.

"I'm going to get it!" Morgan insisted, trying yet another location.

"No, it's not on my shoulder blade, Morgan," Aitana crossed her arms. "I do have some paperwork to finish. So sorry we can't continue this lovely conversation."

"I'm going to get it!" Morgan warned her, his finger already pointing at her.

Aitana rolled her eyes at him. "Why can't you be more like the others? Rossi didn't even ask about it."

"And he won't," Rossi clarified on his way past the group, causing a rumble of chuckles from the group.

"And look at Spencer – he hasn't even asked about it once." Aitana whacked Morgan's arm. "You're the nosy one here. Take some lessons."

Morgan huffed as Aitana took off for her office.

"Better luck next time," JJ patted his shoulder on her way to her desk.

"Please, everyone's curious," Morgan said, "It's human nature. Including you, Pretty Boy."

Spencer didn't appreciate being called out and much less the jab he got on the arm. "I didn't even say anything!" He'd purposely kept his mouth shut for a reason.

"Mhm." The way Morgan looked at him made Spencer feel like he was doing something he shouldn't. And he wasn't.

But he felt like his face was growing warmer by the seconds. He did not think of the places that famous tattoo was on — his flush certainly betrayed him.

[reidmania]

love letters | s.reid

summary; when you miss spencer while he is away on a case, you re-read all the love letters he has written you over the course of your relationship

warnings; established relationships, mentions case but doesnt go into detail, fem reader, reader is not a coffee drinker, fluff fluff fluff

an; fic six!! this is just pure fluff tbh. also can we appreciate the colouring on this fic. ITS SO PERFECT PRETTU PERFECT.

You’re lying on the bed that feels too big without him, your fingers idly tracing the edge of a soft, worn piece of paper. The clock beside you reads 2:12 a.m., and you can’t shake the emptiness settling over you as you stare at the ceiling, too awake to sleep and too tired to do anything else. Spencer’s been away for three days now, and every hour without him feels like it stretches on and on, the silence heavier than you’d ever thought silence could be.

Your eyes drift back to the drawer beside your bed, a drawer he never opens, but where you keep something he would recognize instantly. Tucked away are letters, dozens of them, each one a quiet reminder of him. They’re notes, really—not grand declarations, not epic poems. Just little reminders he’s left you over time, slipped into coat pockets or left folded on your pillow. You hadn’t intended to save them all, but now, having them close is the only thing keeping you grounded while he’s away.

You open the drawer and pull out the little bundle tied with a piece of twine. Your heart swells as you untie it, gently unfolding the first note. It’s one of your favorites, written on a torn scrap of notebook paper, one corner crinkled from a drop of coffee. Spencer had left it on your kitchen counter before heading out to work, months ago.

“If I could leave you notes all over the world, I would. But for now, just look outside—it’s raining, and I know that makes you feel calm. I’ll be home before the storm’s over. – S”

You smile, remembering that day. You’d found the note just before noticing the rain falling in gentle streams outside your window, and you’d waited with a blanket by the window, watching the clouds until he came back, just like he’d promised. He always knew how to turn your little quirks into anchors.

Setting that note aside, you reach for another. This one’s written on the back of a receipt from the bookshop downtown. It’s short and scrawled in his neat handwriting.

“You pick up this book as if it’s a friend you haven’t seen in years. It’s beautiful to watch. Don’t forget to mark your place in the story—I want to hear what you think. – S”

You laugh to yourself, remembering how he’d tucked it into the back of the book after you bought it. He hadn’t let you see it until you found it yourself one night, and the memory of the way he’d watched you read that note makes your heart ache just a little more.

You lie back against the pillows, shifting so you’re curled around his side of the bed. It’s silly, maybe, reading these notes over and over. But as you go through them, each one reminds you how much he loves you, how he notices things about you that you hadn’t even noticed about yourself. His love is a quiet kind, a series of small gestures and words, but somehow, it feels bigger than anything else you’ve known.

Another note catches your eye. This one’s on a tiny sticky note, a bright yellow square you’d found on your mirror one morning.

“You make coffee exactly how I like it, even when you don’t drink it. I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before. I’m lucky. – S”

You can still remember the warmth of his hand over yours when he found you reading it, how he hadn’t needed to say anything else.

The letters become a timeline of your relationship, a way to measure time not by dates but by memories, by little notes that remind you of the person you are when you’re with him. Each one has a tiny piece of his heart tucked into it, a small reminder that he’s with you even when he’s halfway across the country.

You read through a few more, feeling your eyes grow heavy but not wanting to close them. There’s something grounding about seeing his words, knowing that he took the time to write these little messages just for you. In a way, it makes the ache of missing him almost bearable, makes you feel connected to him in a way that’s both heartbreaking and comforting.

You’ve just set down the last one, a note he left in the middle of a crossword puzzle—“How do you always know the words I can’t think of? I love you.”—when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

It’s him.

You answer on the first ring, not even caring if he’ll be able to hear the lingering sleepiness in your voice. “Spencer?” you say, unable to help the warmth in your tone.

“Did I wake you?” His voice is soft, low, and there’s a hint of worry in it.

“Not really. I couldn’t sleep,” you reply. There’s a beat of silence before you add, “I was reading some of your notes.”

The smile in his voice is unmistakable. “You kept those?”

“All of them.” You can practically feel his surprise through the line. “It helps. You know, with you being away.”

He hums softly, a sound you know means he’s thinking. “Do you have a favourite?”

There’s a hundred favourites, but you know the answer without hesitating. “The one on the mirror, about the coffee. I don’t think anyone’s ever noticed something like that before.”

The line goes quiet for a moment, but you know he’s smiling. “I think about those little things a lot,” he admits. “I keep thinking about how much I miss you. I know I’ll be back in a few days, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing it was sooner.”

Your heart tightens, and you can’t help but imagine him sitting in some unfamiliar hotel room, thinking of you just as much as you’re thinking of him. “I miss you, too,” you whisper, barely able to keep your voice steady.

There’s another pause, the comforting kind, where neither of you needs to say anything. It’s enough just to be together, even like this.

“Do you want to hear about the case?” he asks gently, as if he’s afraid you’ll say no. You do, because it’s part of him, and you always want to know. So he tells you, his voice a familiar comfort in the dark, weaving through the details with that measured precision he’s so good at. You listen, nodding at the right places, even though he can’t see you, letting his words settle over you like a lullaby.

When he’s finished, there’s a soft exhale on the other end of the line. “Do you have any notes for me?” he asks, the hint of a tease in his voice.

“I could think of a few,” you say with a smile, glancing down at the scattered pages on your bed. “Maybe a sticky note on your phone: ‘Call your girlfriend as soon as the plane lands.’”

You can hear his smile widen. “I think I can manage that.” His voice softens, the words almost like a whisper. “I’ll keep leaving them, you know. Notes, I mean. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case you ever need a reminder. That I love you. That I notice the little things. That I’ll be there, even if it takes a while.”

You’re quiet, just for a moment, because the words stick in your throat. He always knows how to get to the heart of things, how to make you feel so understood. “I don’t need a reminder for that,” you say. “But I’ll still read them every time I miss you.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve written so many,” he murmurs, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be home before you know it.”

You nod, letting your eyes close. “I love you, Spencer.”

“I love you, too,” he replies, his voice like a gentle embrace over the line. “Sleep well.”

The call ends, but you hold the phone to your chest, listening to the quiet in your room. For the first time in days, it doesn’t feel lonely. Spencer may be miles away, but his words are here, resting against your heart, waiting for you in every corner of every room.

[alana-reid-2005]

i need some air-

[hoe4hotchner]

Bakery owner reader x loyal customer hotch

Something with the team finding out about reader and seeing hotch all happy and smiling and whipped for her.

Later them finding out they’re actually dating and penny freaking out 😭😭

Love, Freshly Baked | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Bakery owner!reader

CW: Nothing but tooth rotting fluff

WC: 1k

A/N: Forgive me for having this drafted for ages!!! But here it is, and it's super duper cute!!!

           The smell of fresh pastries and brewing coffee filled the small bakery every morning, a cozy retreat nestled on a quiet corner of the bustling city. You had been running the shop for a couple of years now, getting to know every regular by name, but there was one customer who had quickly become your favorite.

           Aaron Hotchner.

           He’d been coming in almost every morning for months, ordering the same thing - a black coffee and a croissant - but it wasn’t just the simplicity of his order that caught your attention. It was the way he always seemed so calm and composed, even when the stress of his job was written all over his face. You weren’t sure what he did - all you knew was he had to wear a suit for the job - but you could tell it wore on him. Still, every time he walked through the door, his shoulders relaxed just a little, and a small smile would tug at his lips when he saw you.

           What you didn’t know was that Hotch’s team had noticed this change in him. It started small - an extra cup of coffee in the morning, a slightly brighter demeanor after breakfast - but it wasn’t long before the rest of the BAU picked up on it.

           “Anyone else notice how… happy Hotch has been lately?” Emily asked one morning as they gathered around their desks, waiting for the next case.

           Morgan leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “You’re right. I haven’t seen Hotch smile this much in… well, ever.”

           "Maybe he’s just found a new way to deal with stress. Meditation, perhaps?” Spencer didn't look up from the book he was reading as he answered.

           Penelope scoffed, twirling a bright pink pen in her hand. “Please, Reid. Hotch isn’t meditating. Something - or rather someone - has got him smiling.”           

           The rest of the team exchanged looks, curiosity piqued.

           A few days later, their suspicions were confirmed.

           It was a slow day at the office, so Hotch decided to take a longer-than-usual lunch break. What he didn’t realize was that his team had quietly followed him to the bakery, determined to find out what - or who - was behind their boss’s newfound cheerfulness.

           “Look,” Penelope whispered excitedly from across the street, pointing toward the bakery window. “He’s smiling! He’s actually smiling!”

           Sure enough, through the glass, they could see Hotch leaning against the counter, his face lit up in a way they’d never seen before. And then there was you, standing behind the counter with that same soft smile you always gave him.

           “Oh my god,” JJ whispered, her eyes wide. “Is that the bakery he always talks about?”

           “Looks like it,” Derek said, grinning. “And it looks like our boy is whipped.”

           Inside the bakery, Hotch had no idea he was being watched. He was too focused on you - on the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about your latest recipe, the way your hands moved with such care as you worked on rolling out the dough. Every morning spent in your presence was like a small respite from the chaos of his job, and he found himself craving that peace more and more as time went by.

           You handed him his coffee, and for a moment, your fingers brushed his. The simple contact sent a warmth through him that no amount of caffeine ever could.

           “You know, Aaron,” you said softly, your voice carrying the warmth that always made his mornings a little brighter, “you’re going to start running out of excuses to come here if you keep this up.”

           Hotch chuckled, a rare sound that you loved hearing. “I’ll think of something.”

           As he turned to leave, he glanced back one more time, catching your eye and giving you a smile that was just for you.

           Meanwhile, across the street, Penelope was practically bouncing with excitement. “You guys! He’s totally into her! Did you see that smile? We have to find out more.”

           A week later, the team got more than they bargained for.

           It was a Friday afternoon, and Hotch had just returned to the office after lunch. He was in a good mood, his smile lingering longer than usual. That’s when Penelope burst into the room, holding up her phone like it was a trophy.

           “Guys, you are not going to believe this!” she exclaimed, her voice high with excitement.

           The team gathered around, eyes wide as Penelope pulled up a photo she’d found online. It was you and Hotch, taken outside the bakery on a sunny day. He had his arm around your waist, and you were looking up at him with a smile that could melt hearts.

           “They’re dating!” Penelope practically squealed. “Hotch is dating the owner of the bakery!”

           The rest of the team was equally stunned.

           “Okay, now it all makes sense,” Emily said, grinning. “The extra coffee, the smiling, the mysterious bakery trips.”

           Morgan shook his head, chuckling. “Never thought I’d see the day when Hotch would be this smitten again. It’s nice to see him happy.”

           Penelope, however, was still in full freak-out mode. “Oh my god, we have to do something! Maybe throw them a surprise party or - wait, no, that’s too much. But we have to celebrate this somehow!”

           As they brainstormed, Hotch walked back into the bullpen, completely unaware of the chaos his relationship had caused among his team. But when he saw the knowing smiles on their faces, he paused.

           “What’s going on?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

           Penelope couldn’t hold it in any longer. “We know about the bakery, Hotch! And about her!” she blurted out, practically glowing with excitement.

           For a moment, Hotch was silent, his eyes scanning the room before he finally let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I should’ve known you’d find out eventually.”

           The team erupted into laughter, and for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner didn’t mind being the center of attention - because, after all, it was all for a love that made him happier than he’d ever been.

[kryptonitejelly]

art donaldson x childhood friend reader who he hasn’t seen in a long time (whose had a crazy glow up) visits him at stanford at the same time as patrick and patrick starts hitting on her (him and tashi are in an open relationship) and art gets jealous.

(maybe she tells patrick she knows he’s in a relationship and he tells her tashi wouldn’t mind and she would probably be down to join idk)

art donaldson x reader // challengers // fluff; happy ending

a/n: i did not hit the prompt on the head 100%, but i’m not mad at it. this ended up turning into a monster i had no control off and ended up being alot longer than i expected (i haven’t done a word count, and did not mean for it to spiral into this but i enjoyed writing this very much). i am an art donaldson defender and this is my way of giving him everything he deserves (i hope you guys can see what i subtly tried to do in places - please leave comments/reblog if you see them, it would mean the world). also i typed this entirely on my phone without proofreading - you’ve been warned.

edit - as a disclaimer, i do not purport to comment on the victim/villain/any dynamic in the challengers universe. this space is purely for delusional thoughts and fiction only (see also)

-

Good luck.

Art shoots the text off to you before taking a swig out of cup of diet coke he has in hand. He leans forward, his forearms on his knees, teeth crunching on ice cubes as lets his gaze sweep across the court in front of him. It is devoid of players but already has the umpire and linesmen ready and waiting.

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

Art doesn’t expect to get a text back, so he checks his phone absently, but his face breaks into a tiny grin as he sees your reply. Most other players would have been hyper focused in the moments before a match but you, in the breezy light hearted way you always were, still had it in you to joke around.

Yes, but if you lose…

Art sends his response, the tiny grin still on his face.

I’ll feed you.

Your reply is fast and it makes art shake his head lightly a quiet chuckle dropping from his lips. He is just about to type another reply but is interrupted by the loud cheers that erupt from around him. Art looks up from his phone to see Anna Davies walk out on court in the same colour red as he had on. He claps politely with the rest of the men’s team who he was sitting amongst in the stands, in a show of support.

Art catches sight of Tashi and Patrick, both perched a few rows down from him with the rest of the women’s team both clapping and hollering in support. He notices the turn of Patrick’s head, no doubt to check in on Art but he doesn’t tilt his head or smile back in acknowledgement as he usually would - he is far too distracted by you.

Art can feel his jaw slacken slightly as you walk on court. He knows what you look like, but you in the flesh - Art thinks you are breathtaking. Your top is in a shade of your college’s colour, paired with a white tennis skirt that shows off a pair of toned, long legs. He catches a glint of metal just above your ankle, and he finds himself squinting in a feeble attempt to make out the look of the ankle bracelet that you have on. Art moves his gaze your face, taking in what he can see from his perch on the stands as you walk out towards your designated bench on the court, bright neon green bottle in hand, your tennis bag slung on a shoulder.

You had been close back home for most of your childhood and more formative teen years, and the both had kept in touch since he left for Stanford and you to your own school of choice, but too infrequently - the occasional text, more frequent reaction or comment on each other’s social media and the small conversations that spiralled from those interactions - like two planets orbiting in the same solar system, but not close enough. Life had overtaken, the excitement of moving your separate ways to a new environment, of college - tennis, academics, people, parties, it had overwhelmed you both, individually and together - made you just about forget that you had each other.

Art is transfixed. You are, lithe, glowing and with a hop in your step - Art finds himself questioning why he had never made more effort to keep you closer since you had both gone on your separate paths. He watches as you settle your bag on the bench, turning your gaze to the stands, eyes narrowing from the glare of the sun as you search the stands, only for your gaze to fix on his. Art sees you smile, lips turning up as you wink directly at him. It makes a series of heads turn to look back at him - your fellow team mates, the small group of supporters from your college who had come along, and the Stanford women’s team plus Patrick, half curious, half puzzled. Art can only raise a hand beside his chest in greeting as he remembers to breathe, letting the air he had been holding in his chest out.

He sees turn away while reaching for your phone which you had wedged in between the band of your tennis skirt and skin. Your fingers flying over the keypad briefly before you toss the phone into your tennis bag, hand fishing out your racket. Art feels his phone buzz in his hand and he looks down at the text that had come through.

Stanford still hasn’t taught you the right way to wear a cap huh.

Your text, a reference to his penchant for securing his cap on backwards, makes Art laugh, out loud, the sudden sound causing his team mates to crane their necks in attempt to look at his phone. Art swats them away as he refocuses his attention back on you, watching as you do a few hops, shifting your body weight from side to side before walking to your position on court, racket in hand. You lose the coin toss, and Anna choose to serve and yet your demeanour is one of ease, something Art can’t help but think is so stark in contrast to Tashi before a match. You aren’t smiling anymore, and yet in an unexplainable fashion, Art can feel you smiling as you bend to ready position, your hands flipping the handle of the racket around, poised to receive. He sees Anna toss the ball, her back arching, hand shooting up, before she connects her serve, and he watches you receive it with ease, your body moving in a smooth motion as you hit it back. Your strokes have their own weight and intention behind them, they are careful, thought out - but what surprises Art is he sees little calculation behind each. Instead, he watches as you let yourself feel each shot, as you let your instinct take control with each step. Art sees himself moving pieces of chess across the court when he watches replays of his game, but with your game, - Art manages to see colour, life, ease. He sees something he hasn’t seen in his tennis since he had last played with you, Art sees fun.

-

The match isn’t long drawn out, you win - effortlessly, just as each of your strokes and movement are. It frustrates Anna, as is evident from the increasing number of unforced errors she makes on her art which leads to her swearing loudly as you easily hit the last heavy, driving it quick and to the opposite corner of the court from where she is positioned. Art finds himself clapping enthusiastically along with the crowd as the umpire calls the game.

-

“You never told me you had such good looking friends,” Art feels an arm sling itself around his neck, pulling him close as he stands outside the court, waiting for you to finish your match debrief with the rest of the team.

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” Art questions as he tugs himself out and under, away from Patrick’s hold. His eyes remain focused on the door of the tennis court, waiting for you to emerge.

“Some strategy meeting,” Patrick offers as explanation, “refocusing or something like that.”

Art starts to say something in response only to be stopped by the view of you walking out from the courts. You both lock eyes, not too similar from how you had with you on the court and him on the stand. Art thinks that your smile is more brilliant up close.

Neither of you say a word, as you walk up to him, hands reaching up to tug his cap off his head only for you to pop it promptly on your own head, the right way around.

“The right way,” you say in greeting, pointing towards his cap which is now sitting on your head, the Stanford red a confusing contrast to your your top, now a loose fitting tshirt in your college colours, as Art chuckles while running a hand through his hair, attempting to shake out any flatness.

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

“Didn’t peg you for a traitor,” Art teases which makes you laugh.

“Do I get a hug,” you ask, both of you oblivious to Patrick who is just watching.

“C’mere,” Art says, his words inviting, but just almost slightly shy as he opens his arms to you. You step into his embrace, arms slipping around his body as Art brings his arms around your shoulders, hands bumping into the tennis bag you have on your shoulders. His embrace is familiar, and you let yourself relax into his hold.

“Could I get a hug?” you hear a different male voice chime in and you pull away to look curiously at the brunette who is standing just beside you both.

“Fuck off Patrick,” you hear Art say with no bite, but notice as he steps just that one inch in front of you in an attempt to place himself as some sort of barrier between you and the brunette.

“Patrick Zweig,” the boy says, ignoring Art as he proffers a hand to you which you shake to be polite while introducing yourself.

“Do you go to Stanford as well?” You take in his attire of jeans and a white tee, the lack of red - you would guess not but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I’m just visiting,” he says, “I’m actually playing on tour.”

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

“Your tennis is insane,” Patrick comments, ignoring Art, “when will I see you on tour?”

“I don’t intend on turning pro,” you respond with the flash of a smile.

“Why?” Patrick continues the conversation, now slightly befuddled, “you’re a natural.”

You shrug with a laugh, not answering and simply brushing off his question.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner and you can tell me why.” Patrick’s statement makes Art roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you taking your girlfriend our for dinner?” Art chips to which Patrick simply shrugs not phased in the slightest and answers with a no.

“Thanks, but I already have a dinner to cash in on,” you offer Patrick a smile, before glancing at Art.

“I’m sure Art wo-”

“Nope, fuck off Patrick,” is what Art says again, not even giving the other man a chance to finish his sentence. It makes you laugh, but you follow as Art grabs your hand, tugging you off in a direction away from Patrick.

“It was nice meeting you Patrick,” you call out, turning your head towards him giving him a wave with your free hand, “good luck on the tour!”

You walk for a minute or two more until the tennis courts are out of range before Art stops. He lets go off your hand, but reaches instead to grasp the top of the tennis bag on your shoulder. You raise a brow questioningly only to have him tug again with a slight tilt of his head. You relinquish the bag to him and he hoists it on his shoulder instead.

“What a gentleman,” you joke, but with a smile on your face.

Art does a mock bow with a flourish of his hand which makes you laugh with a shake of your head.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he extends a hand to you, waist still tilted in a bow, but his head up and looking at you.

“Lead the way,” you place your hand on top of his again.

“My car is that way,” he says jerking a thumb towards his right as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Its the second time in the day where he’s holding onto your hand but you don’t think too much of it and neither does Art. It feels right, comforting, familiar and like it’s supposed to be - and you go with it.

-

“Sorry about Patrick,” Art says as he fiddles with the paper casing of the straw. You are both sitting in a booth, plates cleared, your drinks left in front of you. Art is leaning back but being across him you can feel his knees knocking into yours. Dinner had gone by way too fast for Art’s liking. There had been both plenty to catch up on, as well as new information to learn and yet - it had felt like no time had passed between you both.

“He’s a bit of an ass isn’t he,” you say as you lean back, a mirror of Art. Your comment elicits a bark of laughter from him.

“Girls don’t usually say that about him.”

“What do they say?”

“Well not say, but they usually fall at his feet or into his bed,”

“No,” it makes you crinkle your nose while you shake your head.

“His girlfriend Tashi,” Art says, fingers still fiddling with the wrapper, “we played tennis for her number, she chose him.” Art said referencing the tennis match between him and Patrick. His sentence is blunt, to the point, and yet manages to be vulnerable at the same time. Art surprises himself as the words slip out from his lips so easily but it feels easy to tell you, safe to let himself be vulnerable, fine to let you view him for who he truly is.

You both sit in silence for a beat or two, the only sound between you both being the rustle of paper in Art’s fingers.

“Well,” you begin, “if she made you play for her number, maybe its for the better you didn’t win.”

Art’s fingers give pause and he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t feel like you’ve said anything wrong - just the obvious.

“I guess you are right,” he says after a few seconds of silence, before raising his head to look at you. There is a small smile on his face that you can’t quite place.

“When have I been wrong Donaldson?” You challenge in jest as you lift a leg under the table to jostle one of his lightly. Art leans forward, managing to capture one of your legs, your calf in the warmth of his palm.

“You really want me to start?” Art questions as you wriggle your leg in attempt to get away but no no avail.

“No.”

“Let’s see, the time we were six and you thought that the way to get strawberry milk was to dump pink food colouring in normal milk.”

“Stop,” you protest, but with a laugh on your lips.

“Or the time we were ten and you were convinced that the park we passed by on the way home from school was haunted and we had to sprint past that stretch of sidewalk for 3 whole months.”

“It was creepy!”

“How could we forget the one time we were thirteen and you thought that the way babies were made wa-”

“Arthur Donaldson,” you protest, managing to wrestle your leg out of his grasp which has grown looser with each anecdote. It allows you to set your foot on the ground, body shooting up to lean across the table, your palm coming to cover Art’s mouth to prevent him from announcing any further recollections from your youth.

You can feel his breath hot against the palm of your hand as his muffled laugher fills the space of your booth.

“Art,” you huff, relinquishing his full name for his nickname again. You move to drop your hand from his face, but Art catches a hold of your wrist. You sit back down, butt hitting the seat again, but with your hand still stretched across the table, wrist still loosely wrapped in one Art Donaldson’s hand. His shoulders are still shaking, now with a silent laughter.

“Art,” you try again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” Art exhales, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, freely and with such reckless abandon over something so innocent.

“Your dedicated court jester, always here to serve,” you mock with a roll of your eyes.

“You’ve been derelict in your duties,” Art says, now calm, but his eyes still twinkling under a mop of strawberry blonde hair. He keeps his tone light but what he really means to say is that it has been too long. You chuckle, not really having an answer for him.

“It’s been a while,” you finally admit, both your hands now resting on the table between you, you wrist now lying upturned in Art’s open palm. You had always been close

“It has, hasn’t it,” it isn’t really a question. Art has missed you - something he hasn’t realised until today. He had let himself be distracted by the complex, focused toxicity that was tennis, Patrick and Tashi, letting himself get sucked into the whirlpool, that he had forgotten to hold on to the things that grounded him.

“Maybe we should change that.”

“We should change that,” Art corrects you and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and the skin across your cheek bones tingling for some reason.

-

You aren’t quite sure how ended up here, but one thing had lead to another as you both made your way out of the restaurant and back to Art’s car, and the next thing you knew you were heading back to his dorm to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for some reason.

“How do you not find her hot?” You ask again for the tenth time as you both focus on the screen of Art’s laptop which is perched half on his thigh and half on yours. You are both sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of your heads damp from (separate) showers in Art’s ensuite, and you smelling quite like him from having used his toiletries and borrowing a short and shirt set, both of which which were a baggy fit for you.

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

“You’re rubbish Donaldson,” you snort, nudging your elbow lightly into his ribs with a simultaneous yawn.

“Tired?” Art asks, as you stifle another yawn.

“Yeah,” you accept, seeing little point in trying to hide it. You had after all, played a match today.

“I should really get back to the hotel,” you mumble, the back of your head leaning against the wall beside Art’s bed, eyes closing.

“You could just stay here,” there is a hint of hesitation in his voice because he isn’t sure if you’ll stay.

“Here?”

“My bed’s a double,” Art shrugs, “it would also be quicker for you to get to the matches tomorrow.” You aren’t playing but Art knows you would be expected to show up as a supporter for the series of matches between your two schools that continued tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” You don’t mind, after all - it’s Art, the boy you had known growing up, shared milkshakes and apple slices with after school, but you wanted to be sure he was truly fine with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Art moves to shit his laptop, lifting himself to bend over the edge of the bed to place the laptop on the floor, “you can take the inside.”

He flops down on the outside of the bed that is further from the wall too easily, his right hand going behind his head. Him moving forces you to move in tandem as you flop down on Art’s left, legs scrambling under the covers which Art has somehow managed to worm his way under in the flurry of movement.

Art reaches a hand over, his arm extending over you in the process to hit the light switch that he has beside his bed. It plunges you both into darkness, the only light the faint glow from the street lamps creeping in from below his curtains, and the glow of his digital clock.

You flip onto your right side, eyes closed, missing the turn of Art’s head as he observes yours features, closed eyes, lashes, nose, lips, finding his gaze lingering a moment too long on your lips.

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it,” you respond, lips curving into a smirk. It was a habit he had developed from the sleepovers you both had either in his living room or yours when you were both younger. You would close your eyes, just about to doze off, only to hear the faint shifting of a head against a pillow while Art turned to stare at you, his blue-brown eyes boring into you.

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

-

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” You are standing just a distance off the side of the bus which is supposed to take you back to campus. The matches for the day had ended, with your school having won by one match.

“Yeah,” Art replies, drawing out his words as he takes you in, he finds himself think that he had very much preferred you in his clothes despite them being oversized and not as well fitted as your own. You had managed to change into a fresh set of school colours before the matches started earlier that morning, having pleaded with your angel of a roommate to help you lug your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even had the chance to unpack the night before, over to the courts before the matches had begun. She had taken one look at you in Art’s tshirt, shorts with his hoodie thrown over, and had given you the widest smirk known to man despite your insistence that nothing had happened.

“I think you are scheduled to come play next month,” you refer to the Stanford men’s team, “I’ll see you then?”

“Or I could see you next week?” Art says almost shyly as he raises a hand to rub the back of his head. Art was a walking oxymoron, easily grabbing your hand, asking you to sleep in his bed, and yet somewhat bashful in the moments in between, “the drive over is an hour, max.”

“I would like that,” your response earns you a mega watt smile, his eyes twinkling at you. You both hear voices calling Art away from the bus, one male, one female - but Art ignores them both.

-

“Yeah and I told her-” your sentence is cut off by a nudge to your shoulder.

“Stanford” you friend explains with slightly too much glee in her voice. She had seen the smile on your face after returning from your away game last weekend, and the way you had been constantly glued to your phone, grin on your face, laughter peppering your days, the name Art Donaldson a constant fixture in your notifications.

Your head swivels up and to your left to spot Art leaning against his black jeep, hands crossed loosely across his chest. He smiles when he sees you, and your face mimics his expression.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” you friend calls out as she pushes you in Art’s direction. You pull a face at her while rolling your eyes, but letting your legs carry you towards Art.

“Are you stalking me Donaldson?” You ask in jest. Art had texted you half an hour earlier, asking which part of campus your last class of the Friday was in and where he should pick you up from.

“Hundred percent,” he says as he opens his arms; you step into his embrace for a brief hug, before he turns to open the car door for you. You unload your bag from your arm, dropping it onto the floor of the passenger’s seat before climbing in. You move to close the door, but Art is in between you and the door, reaching over to click your seatbelt into place.

“Ready?” He asks, and you nod, gazing into bright blue-brown eyes.

-

“Positivism,” Art says simply at your question of what theory of jurisprudence he found himself most inclined towards. You think for a moment, the side of your face propped up with a hand, elbow on the counter of the bar you both are seated at, your body turned towards Art who is likewise, facing you.

“Positivism,” you roll the words around your tongue, “I guess it tracks,” you shrug, before raising a brow slightly, “but how does an engineering undergraduate so much about jurisprudence?”

“I read.”

“On jurisprudence?” You frown nose wrinkling as you reach your hand out to place the back of it against Art’s forehead as if to check if he had a fever, “are you alright?”

“You mean you don’t read engineering daily in between sets?” Art questions you with mock horror as he reaches up to tug your hand down from his forehead. Your hand ends up, yet again, in Art’s, which is resting on his knee.

“Why engineering, and not something with a lighter course load?” The underlying question is clear - Art had every intent of going the pro track post-Stanford, and it wasn’t that he would be making full use of his degree anyway.

“I don’t want the only skill I have to be hitting a ball with a racket,” he shrugs, “it feels good to know I can do something else.”

You hum in bother understanding and agreement as you feel Art’s thumb begin to stroke the back of your hand. It distracts you, his calloused thumb sliding across your skin.

“In another life I’m sure you would have made a darn good engineer Art Donaldson.”

Your words make Art laugh, something he found himself doing a lot with you.

-

“So, this is me,” you point towards the dormitory buildings up in front and Art slows his car to a stop, pulling the gear into park. He kills the engine before hopping out of his seat. Your hand is on the handle of the door, ready to open it for yourself but Art is faster, his hand on the outside lever, pulling the door open for you.

Art offers you a hand as you hop out of the jeep before he shuts the door behind you.

“I had fun tonight,” you find yourself saying, suddenly feeling slightly shy for reasons you cannot fathom.

“Me too,” is what Art says in response, his hands stuck on the pockets of his jeans, heels rocking in a back and forth motion. You see his gaze on you, locking with yours before flickering to your lips. It makes you bite down one on side of your lip, an action which causes Art to gulp, making the Adam’s apple on his throat bob.

“We should do-”

“Can I kiss you?” Art blurts out his question in a burst and you can see his face flush slightly as he asks, a surprising and yet apt contrast to the Art who had no qualms about holding your hand in his. You feel your heart quickening, and with the silence between you both - you almost feel as if you can hear each beat.

“Yes,” you breathe out, a small nod accompanying your response. You see Art’s gaze flicker to your lips again, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this.

Art takes a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. You feel him cupping your face gently, and you tilt your head towards him. Your eyes flutter close and your lips meet.

Art’s lips are softer than you imagined. You feel his hands move, slipping down the sides of your body, circling your waist and pulling you closer. You drop your bag off your shoulder onto the floor as your hands move up, one to cradle the side of his face, and the other reaching behind, fingers weaving into soft curls as you tug him closer towards you. First kisses with someone new had always been awkward for you - teeth, lips, noses, as you each try to figure out the grooves and crannies of each other, but with Art - there was no such thing. It felt as if you both had learnt each other long ago, each in and out, the curve of his neck, and the the planes of your body.

You break the kiss first, pulling away, eyes still closed, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of you in the best way. Your forehead pressed against Art’s, body held firmly against his.

“I hope you aren’t going to send me packing after that.” Your eyes flutter open at his words.

“You packed an overnight bag didn’t you?”

“I might have,” Art pulls you even closer, his arms wound tight around you.

“Presumptuous much?” You run a hand through the front of his hair, pushing his fringe back.

“Just good at reading the room.”

-

12 years later

The skin across your knuckles are visibly tight, your hands clenched into fists, the only sign of the nerves that have taken over and riddled your body. Your eyes are shielded by dark oversized glasses, but your pupils are darting left and right as the final point of the match plays before you. The stadium is silent, save for the pop of the ball and the grunts from the two players on court. You hear an exceptionally loud grunt, the whizzing of a racket whipping through the air, and then you hear it before it hits you - the roar of the crowd, the thundering claps, and you feel your body freeze as even the announcer goes wild.

“Art Donaldson, ladies and gentleman, our new US Open champion.”

You remain glued to your seat despite the commotion around you - family, Art’s team, cheering, jumping, excited hugs being passed around. Your eyes watch as Art runs towards the center of the net, hand raised as he waves to the crowd around. He shakes his opponents hand, before waving to each section of the stadium in thanks of their support and there he is, jogging towards you. His hair is dripping with sweat, plastered to his head, shirt clinging to his body. He extends a hand to you even before he reaches the sideline and your body reacts from habit, standing, your hand extending back towards him. A warm hand, the back of it still slick from sweat grasps yours, tugging you forward lightly.

“Hi,” is all he says as Art’s lips meet yours. Art enjoys the tennis, but he doesn’t need it - doesn’t need the tennis, the fame, the money, or the trophies - all he needs is you.

You hear the crowd go wild at the display of affection, the announcer’s voice booming over the sound system with something about Art Donaldson and his wife, but it all fades - the commotion, the sound, the people, the tennis, because all you see is Art.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[sincerelybubbles]

hi!! i love the shy!reader x hotch fics, but i was wondering if you could do a completely opposite dynamic? where it's like a super flirty and playful reader who's goal is to try to fluster and get a reaction out of hotch? <33 feel free to ignore !!

cannon typical violence, mentions of blood, hospitals. not my best but it's something!! ty for the request <3

"Any chance to get your hands on me," you say, breathless, as Hotch presses the fabric of his jacket into the wound at your side.

He ignores you, shouting for a medic.

"Nothing to say, handsome?" Leaning back on your elbows, you watch as Hotch focuses entirely on the injury. Anything to distract against the pain would be welcome but you'd be lying if you said you'd ever abandoned any opportunity to fluster the man in front of you.

"I have plenty to say to you," Hotch says, voice low, peering up at you from under furrowed eyebrows, "starting either with personal safety or inappropriate conduct at work."

"Inappropriate? So you have noticed the flirting." You're starting to fade, the telltale signs of an impending faint thrumming in your numb fingers.

"Okay, save your breath," Hotch implores, hands pressing harder on the wound, shouting for help again.

You're sure the paramedic's are on their way, you watched Morgan slam the unsub to the ground moments before, and you're certain enough in your safety to chuckle and send a wink to him, "ah, got other plans for how I can waste it later?"

It doesn't even make total sense but Hotch chuckles, exasperated, still. Slowly shaking his head, he lets out a slow breath. "You're more trouble than you're worth."

"We both know you don't mean that." Pounding head, flashing lights (ambulance, maybe?), ringing ears. Yeah, you're going to pass out. Before you succumb, though, you reach forward to pat Hotch's cheek. "You care too much to mean it. And hey, handsome?"

Hotch hums, eyes blurring in your sightline and refusing to come back into focus. "Don't freak out."

---------

"Morning, sunshine." Hotch is reading in the chair next to your hospital bed, case files resting on his knee. The pain on your side is incessant, constant and unignorable.

"Don't freak out?" Hotch asks slowly, shutting the folder without looking at you. "A proper warning that you're feeling like you're going to pass out would be appreciated."

"It's okay, handsome, I'm good." Hiding a wince, you sit yourself up. "See, I was right, though."

"About?" Hotch asks, finally looking up to watch you at your movement. You can tell that he sees your pain so you talk quickly to cover it.

"You care! About little ole me, how flattering."

"Of course I do. Do you want me to call the nurse?" You feel out of breath, cramps between your ribs, white hot pain settling.

"And interrupt our alone time? Never."

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" You're distracted, banter subpar, as you struggle to maintain even breath.

"Hiding your pain."

"I'm not?" You pitch your voice up, questioning, attempting to trip him up so that he forgets his original argument.

"You are. I know you better than that - you're usually better at this," he gestures between the two of you, setting his case file on the table beside him and leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees to get a better look at you.

"What're you talking about?"

"Come on," he sighs your name, shaking his head and frowning at you. "Let me call the nurse if it hurts, you should sleep more."

"Trying to get rid of me?" You ask, flashing the smile at him that you always use to disorient others. Wide, all teeth, wrinkled nose, distracting distracting distracting.

It usually works but Hotch looks past it, catching the way your eyebrows pinch in the center.

"I'm calling the nurse."

"Stop, no," you reach forward to snatch the remote before he can grab it. You don't want to sleep, you want to spend more time with him, you want to get out of this bed, you want to stop feeling helpless as soon as possible.

"Seriously?" Hotch asks, half standing, leaning over you now.

"Seriously. I'm good. Maybe you don't know me as well as you think." You're half teasing, hints of truth littered behind the words.

You feel that way, sometimes. You're always fast to hide behind a tease, a flirt, a well placed laugh. You're aware it's a defense mechanism - do your best to make them love you superficially, they can't see the dirtier parts of you and run. Fluster Hotch so he can't see your attraction to you and reject you quicker than you can catch hope.

Hotch raises an eyebrow, settling back in his seat. "You take two sugars in your tea unless people aren't watching, then you add a third. You always triple lock your car, too aware that it doesn't do any good - we've all seen how little it matters in the end. You sit next to Spencer when he sleeps on the plane to help him with his nightmares when he wakes up, you pack an extra banana for early mornings to give to Morgan - you actually hate them, you just pretend to help him. You're more than you give yourself credit for."

Blinking slowly, mind sluggish from pain medication, you watch Hotch, fully aware that maybe you've been watched more than you've realized.

Slowly, you pass him the remote, a silent omission of relenting.

Perhaps it won't be so bad to be seen.

[dullwaterlily]

🌷 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 🌷 ~ fic recs ii

~ the gun ~ 𝐛𝐲 @auroralwriting

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort

~ wedding bells ~ 𝐛𝐲 @auroralwriting

spencer reid x reader , pt2 of the gun , fluff

~ litmus test ~ 𝐛𝐲 @pathologicalreid

spencer reid x biochemist!reader ( i love love this au ), flangst

~ in the absence of you ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reidmania

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spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ between silence and sorrow ~ 𝐛𝐲 @springtyme

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort

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spencer reid x reader , fluff

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spencer reid x prentiss!reader , series

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spencer reid x reader , angst

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spencer reid x reader , mainly fluff

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spencer reid x deaf!reader , fluff

~ tease ~ 𝐛𝐲 @parfaitblogs

spencer reid x shy!reader , flufff

~ copycat ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reiding-writing

spencer reid x unsub!reader , angst ,

~ copycat pt2 ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reiding-writing

spencer reid x unsub!reader , angst , i ❤️❤️❤️ this

~ kill for you ~ 𝐛𝐲 @reidmania

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort

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spencer reid x reader , angsty

~ burn notice ~ 𝐛𝐲 @pathologicalreid

spencer reid x reader , angst , i recommend margot’s whole masterlist!!

~ strawberry laces ~ 𝐛𝐲 @as-sweet-as-a

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ first fall of snow ~ 𝐛𝐲 @3verythingiknowaboutlove

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ lost connection ~ 𝐛𝐲 @darkmatilda

spencer reid x reader , angst

~ was i stupid to love you? ~ 𝐛𝐲 @incognit0slut

spencer reid x reader , angst

~ la vita è bella ~ 𝐛𝐲 @angellic4l

spencer reid x reader , fluff

~ in omnia paratus ~ 𝐛𝐲 @street-smarts00

spencer reid x reader , hurt/comfort , flangst

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spencer reid x reader , fluff

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