#CRIMINAL MINDS

[poorly-written-poetry]

[callsign-coolsquirrel]

Dad!Spencer 🥺💛

theyre going to go pick up mAMA *punching the air*

[flaminghotjareau]

[ssa-dado]

30 Seconds

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

masterlist(s)

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

[thesmallestpotatto]

Criminal Minds is funny because Hotch is living in a crime drama, and everyone else is in a workplace sitcom

[reidrum]

i think he knows

A/N: more doctor!reader!!!!!!! can you tell i love them. if you have requests for them please send them my way thank you <3

summary: in which spencer and reader try to find time for each other to have their first date

cw: doctor!reader, fluff, spencer being a flirt, medical talk

wc: 2.5k

A month passes before Spencer gets to see you again. A long, long month.

He stayed in the hospital for observation for another two days after meeting you, which were entirely medically necessary but don’t ask Spencer how his chest pain stopped the moment he signed the discharge papers because they just couldn’t keep him any longer. He knows it’s illogical, and a bit immoral, to fake symptoms for his personal gain. But who could blame him, had they seen you?

You didn’t make it any easier on him either, the times you’d check on him you’d leave him red for hours. Morgan had gotten suspicious seeing him be surprisingly high in spirits for someone who just got shot. You’d even talked to the nurses to get him extra jello, a love language in its own.

But his daydream was soon shattered upon his discharge, where he couldn’t just lay in a hospital bed and wait for you to come to him. He was to be sent to exile (home) to finish out the rest of his sentence (recovery), while he so agonizingly waits for the next chance to see you again.

The first day back home was already enough to send him into house fever, and he couldn’t even freely pace off the nervous energy because of his leg. You had given him your number, which meant he had to text you. It was a lot of pressure. He knew his assignment and yet couldn’t figure out what the right thing to start off this conversation with you should be.

Should he be formal and hit you with a simple Hello. Or give a bit of a flirty edge and add a heart emoji—one that Penelope taught him how to do, thank you very much. No, he should probably introduce himself since you don’t have his number. So you don’t think a random freak is trying to message you.

He types out a message and sends it before he can second guess himself anymore.

Spencer: Hey there, this is Spencer. Room 207?

Spencer flips his phone face down so he doesn’t manically check the notifications for your reply. You’re busy, you could be in surgery or doing rounds, or sleeping on a break or—Ding!

Or typing out a reply to him, perhaps.

You: Hi Spencer ☺️ how are you feeling? Spencer: Better now, how are you? You: Better now ;)

Oh, you’re everything to him.

Spencer: Are you on a break or am I bothering you? You: Lying down in an on call room bed! I love when you bother me please don’t stop

He actually giggles aloud, thank god he lives alone.

Spencer: Good, because I was running out of medical emergencies to fake just to get to see you again. You: Gasp, faking? Sweet talking works well on me, don’t get me wrong, but I might have to report you to the medical board. Spencer: I’m not that kind of doctor so I don’t think they’ll care, plus I think once they see you were my doctor they’ll side with me. You: Flattery will get you everywhere Spencer Reid be careful. Spencer: I’m sure hoping it does.

It goes on like that for a few weeks, to Spencer’s delight. Back and forth texting, the blatant flirting on both ends and his poor but endearing attempts to match it. He wants to get to know every part of you, and thankfully you’re just as curious as he is, so every waking minute either of you aren’t working ends up being spent by talking with each other.

Not just the casual things like where you grew up or where you went to school. No, he’s learned what your go to coffee shop order is, what latent hobbies you have hidden under your belt, what your favorite movie is and the specific line that makes it your favorite.

He’s told you about his favorite Doctor Who episodes—which you made him promise to show you someday, showed you pictures of his mom and his godson, his go to Indian food order for the place down from the office.

While Spencer loves talking to you, it’s simply not enough. He has to see you soon or he might combust spontaneously. He might do that anyway but it’s much more noble to have a good and valid reason to perish in such a way, like being in your presence.

Spencer: Hey, can I ask you something? You: Uh oh, I don’t like the sound of that. Spencer: Nothing bad, pinky promise. You: Ugh, the most sacred of promises <3 Okay, let’s hear it. Spencer: Are you free this Friday? You: AH I thought you’d never ask!! I am so free this friday night doctor, setting out my best dress just for you ;) Spencer: I’m sure everything you wear is beautiful, but I’m looking forward to seeing you again :) I’ll pick you up at 7? You: I’ll be waiting <333

He asks you out officially on Monday, and he spends the rest of the week praying to whatever unsub or case gods that are out there watching to calm down this week so they don’t get whisked away on a case. Tuesday through Wednesday only consisted of paperwork, and it gives him hope he might actually make it to Friday and finally get to see you. Even Morgan and Emily’s teasing of his suddenly happy mood can’t bring him down.

Thursday night comes around and he’s about ready to jump for joy as he finishes packing up his things. JJ walks by and he’s about to say goodbye to her when she waves a manila folder in the air, “Sorry Spence, conference room in 5.”

He deflates. So close.

Spencer lets his satchel slide off his shoulder and reluctantly pulls his phone out to open his message thread with you.

Spencer: Hi, I’m really sorry to do this but we just got called on a case. Do you think we could reschedule dinner? You: Hi handsome, don’t worry I understand. The world needs you crime fighters :) I’m free next friday?

He tries to ignore the way his heart stutters reading ‘handsome’ and types.

Spencer: I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Next Friday sounds great.  You: Be safe out there please Spencer: Always am. You: Need I remind you we met because you got shot on the job Spencer: That was one time, and I told the guy to shoot me. You: Yeah, that’s not making me feel better. Spencer: I’ll be safe, getting to see you next week will be my motivation to be extra careful. You: I’d hope you’re being careful regardless but whatever works for you, handsome <3 Spencer: Got a pretty girl waiting for me, I have to take extra precautions. You: Oooh that was good, you’re getting better at this Dr. Reid. Spencer: What can I say, you make it really easy. Spencer: Okay I have to go for the briefing, talk to you soon. You: Bye handsome 💞

The case comes and goes, an easy solve but it took a few more days than the team would like to admit for a case of this caliber. They return back only a week later and it’s another Thursday night where he’s hoping nothing steps in to prevent him from seeing you. He’s lucky in the sense that nothing is stepping in to prevent him from seeing you, FBI mandated break and all after a long case.

He’s not so lucky when you regretfully tell him you’re scheduled for surgery all day on Friday. You’re entirely too apologetic for his liking, for someone who flaked on you initially and had to alter your schedule to his. Especially for someone who, of all people, understands the busy lifestyles you both lead. He reassures you a thousand times over that it’s okay and that you can reschedule.

Spencer: Please stop apologizing, it’s okay I promise You: I just feel soooo bad. I was really looking forward to seeing you. Spencer: I know. But we’ll see each other soon. You: Promise? Spencer: Pinky. Did you eat anything? You: No I wasn’t hungry, too sad about not seeing your face. Spencer: A poor reason to starve yourself, I’m ordering food for you. Are you at the hospital? You: I’m at home but you don’t have to do that. Spencer: Okay but I want to, are you going to give me your address or will I have to find it myself? You: How are you going to do that? Spencer: I have my ways. You: It’s your tech analyst friend isn’t it Spencer: Maybe. You: So if I share your address it’s a HIPPA violation but when you do it no one bats an eye. Spencer: It’s for a worthy cause. Please let me do this. You: Fiiine. 1563 Rock Lakes blvd. What are you getting? Spencer: Thank you, honey. Pad thai with chicken satay. You: Ugh, you know me so well <3

To yours and Spencer’s dismay, this pattern continues on for another few weeks. Whenever your schedule finally clears, he gets dragged away on a case. When his schedule is clear you have back to back surgeries or consults. It’s like you just can’t get the timing right, no matter how hard you pine for each other.

The doubt travels and festers in both of your heads, the blatant evidence showing you that this may not work between you. Thing is, you both love your jobs too much to even try to accommodate the other. You’re both so busy you can’t even find time for one evening alone together.

Then George Foyet happened. The Haley Hotchner of it all, happened.

It hit the entire team hard, watching a colleague they viewed as family lose someone they loved so deeply and in such a torturous way. Spencer forced himself to take a step back and really evaluate what he was doing—was he willing to subject someone he cared about to the world he lives in? To the horrors they become exposed to? He still thinks about the heart attack he had when the Fisher King sent his mom a key after being in the same facility with her for some time. He’s not sure he can handle that kind of fear again.

Spencer knows he doesn’t have to do this, it’s so early in whatever this is between you both. You haven’t even had time to go on a date. Maybe your lives are just incompatible. Maybe he can save you before he ever even puts you in danger’s way—the ultimate act of valiant efforts in the form of preemptive measures. 

What you don’t know can’t hurt you, literally.

Ding!

But then you go and do something like this, where he gets to flip his phone over and blush red in the face at your name on the notification. That he gets to open his messages and be met with the beautiful sight of your face, smiling in a picture you took just for him showing off the coffee you got on your break and reading the book he recommended to you a few weeks ago.

And he’s just not sure if he can imagine a world where he doesn’t meet you and immediately fall in love with you.

Another week, another attempt at finally being able to take you on a date. Except this time fate has stepped in on both ends and sent Spencer on another case and you scheduled for surgery. Lovely.

The case goes fine again, save for the unsub with an overt penchant for clipping FBI agents aiming their guns at him. Enough damage to send him to the ER needing stitches on his forehead and a concussion evaluation.

The doctor seeing him was a good doctor, but he wasn’t you. It was a man who, no offense to him and his medical training, definitely did not have hands as soft as yours stitching him up. He sighs out loud in the ER as he waits for a nurse to come by and discharge him. God, he wishes it was you. 

“Seeing other doctors behind my back? I thought we had something special, Dr. Reid.”

He has half a mind to look up at the sky and mouth God?, as he feels his prayers have been answered in the most literal way.

“What are you doing here?” he asks incredulously, fully in disbelief at the sight of you in front of him.

You smile and step towards him, closing the curtain behind you, “I told you, I had surgery.”

“In Maryland?”

“In Maryland,” you nod, “They needed someone with my background to help out so I flew out.”

God, you’re so smart it physically hurts him how attractive it is.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“I didn’t, I was looking at the patient log to see if they needed help in the ER when I saw an S. Reid age 27 in bed 4 and thought to myself ‘This couldn’t be a coincidence.’”

He chuckles softly, “Well, you found me.”

“That I did,” you lean in to inspect his cuts, “I thought I told you to be careful, handsome.”

The blood rushes to his face, “I know, maybe I just knew I’d get to see you this way.”

You gently readjust the butterfly bandage on his forehead, securing it more tightly. “You could have called me if you missed me, Spence.” you whisper.

“You were busy.”

“So were you.”

Spencer pauses, “Are you busy now?”

You step back and look at his face, his borderline puppy eyes doing the most to convince you to say yes when you were about to ask him the same thing in about another minute if he hadn’t. 

You grin widely and check your watch, “I clock out in an hour. Wait for me?”

“Always.”

It makes all the missed connections and unaligned schedules entirely worth it when he gets to finally pick you up from your hotel room for your date turned into a weekend getaway. Spencer doesn’t even bat an eye when Morgan teases him about the mystery lady he’s staying back in Maryland for, or when Hotch gives him a multilayered nod of approval when he asks for a few personal days.

It’s entirely worth it and more when you and Spencer drive up to a lake house to spend the weekend together, and you joke about how your first date ended up being your first trip as a couple. Spencer doesn’t even stumble when you refer to yourselves as a couple, just tightening his arm around your shoulder and kissing the crook of your neck softly.

It’s the most worth it when, even after you said you were a couple, on the last night after staying up watching Doctor Who reruns post other activities, Spencer curls his arm around your body tugging you closer to his and whispers into your hair, “You will be my girlfriend, right?”

To which you simply beam up at him and whisper into his neck, “Of course, handsome.”

[tomcriuse]

Criminal Minds 3.07 'Identity'

[goorgeousz]

hotch is not able to tell you no. ever.

drabble

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

content/tw: pure fluff, established relationship, reader doesn't have a specific gender!

a/n: I just couldn't get out of my head the image of being spoiled by hotch. I just feel that he goes out of his way to make sure you're happy. Ugh, I love him!

dividers by @uzmacchiato

“Aaron, baby. You could’ve just said no.” 

Hotch stared at you like you just said the most absurd thing that he’s ever heard.

To him, you really did.

Since you walked into his life, from day one, he could never, ever deny you anything. Anything being, five more minutes in bed, dressing up together for halloween, getting a sweet treat in the middle of the night, massages and every silly little thing your creative mind could come up with.

This is the reason why, on a wednesday night he got home one hour later than he used to. Ever since you and him started dating, everytime Aaron could find himself alone between one task and the other, he called you. They were quick calls, really. Almost all of them are about five minutes: many times less than that, never much more. He checked on you, maybe made plans for the night. Mainly just listening to you ramble about whatever chorus you were up to at the moment. He truly just wanted to hear you, and make sure you knew he was thinking of you.

It was on one of those calls when it happened. At some point between those 3 minutes and 47 seconds of talking you mentioned you were craving blueberry muffins with powdered sugar on top. You asked him if he could get you some from the bakery next to the BAU on his way home. He (obviously) said yes, and you moved on. You didn’t even think about it after that, it was just a moment. But your wish (every single one) was a (very urgent and imperious) command. 

So, when he walked out of the office to find out that said bakery didn’t have any blueberry muffins left, he decided to check on another bakery on his way home. And another one. After the third failure he decided to make his life mission to find the best blueberry muffins available and bring them home to you.

That’s how he found himself across town, with 30 minutes added to his already long path home and a package of (warm!!!) blueberry muffins (with powdered sugar on top, of course) on the passenger seat. You greeted him by the door the second you heard him unlocking the front door, worried out of your mind about why it took him so long to get home after he texted you he was leaving. And when he explained, you almost couldn’t keep yourself from combusting into flames at how adorable he was.

“But… you asked me to.”

“I know.” you pointed, still giggling and holding your arms around his neck, looking at him lovingly “But I didn’t want to disturb…”

“You didn’t.” he dismissed, too quickly “You never do.” he added, softly. You gave him a few pecks on the lips, smiling so hard it was almost hurting your cheeks. “Did you like it?” he asked, and in moments like this he looked like a boy, with eyes slightly wide, scanning your face looking for any signs that he did something right. You loved him a little bit more (as if it was possible) everytime he did it.

“I loved it, baby. They smell so good, I might eat the whole box right away!” you exaggerated, and was rewarded with a chuckle in response.

“Then it was worth it.” he concluded, giving you another pack on the lips.

“You spoil me. Just promise me that, the next time you will just tell me no.” he scrunched his nose at you.

“Of course, honey.”

(he never did).

[pillowprincess4logan]

the team is chasing the sickest murderers to ever live meanwhile these two on the phone sexually harassing each other

[sweetheartspence]

♡ a night to remember - s.r. ♡

a night out for garcia's birthday is just what the team needs. that is, until you get drunk and spill your feelings to spencer.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader genre: fluff, a bit of angst content: drinking, fem!reader, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, miscommunication of sorts (oops), fluff, drunken kisses, a teeny tiny bit of angst, confessions, mutual pining, happy ending, not proofread wc: 3k a/n: ummmm maybe i like miscommunication. this scenario lives rent free in my mind (that and jealous!spencer... perhaps that needs to come soon). likes/reblogs/comments are SO appreciated (i giggle and kick my feet whenever i get any kind of comment on my fics), asks/requests are open! :) my masterlist!

Spencer is knee deep in paperwork when he receives the invitation.

"Hello, gorgeous people!" Garcia sings, flouncing into the bullpen, her skirt swishing around her. Spencer thinks that she might have a little too much energy, but you immediately smile.

"Hey, Pen," you greet her, setting your pen down and rolling back from your desk. "You're in a good mood."

"And why shouldn't I be, considering that it's my birthday this weekend!" She beams, throwing her hands out dramatically in a bout of jazz hands. "And every single one of you are coming out with me to the bar this weekend."

Morgan cheers, coming up behind Garcia. "Oh, hell yes! Great idea, mama." He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her tight against his chest.

Oh no. Going somewhere loud, crowded, and probably horribly contaminated with germs, just to watch other people drink and have to call them taxis at the end of the night? His brow creases, and he quickly speaks up. "Actually, I have-"

Garcia fixes him with a sharp glare, and he snaps his mouth shut. "No exceptions," she says, and you grin at her adamant tone.

"It's gonna be fun, Spence," you tell him, leaning your head back to give him a big smile. His heart beats a little faster in his chest. "We can all get all dressed up, and go dancing, and get drinks-"

Garcia squeals. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes. See, someone gets my vision," she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "It's settled. And mandatory," she says, shooting Spencer another look. Spencer gives a resigned sigh, grumbling under his breath.

You roll your chair over to his, bumping his shoulder with yours gently. "It'll be fun, Spence," you repeat, tilting your head to give him another one of your blinding smiles, and Spencer is grateful that he's sitting down, or otherwise his knees might have given out. "We'll stick together, yeah?"

Spencer manages a weak smile, and who is he to deny you, when you're sitting there and smiling at him all sweet and hopeful. "Yeah," he agrees, nodding. "It'll be... it'll be fun."

---

Spencer was not having fun.

The bar was grimy, just as he had expected, and he's shoved into a booth with Morgan, JJ, and Will, who are making casual conversation and yelling over the music. Spencer is nursing the same beer that had been shoved into his hand the moment he walked in.

Someone had ordered round after round of shots, but he had dumped his in a nearby potted plant. There was already a headache tugging at the back of his mind from the bass pounding in his ears, and he's not particularly keen on making it worse. Everyone else is fairly tipsy.

You, Emily, and Penelope are especially tipsy, and Spencer can't tear his eyes away from where the three of you are dancing together. You're wearing a dress, a short little thing that swishes around your hips every time you move, and Spencer is pretty sure he's losing his mind. His breath catches when you laugh, your eyes crinkled, your head thrown back, hair cascading over your bare shoulders.

"You're staring, man." A voice interrupts his thoughts, and he looks over to see Morgan looking at him with a shit-eating grin.

Spencer's cheeks heat up, and he takes a small sip of his beer. "Shut up. Was not."

"Were too," Morgan shoots back smugly.

Spencer can't help but roll his eyes, sinking down in his seat. "Whatever."

Morgan laughs, tapping his beer bottle against Spencer's. "It's not a bad thing, you know. That you were staring. Little miss thing over there has some moves."

"I wasn't-" Spencer starts to protest, but Morgan gives him a look.

"Seriously, man? Trying to fool the room full of profilers?" Morgan raises an eyebrow. "You know, I think the whole world knows you have your eye on her."

Spencer's eyes widen a fraction, and he begins to sputter. "But-"

"Relax, man," Morgan grins. "Everyone in the whole world, except for her."

It's that moment when the three of you make your way back to the table, a thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, laughing loudly. You flop down next to Spencer, taking a big swig of your drink.

"I can't believe you guys didn't want to dance with us," you pout, giving Spencer your best puppy dog eyes.

"We prefer to watch, pretty girl," Morgan pipes up, giving you a wink, and you giggle. Spencer nudges into Morgan's shoulder, giving him a look that very clearly says knock it off.

"I'm not much for dancing," Spencer mutters, trying not to look directly at you. He feels like he's in the presence of the sun, burning bright and shiny and hot, and looking at you for too long will make him go blind.

You lay your temple against his shoulder, sighing, and Spencer tenses. You're drunk, he reminds himself. You don't know what you're doing. You'd never offer affection this freely if you were sober.

"That's okay," you murmur, your voice far too soft for the chaotic environment of the bar. "The more people that were dancing, the hotter it would be, and then I would get all sweaty and gross. So it's really a good thing, honestly."

Spencer knows you're trying to make him feel better, and his heart clenches. You're speaking right into his ear, your breath tickling his skin, and he doesn't know if he's ever felt so aware of his surroundings.

"You could never be gross," he says back, his voice just as soft as yours. You let out a huff of a laugh, and he feels it on his neck.

"You have to say that cause you're my friend," you tell him, wrinkling your nose. Your face is flushed, from both the dancing and the alcohol, and he wants to reach out and smooth the creases from your eyebrows.

"I'd say it even if I wasn't," he responds, and he has to fight the urge to wrap his arm around you, to pull you closer into his side and keep you there.

Emily arrives back at the table, brandishing a tray with yet another round of shots. You cheer, sitting up, and Spencer immediately misses the feeling of your cheek against his shoulder. She passes them out, grinning, and you toss yours back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Spencer pretends to take his as well, tipping his chin back and grimacing, and pours it into the potted plant. That poor plant, he thinks. If plants could get drunk, this one certainly would be. Luckily, it looks to be some kind of snake plant, he thinks. Hardy, and can withstand the dehydrating effects of the alcohol.

You turn to smile at him, your eyes slightly glassy, your hair mussed and your gaze unsteady. "It's good to see you let your walls down a bit," you tell him, gesturing to the empty shot glass in front of him. Spencer conjures up a smile, forcing it wider than it would normally be while he's sober.

"Yeah," he mutters, shrugging his shoulders. "Seemed like a good night to let loose."

He doesn't like lying to you, but he knows if he didn't at least pretend to drink, the team would be pushing shots into his hand. And besides, you look so happy at the prospect of him relaxing, that he can't quite bring himself to tell you. Spencer takes another tiny sip of his beer, turning his attention to the rest of the team's conversation.

---

About an hour and another round of shots later (sorry, plant), Spencer is all but ready to call it quits and retreat to his apartment for the night. You're ridiculously drunk, your voice a little too loud and right in his ear. You've decided that the best use of your time is hanging onto Spencer's arm, and he can't say that he's complaining.

You're in some kind of animated discussion with Emily, the content of which he hasn't been paying attention to, too focused on the way your lips wrap around the syllables of the words, the way your eyes are lit up. He's hyperaware of the fact that he's staring. You're too drunk to notice.

"No, and then- and then he said-" You break off into a fit of giggles, slumping back into your seat, bringing Spencer's arm with you. He doesn't stop you, just watches as your brow furrows suddenly in concern.

"Jesus, I'm so nauseous," you moan, clutching tighter to Spencer's arm. He can feel his muscles tense.

"Okay, let's get you home," he murmurs, gently extracting his arm from your embrace, and helping you out of your chair. He's met with a round of boos from the team, but silences them with a glare.

"Thank you both for celebrating with me," Garcia says sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

You wrap her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Like I would ever miss my favorite girl's birthday," you tell her, your voice dripping with fondness. She hugs you back, her movements a bit uncoordinated, but affectionate all the same.

Once you've finished with your goodbyes, you slip your hand carefully into Spencer's, and he can feel his shoulders tense up, his cheeks begin to color. You're drunk, he thinks again, a silent mantra.

"Alright," he says softly, tugging on your hand gently, leading you outside of the bar. The cool night air feels fantastic on your flushed skin. "Let's call you a cab, yeah?"

While Spencer fumbles with his phone, presumably calling a cab, you watch him. You lean against the brick wall of the bar, tilting your head. The street lamps cast a soft, orange glow across Spencer's face, and you find yourself wanting to trace the shadows of his cheekbones with your fingertip. His long, dark eyelashes fan out over his cheeks when he blinks. When he looks back over at you, his lips quirking up in a soft smile, revealing a dimple on the side of his mouth, you forget to breathe.

"Cab's on its way," he tells you, leaning against the wall next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. Does he even know how pretty he is? You wonder. He has to know, right?

You turn your head to look at him, and the glint of the streetlight catches on one of his curls. You reach up, unconsciously, tucking it gently behind his ear, and you leave your hand there.

His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, and you watch in fascination as the tips of his ears turn pink to match his cheeks. You mistake it for the effects of the alcohol, or perhaps the cold air of the night.

"What are you doing?" Spencer asks, his words barely a breath. Your eyes follow the path of your fingers as you run them down his cheek, coming to land on the side of his neck.

"I don't know," you whisper, and you tilt your chin up, your nose brushing against his, and you press your lips gently to his.

It's soft, chaste, maybe a bit awkward, and Spencer's heart stops in his chest. He freezes, barely daring to breathe, as your lips move against his. His lips are chapped, from chewing on them insistently when he reads, and warm, and you've never felt anything more perfect in your life.

Spencer's hands come up to grip your shoulders, and you think he's finally going to respond, to kiss you back.

He pushes you back, not aggressively, but decidedly removing your lips from his. His lips are pink, glistening with spit, and he looks gorgeous.

The next thing you notice is the stricken look on his face.

"You're drunk," Spencer whispers, his eyes big and shocked and sad. You feel your heart sink in your chest.

Shit. Shit, he doesn't want this, doesn't want you. This was a terrible idea, and now you've ruined the friendship, lost your friend-

"You're drunk," he repeats, his voice firmer now. Spencer takes a step back, putting some space between the two of you. Your eyes water.

"So are you," you say weakly, your voice threatening to be carried away by the wind. Spencer can see the tears pooling in your eyes, the feeling of rejection washing over you, and he hates himself for it.

"I'm not-" he begins, but what he's not, you never get the chance to hear. A cab pulls up to the side of the road, and Spencer takes another step back from you.

"Your cab," he says quietly, gesturing to the car. He takes you by the elbow, and opens the door for you. He helps you into the cab, handing the driver a few bills. When did he get those out?

Your eyes are big and glassy as you look up at him, biting your lip so hard that it threatens to spill blood. You don't care. You want it to hurt, to reflect the state of your heart.

"Text me when you get home safe," Spencer murmurs, closing the door after you. He taps the top of the cab, and the car peels away from the curb.

Spencer sighs, raking both of his hands through his hair and down his face. You're drunk. You're drunk, he thinks. You absolutely never would have done that if you were sober. You thought he was drunk, too. His mind is racing, his heart pounding. It's not like you'll even remember this in the morning.

---

It's Monday morning, and you're ignoring Spencer.

Okay, maybe ignoring is a strong word. You've been cordial, polite, but still terse, greeting Spencer with a tight lipped smile and none of your usual bubbly enthusiasm. You had already had a cup of tea on your desk, and hadn't bothered to drop by his desk with a freshly brewed cup of coffee like you usually do, followed by a snippy comment about the amount of sugar it contained.

Spencer hates it.

Hates it, and can't quite figure it out. Are you embarrassed? Obviously you remember something, otherwise you wouldn't be so cold. Do you regret it? Do you think he took advantage of you? You had definitely initiated the kiss, so that couldn't be it. Right?

It's driving him insane.

As soon as the clock hits five, you've slung your bag over your shoulder, making a beeline out of the bullpen, without saying goodbye. Spencer scrambles to follow, shoving a couple of papers into his messenger bag and walking as fast as he can out of the bullpen without breaking into a dead sprint.

"Hey," he calls after you, but you don't turn. "Hey!"

He catches up to you, grabbing onto your shoulder and turning you to face him. Your face is carefully neutral.

"Oh, hi," you say, flashing him the same, tight lipped smile. It doesn't reach your eyes, doesn't make the corners of your eyes crinkle like he loves. "I didn't hear you behind me."

Spencer knows that's a lie, but he lets it slide. "I needed to talk to you. About last weekend."

You let out a laugh, but it's forced and high pitched and wrong. "Oh, yeah. Crazy night, huh?"

Spencer stares at you, waiting for you to say something else, but you just fidget uncomfortably.

"You kissed me," he says finally, his eyes boring holes into your face.

You wince. You were hoping he was drunk enough that he forgot, that things could go back to normal, like he didn't push you away and shatter your heart.

"I'm so sorry," you rush out. "I was drunk, like, ridiculously drunk, and you were there, and you were drunk too, and-"

"I wasn't," Spencer interrupts. His gaze is intense, and he takes a step forward, almost toe to toe with you. You have to tilt your chin back to look at him.

"You... weren't...?" You ask weakly, suddenly hating yourself even more. Great, so he was fully conscious, when you embarrassed yourself.

"No," he says softly, shaking his head. "But you were. And it wouldn't have been... right. To kiss you like that."

Your heart beats a little faster, your stomach swooping. "Oh."

Spencer huffs out a laugh, the tips of his ears turning the same shade of pink from that night. It's more vibrant in the fluorescent lighting of the BAU's hallway. He reaches up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "That's not really how I wanted our first kiss to go, if I'm being honest."

"You've... thought about it?" You squeak, your cheeks flushing at how vulnerable you sound. He's holding your heart in his hands, has been for weeks, and he has no idea.

"Yeah," he breathes, nodding. "I usually imagine it at your doorstep, after I've taken you on a really lovely and romantic date, but I guess life works out in funny ways."

You're pretty sure you've stopped breathing, your eyes darting between his gaze and his lips, and you lick your lips unconsciously.

"I wanted to kiss you," Spencer whispers. "I did. I promise. Just... not while you were drunk."

You go up onto your toes, brushing your lips against his hesitantly, with none of the confidence of the first kiss you had shared outside the bar.

But this time, Spencer kisses you back.

His lips move against your own, his hand coming up to curl into the strands of hair at the nape of your neck, and every single thought flies out of your head. All you can think about is him.

There's a tiny bit of tongue, just a brush of his tongue along the seam of your lips, but before you can open your mouth eagerly, he's pulling back, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes are closed, and you can see a faint, barely there freckle on the bridge of his nose. You want to kiss it.

You do, taking his face in your hands and tilting it down, pressing a kiss along the bridge of his nose, because you can. Spencer rewards you with a laugh, the sweetest sound you've ever heard.

"How's that for a do over?" Spencer asks, his grin lopsided, his eyes shining. You pull him down for another kiss, smiling against his mouth.

"Yeah, it was alright," you tease, lacing your fingers with his. God, this feels right.

"I do believe that I was promised another kiss, though. After a really lovely and romantic date?" Spencer laughs again, his face bright and happy.

"Yeah, I think I can arrange that."

[baubaby-hotchnerholic]

[parfaitblogs]

sleeping with the lights on ❀ s. reid x reader

in which the first time you kill an unsub hits you like a truck, and spencer reid is there to pick up you back up. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: comfort very little hurt. ptsd. description of someone being shot. this is my thesis for my phd in yapology. spencer reid loves you sooo much like sooo much. word count: 2k a/n: i miss posting… i miss you guys… im deeply sorry for not posting for over a month. i have so much in the works i promise i promise!! anyways yesss i read dostoevsky before writing this im sure you can tell russian novelists take over your brainnn.

"thank you for loving me when i still tasted of heartache and war." (nikita gill)

There is a certain shade of fear behind a person's eyes when they know they are about to die. 

When there is a gun levelled at their heads, and the wrong thing spills past their mouth, even the most psychotic of God's men will see a second of fear before there is tranquility. Survival instincts kick in, and no narcissistic, smug facade can ever deny that specific human brain's worst fear is dying. 

Is it not most? 

Fear of what dying feels like. Does it hurt? When every organ in your body shuts down, is it slow, and the most agonising of feelings? Or is it quick; painless? Does your brain shut down first and therefore render you unable to actually register the agony you're in? What happens after is an entirely new rabbit hole to delve into. 

Where does our conscious actually go after life? A permanent state of nothingness sounds lonely. Heaven implies there is a celestial being behind everything. Reincarnation means you have to live through this doomed from the start world all over again, and you won't even know it is your second, third, hundredth time on Earth. 

Guilt. 

An annoyingly human emotion that will eat at you from the inside out, chewing its way through organ and bone, consuming you so wholly you stop believing you are worth anything to anyone. You can nurse your own brain back to a faux sense of health, rocking back and forth on the cold wooden planks of apartment flooring, but you can never erase the guilt that takes over your body. For when it is this strong, it is more than just a mere pit churning in your stomach.

It's cold on your side of the bed.

He's pretty sure it's what prompts him awake at the glaring hour of two forty seven in the morning. 

Rumpled sheets provide him the needed comfort that he didn't imagine you going to sleep with him only mere hours earlier, but the lack of warmth left on the fabric frightens him into thinking you've been awake for hours. He pats it down anyway, seeking any inkling of body warmth left within the fabric. Proof that you are still nearby, and haven't had enough time to run too far. 

You haven't. 

By the time his eyes adjust to the blackness of the room, he can see the shadowed outline of your body sitting at the end. Head just visible from your balled up position on the floor, rocking yourself as a desperate attempt to comfort whatever is going on inside your brain. 

He says your name quietly, voice a barely there whisper as he shuffles across the bed to lower next to you. It sounds crackly to your ears, and he's in dire need of water if he wants to fix the hoarseness of it. But you are also as quiet as you hum in response, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands and turning your head to look at him. 

He doesn't say anything as he coaxes you into his welcoming arms, fingers brushing against your scalp, and accepting your heavy hearted emotions as they are. He lets your walls crumble, and holds on as you sob into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt in a way he doesn't particularly like, but he will ignore it for you. 

There's a layer of distaste for the position you are in that almost wills you to rip his arms off of you. Guilt coincides with self loathing more often than not, and he is holding you as if you are soft. 

You are not.

"Do you ever think about dying?" you whisper.

There is silence in his apartment that follows your question, and your eyes transfix on the glow of the moon through the sheer curtains on his windows. It blurs with the fabric, the illusion of a fuzzy circle. You wouldn't know it was the moon if you weren't holding onto its existence with a vicelike grip. 

"I do," he finally provides you, predictably so. "A lot."

"I didn't," you reply, clasping your fingers with his own hand, tracing circles over his knuckles to focus your mind. "Not intensely. Did you know being shot can sometimes feel like nothing?"

"For the first few moments, yes," he nods. Of course he did. "It's due to the nerve networks being our receptors for pain, as opposed to the tactile sensors. Signals move slower between the brain and the nociceptors, which are our pain receptors."

"Do you think he felt nothing when he died?"

A question weighing tonnes. He's silent for a few crucial moments, and you slowly come to your own conclusion of what the answer would be. Probably yes, for you had located where the bullet landed after you'd fired it, and you knew whatever pain receptors he had still functioning would never get those signals to his brain. He was brain dead before he'd even hit the floor. 

"I can't tell you what he felt for absolute certain," he replies, gently shaking your body out of its frozen position so he could lift your limbs atop of his own. He lets you finish the movement of climbing into his lap, face burying into his neck, his arms encircled tight around your waist. "You'll drive yourself crazy thinking about this."

"I feel crazy."

"Honey," he places his palms on either side of your head and pulls it back so he can look at you, thumbs collecting the tears that fall from the movement. "Why is this overwhelming you?"

"I killed someone, Spencer," your voice wavers as you speak, cutting in and out, and you were already so quiet. 

"You killed a man who killed a lot of people," he reasons. "Do you think he sat awake each night and pondered how they felt dying?"

"No, but—"

"—Then why are you?"

You stare at him in bewilderment for a few moments. You're aware there is a point within his accusatory words, but it does not communicate entirely, and you do not like the disdain for the man in front of you that wells in your chest. 

"Because I'm not a psychopath," you murmur, fingers beginning to fidget with the hem of his own shirt. 

He lets out a puff of air that hits your lips signalling his slight frustration, but he nods his head. 

You call him out on it anyways.

"You're angry with me."

He offers you a small smile. 

"I am not angry with you," his fingers poke your sides, and you squirm. "I'm watching you disappear in front of my eyes. I'm concerned."

Reasoning with him is futile. 

Reasoning with him had been futile. He had his forearm wrapped tightly around a nineteen year old girl's throat, and a gun indenting into her temple. Morgan still tried to, and you'd watched nearly helplessly as the bullet clicked into place in the chamber. 

Car crashes move time slowly, it's said. Watching a girl nearly die has the same effect, you suppose. Everything was so clear. You could map out every ridge on the gun, down to its tiniest, minute details. Every engraved line, the rest for his palm roughened from excessive use and sweat eroding at the metal. He was strong enough to manage both the sobbing and writhing girl in his arms and the less than light firearm, and you knew even if you had more than half a second to stop him, you could not without your gun. 

The gunshot reverberated off the concrete walls, and a loud ringing followed you weren't used to. You'd heard gunshots before. You were inured to the sound of them ricocheting around warehouses similar to this, or the safer environment of the academy's firing range. 

It's a different feeling when it's your own gun.

It's an all encompassing feeling when you catch the eyes of the person you are shooting at milliseconds before the bullet hits them. Fear in the eyes of a killer about to be killed. How stupidly poetic.

Perhaps there is a universe out there where humans are able to die in blissful ignorance.

"I used to think I'd be okay with killing an UnSub if I had to," you're staring at the threads fraying from his sweater's neckline, and he makes no move to return your eyes to his. "They're bad people, right? Killed a lot more than me for much less. But I'm—I'm not. I don't know if I ever will be. Where does that leave me? An agent who can't even stop a serial killer without having a breakdown."

"Do you think you're the only one?"

That catches your attention, and you can see the small specks of light in his otherwise dark eyes even in this shadowed room when you catch them.

"No. I know I'm not," you croak. Warmth covers your hands, and it's only then you recognise the movement of your own body. Gripping petulantly onto his sweater were your hands, his own providing a comforting blanket. "You never talk about it, though."

"I can. Do you want me to?" 

Hesitantly, you nod, and he settles his leaning body against the bed. 

"I killed a man named Phillip Dowd when I was twenty-four," he says. "He was an L.D.S.K. Long distance serial killer. How is unimportant, but it was a hostage situation. Like yours. I felt... nothing. For weeks I continued on as if I didn't have somebody's blood on my hands."

"Must be nice," you mumble. 

He chooses not to acknowledge your words. "Gideon told me on our way home from the case that this would all hit me eventually. It took longer than it's taken you, evidently, but by the time it did came around, I let it control my life. It took taping photos of his victims to my walls to let him go."

"I don't want to do that," your knuckles wipe more falling tears, and you watch his lips turn up into a gentle smile. 

"You won't have to. Crying about it is actually much healthier than what I was doing."

You're not sure if he's lying to make you feel better, but you lean into it regardless. 

"Guilt is normal," he adds, quietly. "You're allowed to feel whatever you want to feel about this, but know that anger with yourself is displaced. You did what you had to do, and a lot of good people are alive because of what you did."

"Are you reciting a book to me?" you ask, and there is a warmth that blossoms in your chest when he huffs out a short laugh. 

"Regurgitating the very advice I got when this happened to me, actually," he tilts his head and brings it in closer to yours. "The third was, I'm proud of you."

"For killing a man?" you whisper. 

"For being brave enough to do the only move you had left."

"Is there really nothing else I could've done, though?"

There probably were a thousand things you could've done. You could've ran into him earlier in life and saved him from impotency. You could've been a childhood best friend that brought him out of a shell. You could've been his first kill that set the FBI after him immediately and stopped him from hurting anyone else. But his series of life events, and your own, ran parallel to each other until you were in that room with him pulling the trigger. A frustrating realisation that you can only let life run its course the way it's been meticulously threaded out for you, and the impacts you make on people's lives will be specific and forever preplanned by the fates. 

"No," Spencer tells you, anyways, and you accept his one worded answer as the summary of your own spiralling thoughts. "Let's get you back to bed, yeah?"

"Yeah," you mumble, absentmindedly. 

Your consciousness is outside your body as he helps you up, and you crawl inside the covers next to him. You can barely feel the cotton of sheets against your skin, nor the ghost of his hands on your hips as he pulls you close enough to him. 

Distantly, he says goodnight to you, and reminds you he loves you. He doesn't press for a response, and you don't remember to give him one.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[whoisspence]

"if reid dies i quit" - penelope garcia

[urrone]

Quick @swaps55 the Criminal Minds team as protoframes

[wardengrill]

hotch only knew 5 minutes of peace in his entire life and it was when morgan and reid were stuck in that elevator (x)