#Criminal minds imagine

[nereidprinc3ss]

in infinite universes

in which spencer reid picks up uni!reader from a party. you're drunk, and he's in love with you

fluff:) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, university!reader x professor!spencer but you're not his student, unspecified age gap, um statistic about deaths from drunk driving, spencer is a nerd a/n: this is accidentally so romantic I'm gonna puke

The night is chilly—a still, dry type of cold that comes before snowfall. It’s quiet, like the world is preparing for that heavy blanket of white. Even the pounding bass from the frat house doesn’t make it very far before falling flat at the end of the yard. By the time Spencer gets you to his car down the block, it’s a thready pulse. 

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, giving him a saccharine smile as he opens the passenger door for you. His scoff is a thick white cloud, crystallizing against cold, shining skin, slightly pinkened from the temperature. Spencer is glowing like a star tonight. You don’t know if it’s the blurriness from the alcohol in your system smudging the edges of him, or if it’s just that incandescent halo that always seems to follow him around.

“You know I wasn’t going to let you walk down frat row by yourself at one in the morning.”

You pout and look up at him, leaning close. 

“So you don’t want me to say thank you?” 

Spencer’s mouth is curved in absent-minded affection as he takes advantage of the opportunity to study you up close with darting eyes, entertaining your girlish flirtation, and you in turn get to admire the starlit flush of his cheeks, the way his hair falls around his face and thick eyelashes frame irises that could melt ice. You’re not entirely conscious of the huge grin that cracks open your face, but you suspect its presence when his own lips part, still smiling, like he’s maybe going to say something sweet. Or teasing. 

“You’re drunk.”

At this absolute and unarguable truth, you frown. He’s grinning now as he adjusts the thick scarf around your neck, shielding your ears and neck further from the chill that the open car door can’t block. 

“No I’m not.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and before you can process it he’s leaning down, so of course your eyes are going to flutter shut and of course you’re going to kiss him back. The gentle ferocity of it only has you stumbling in place a little bit, and he steadies you with hands around your waist. It’s over entirely too soon. You blink up at him, your shock and fluster betrayed by the visible huff of air dispelled as soon as he pulls away. He’s smiling even wider now. Vindicated. Eyes sparkling. “Gin? Wow. You are drunk.”

It takes you a moment longer than it usually would to decipher how he figured this out. 

“So you just kissed me to prove your theory right?”

The sparkling satisfaction from his indictment softens around his eyes. 

“I knew you were drunk when you almost fell down the stairs a minute ago. The kiss was purely selfish.”

“It’s icy,” you defend, and your heart flutters as he comes in for another kiss. It’s soft and still shockingly deep for being on the street, where anyone could see—although everyone smart is inside, and anyone else is too drunk to care that his mouth is open against yours and the heat of it is translating deep in your stomach. You’re dizzy by the time he laughs quietly against you. 

“What college student is pounding gin and tonics at a frat party?”

The thick wool of his coat bunches under your searching fingers. 

“Me,” you whisper. “I was classing up the joint.”

The final kiss he presses to your lips is sweeter and half smile. “Drunk.”

The murmured accusation shouldn’t make you feel so giddy. Maybe it’s all the gin. 

“Not.”

Another little chuckle warms the tip of your nose and your lips as he breathes it out.

“So you’re good to drive us home?”

You itch to kiss him again, but instead, you respond, “One person dies every thirty nine minutes in America from drunk driving.”

“Good job. You passed.”

The praise is accompanied by a thumb rubbing at your hip through denim. He probably thought you weren’t listening when he’d spouted that particular statistic a few hours ago. 

“Do I get a gold star?”

He kisses your head. 

“We’ll see. Get in.”

On the way home, that last shot hits you. You slump down in your seat and hide your face in your hands. 

“Oh, Spencer. I’m… I’m drunk.”

You feel him glancing at you before he sets a concerned hand on your thigh. 

“You okay?”

Morosely you nod. 

“Yeah. I took a shot with this… Delta Phi Epsilon guy, right before you got there. I wasn’t gonna, but he was like, no, you have to! And now I realize that was dumb.”

Spencer’s hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair. 

“Do you know what I’m going to say about frat boys pressuring you to drink?”

“It wasn’t like that. He was really nice.”

“I’m sure he was,” Spencer says dryly. “Lots of men become really nice when they think they might have something to gain.”

“I thought he was gay!” You laugh, uncovering your face. “Sorry, dad. I won’t drink alcohol or talk to boys anymore.”

Spencer makes a face and you know you’ve successfully traded pounds of flesh. 

“If you call me dad again I’m making you take an abnormal psych class.”

You give him a lazy smile which he only takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to admire. 

“I’d take abnormal psych if you were my professor.”

That perpetual upturn at the corners of his perfect mouth flickers wider. 

“Wow. Does gin make you sexually frustrated?”

“It makes me lazy. The professor-student thing is really low hanging fruit.”

“Yeah, it is. You know I’ll expect better material from you once you’ve sobered up.”

You sigh and let your head loll to the front again, studying the tunneling road through the windshield. A few flakes slash the headlights. Your mind wanders. You don’t bother reeling it in. 

“I’m really glad I’m not your student. I’d have the worst crush on you.”

Spencer casts you another side-long glance before adjusting the rear-view mirror. 

“You don’t have a crush on me now?”

“Of course I do. But you like me back. If I was your student you’d never look at me like that. I would just have to pine after you and fall in deep unrequited love like all your other female students.”

He hums skeptically. 

“I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t imagine not being in love with you.”

“There are universes where you’re not. There are infinite realities where I am your student and you don’t like me back and you’re dating other girls who aren’t me and you’re saying this exact stuff to them.”

“True. There are also infinite realities where I find you and I fall in love with you.” Spencer reaches over again, taking your hand and settling them, joined, in your lap. “For each trillionth of a billionth of a second of the life I’ve lived thus far, there are infinite universes which exist solely so I can fall in love with you in a new way. Over and over again. There’s not a choice I could make in any timeline, or in any universe, that doesn’t lead an infinite number of me’s to an infinite number of you’s.” 

The engine hums. The tires roll. 

Other than that—it’s dead silent. 

Because how could he ever expect anyone to respond to that?

You slink low in your seat and bring his hand to cradle your face, warm against your cheek. 

“I hate you,” you mumble. Spencer strokes your jaw absentmindedly, not at all concerned by your dramatics. 

“You hate me? I just said I love you.”

“No, you did not. You said th—I don’t even wanna call it romantic. Romantic doesn’t—I don’t even know what that was. You can’t just say things like that, Spencer! You can’t just casually say stuff like that to me, and especially not when I’m drunk, because I’m gonna start crying!” 

The last word pitches up and perfectly illustrates your point as tears begin to roll down your cheeks—still nipped by the cold. 

Spencer quickly pulls the car off to the side of the abandoned road. 

He’s all affection as he twists to face you and take your face in his hands properly, thumbing away tears. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“You j-just love me so much,” you sob.

“Yes,” Spencer laughs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I do. I love you so much. I didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

“You—you don’t even realize, that you said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to anyone, and you love me more than anyone’s ever loved anyone, and—and—”

You cut yourself off with another hot wave of tears and a shuddering cry. 

“Oh, my girl,” Spencer coos through an adoring little laugh as he pushes hair out of your face. “You are so drunk, baby. Come here.”

You let him undo your buckle and pull you across the console-less seat (thank you, vintage car) into his arms. For a minute or two you can hardly speak, crying into the warmth of his jacket as he holds you. 

Eventually, you manage to raise your head and pull back enough to look at him. Immediately he’s assessing you with those soft eyes, watching how you wipe away whatever tears didn’t soak into his clothing. Under his watchful gaze, you exhale a sniffing laugh. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

It’s so immediate you’re knocked off balance again. “Well—you were just being nice, and I—”

“I do love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.”

Usually, you dislike being interrupted. 

In this instance, you’ll let it slide. 

It’s simply too earnest, too honest as his eyes dart between yours like he couldn’t contain it. Like you said it and the thought struck him right in the face—an obvious truth he hadn’t considered before. 

“In infinite universes?” You sniffle. 

“In infinite universes,” he agrees. 

Both of you notice the snow has started to come down outside. Over the course of a few silent minutes, it gets heavier and heavier—a soft hail, sheets of whispering white. 

You’ve never been afraid to break the silence with him. 

But maybe if you weren’t drunk you could keep your questions to yourself. 

“How many snowflakes are we looking at?”

Spencer hesitates, drawn from some kind of hypnosis. 

“Hard to be sure. Heavy snowfall like this could easily put us at six inches within the hour. In that case we’ve watched around point two inches fall. Visibility is probably reduced to about a quarter mile… point two inches across a square quarter mile is a hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred square feet of snow, average density of flakes at this temperature being about three kilograms per cubic foot of snow, and a snowflake weighs maybe… point zero zero zero zero zero two kilograms, so, roughly… very roughly… we’re looking at one hundred and forty two million snowflakes. That’s my best guess.”

You look up at him from where you’d been resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You’re the coolest person ever.”

He blushes. 

Tries to reply. 

Looks back out the window and huffs a nervous laugh, like you’ve flustered him. 

“Lots of people could do that. The math isn’t too complicated. It’s also probably wrong.”

A slow smile blossoms on your face. 

“You’re never wrong. So… what percentage of infinity is a hundred and forty two million?”

“Uh… undefined,” he laughs, looking back down at you. “But… in tangible terms, which is inherently contradictory because infinity is completely intangible, and actually pretty meaningless to mathematicians—more of a philosophical concept than a numerical one… it is a very small fraction. It’s nothing.”

“I don’t want philosophical,” you murmur, reaching up to graze your knuckles along his cheekbone. “I want hard numbers.”

He catches your hand and holds the tips of your fingers to his lips as he thinks, watching hundreds of millions of snowflakes falling from the wide black heavens through narrowed eyes. 

“A googol is written as a one followed by a hundred zeros, and a googolplex is a one followed by a googol of zeros. That’s the largest named number we have. It surpasses the estimated number of atoms in the universe. It’s too large to conceptualize. Mathematicians don’t really have any practical use for numbers above one trillion, but the largest number you’ll find in a dictionary and which might be formally accredited is a centillion, which is a one followed by three hundred and three zeros. It’s bigger than a googol but hardly a fraction of a googolplex. But—okay, we’re setting aside the conceptual numbers. What was your question?”

Your head spins as you laugh. 

Too much gin. Too many IQ points. 

“Infinity divided by, uh… the number of snowflakes I can see right now.”

The engine is still on—heat blows steadily, warming your arm through a coat and sweater, and whatever it can’t reach is warmed by Spencer. 

“Right. Okay. Well—to put it into perspective, with snowflakes, you have around one septillion that fall each year. That’s twenty four zeros, so… a lot. Are you with me?”

“No.”

“Great. So, a hundred and forty two million is basically infinity.”

This earns a clumsy, drunken laugh from you, and he smiles like he’d been hoping for that. 

It’s so warm in the cab of his car. It’s so warm under his gaze. 

Outside, the snow continues to fall. 

For each flake, there is a world where you and Spencer fall in love. And in the grand scheme of things, you’re not looking at very many. 

In infinite universes, you’ll find each other. For eternity. 

You’d be happy with just this one. 

[minswriting]

dacryphilia with early seasons spencer?? also I love your work

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | dacryphilia (taking pleasure from someone crying), sub!spencer, riding

spencer was truly the prettiest person you’d ever laid eyes upon. with his beautifully sculpted face, to his gorgeous lips, to the innocent doe brown eyes, he was the embodiment of beauty. he was even prettier than he cried.

spencer was sat at his desk chair in his room while you were on his lap, riding his cock slowly and teasingly. spencer’s hands were on your hips while your hands rested on his shoulders. your cunt clenched around spencer’s cock so perfectly. you were so tight and wet. spencer felt every movement so vividly. he was so sensitive and he adored how great you felt.

he couldn’t help the welling of tears in his eyes as he relished in the pleasure of your cunt. you just felt so good and he was overly sensitive. “a-ah,” he moaned, his bottom lip jutting out as he teared up.

you frowned for a moment, noticing as a tear escaped spencer’s eye. you stopped your movements, causing spencer to whine in protest. “baby,” you said, bringing a hand to spencer’s cheek and wiping the tear. “what’s wrong?” your voice tender as you spoke, concerned about spencer.

spencer shook his head, trying to move his hips as a signal he wanted to keep going. “i-it feels so good,” he whined, letting out a small sob. “please, please please.”

“do you want me to keep going?”

spencer nodded his head enthusiastically, bucking his hips into you.

and so you complied. you began riding spencer again, allowing him to feel his feelings. as you rode him, you kissed his tear-stained cheeks. you clenched around his cock, causing spencer to let out a pathetic sob of pleasure. “so good, so good, so good,” he babbled tearfully.

after that, you thoroughly enjoyed seeing spencer cry during sex.

[notlongtolove]

petals and frost

hotch had called it a brief attachment—six months, no more. an agent liaison from the nyc office, sent down to smooth future communication, to streamline workflow. a brief attachment, hotch had said. too bad spencer hadn’t really remembered to keep it in mind. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst w no happy ending (sowie)

content: avoidant bau reader, non descriptive mentions of sex

word count: 2.8k words

note: written for @mggslover 1k event, congrats once again my love!!! yall can blame @esote-rika for that sadistic ending, i idea dumped that on her and said i didnt know if it wld be too angsty and she begged me to use it so... fuck yalls valentines ig (anyways spencer reid, just know that i, user notlongtolove, would neverrrr do that to you)

a line: You’re spring and the purple wildflowers on his skin are begging to be made yours, over and over again.

And some part of me came alive, the first time that you called me ‘baby’ The perfect genius of our hands and mouths. - Hozier, First Time

Hotch had called it a brief attachment—six months, no more. An agent liaison from the NYC office, sent down to smooth future communication, to streamline workflow. You were easy to like, easy to talk to, definitely easy on the eyes. A brief attachment, Hotch had said. The phrase seemed almost oxymoronic—Spencer hadn’t really remembered to keep it in mind. 

As it turns out, there are a lot of other things Spencer forgets around you. When you twist your hair into a haphazard ponytail mid briefing, he forgets the third personality trait of a classified sociopath. You don’t. Interpersonal offensiveness, Reid. That’s criminology 101. Emily makes a comment under her breath about his IQ being slashed in half. If you do hear her, you pretend not to. 

When you slide a beer across the table after your first case, he forgets that he doesn’t drink, masking a grimace as he takes a sip. You’re trying. He doesn’t want you to feel bad. By the time he’s on his second, his face is warm. Too fast, he tells himself. From the alcohol, definitely not from the way your thigh is pressed against his in the booth.

Later, when you’ve got him pinned against the wall under a dim lamppost kissing him breathless, he tries to forget the bureau’s policy on interoffice relationships. It’s after hours. You’re not really part of the team. You’re here contractually. A technicality. He can make an exception. 

You run your hands through his hair tugging faintly and he decides he will make an exception. 

The only thing Spencer doesn’t forget that night is the route from O’Keefe’s to his apartment though it’s a blur all the way from the cab to his apartment to his bed. He pulls you through his front door, fingers curled tight around your wrist. A tangle of limbs and lips pressed against lips feverishly, desperately—He’s certain he’s got that memorised. 

“I’m not…” you start, voice faltering between kisses, searching for the right words that just aren’t coming when you’re straddling him and he’s looking at you the way that he is, “not looking for anything… serious.”

Alarm bells go off in his head blaring amidst the euphoric haze he’s in. It’s a warning he registers but doesn’t heed. Caution. Danger ahead. He tells himself that if he squints hard enough, that if he really really tries—It’s a challenge. And Spencer Reid has never backed down from a challenge.

So he bites. Takes the bait. Plays along.

“What makes you think I am?”

You smirk like you don’t believe him but your fingers move to make quick work of the buttons on his shirt anyways. He tries to laugh when you joke about how you should definitely apply for a permanent spot on the team now, but it sticks in his throat. He distracts himself by closing his eyes.

“Spencer,” you say breathlessly, “you sure about this, baby?” 

His eyes snap open so fast it startles you, leaving you flustered, halfway to pulling back before his grip tightens at your waist, keeping you right where you are. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“W-what’d you just say?”

You blink back at him. “I asked if you’re sure about—”

“No, the—the other part. The last part.”

A pause. Then, deliberately, “Baby?”

Oh fuck. 

“Y-yeah. That.” He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s bracing for impact. “Say it again. Please.”

You smirk, the corner of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back a laugh as you lean down to press slow, open-mouthed kisses down his bare chest, whispering against his skin, “whatever you want baby.” Spencer has to force his eyes shut again.

You mark him up in the shades of purple wildflowers. Spencer shivers at the sight of them. Theres not much talking when skin finally meets skin. Spencer’s starved, insatiable, burning hot and ice cold all at once. This okay, baby? Yes, yes, god, yes. Can I? Yes, please, please do. Sweat pools around your bodies and Spencer tries to forget how much he wants to remember this moment. The purple wildflowers bloom across his skin���deadnettle, henbit, african violets. 

Oh, he thinks, this one’s gonna hurt, isn’t it? 

When Spencer wakes the next morning, he’s only mildly afraid to open his eyes.

He’s never done this before—doesn’t know what to expect. But he knows enough to predict the possibilities. Regret. Yours, not his. Shame, embarrassment, maybe even anger. You’ll be gone. Nothing left behind but the imprint of your body on his sheets, marks of purple left in your wake. 

Spencer Reid does not like not knowing. 

So he braces himself, steels his nerves, and opens his eyes—only to be met with something far worse.

You. 

Still here.

Curled up beside him, peaceful, angel deep in sleep, gut wrenchingly soft. In sleep, you’re nothing like how you are on the field. Out there, you’re a good shot, a great one, you think quick on your feet, you’re confident, never stuttering or stumbling like he does. You’re heaven on earth, right in his bed—He’s utterly ruined for it. He doesn’t know what possesses him to move closer, to let newfound confidence guide his arm around your waist. But he does. You stir, just barely, waking to the feeling of his lips pressed into your hair.

The morning melts into something else entirely. An abandoned attempt at breakfast in bed, clothes forgotten in a scattered trail from the kitchen counter to the couch. Unsanitary, he’d think, if he weren’t already too far gone to care. The boy’s insatiable once again, chasing a thirst only you seem to have awakened in him. It’s fiery and passionate as drinks you in, icy cold hisses when you nip at his neck. But you’re neither summer nor winter. You’re spring and the purple wildflowers on his skin are begging to be made yours, over and over again. The way your nails claw at his back, marks of sinful desire turning into ivy that grows to cover you both. It’s entirely all encompassing.

God, you have him in the palm of your hand and you don’t even know it. 

Dancing around the team is its own kind of purgatory. Turtlenecks in sweltering Texas heat which you make up for with a fleeting kiss to his cheek in the break room when everyone else has their back turned. Spencer tells himself to keep his feelings in check, to keep his adoration at bay. But it’s hard to when you exist so seamlessly within the liminal spaces of the team. Always in Hotch’s good books. Cracking jokes just dirty enough to make Morgan laugh and Rossi raise a brow. Even JJ loves you.

Silently, Spencer thanks the BAU’s abysmal budget for the run-down motel they’ve stuck you in. It makes it that much easier to convince you to stay at his place—only for a night or two, maybe three, maybe four, eventually a Baby, Hotch is gonna call us in soon anyway, and the freeway near yours is a nightmare in the mornings. You might as well stay one more night. He seals with a look, a soft plea, and you cave every time.

5 months and a week is what you’ve built together. Your days are disgustingly domestic and Spencer just can’t seem to get enough. It’s not like the two of you go out much. Long days (and longer nights) in the field leave you both drained, running on fumes. Just enough energy left to call in takeout accompanied with something strong for you, water for him. Just enough left to trade lazy kisses between bites and fall into bed tangled together. This is it, isn’t it?

Waking to rushed mornings, shared showers, half-hearted protests when you insist on shampooing his hair for him. Bare feet on hardwood floors and the bumping of hips in the kitchen as he makes coffee for two. Rendezvous on a crappy motel mattress that creaks beneath the weight of both of you when you run out of clothes for the week. Baby, we shouldn’t really—swallowed by the press of lips.

Your laughter comes to him in little bursts of light. You’re his absolute heart in human form. 

The purple wildflowers haven’t made an appearance in awhile but spring blooms in his chest all the same. When you inevitably drift off to the sound of his voice reading Spencer makes a mental note to bring The Iliad when he comes to visit. You’ll probably be done with Dante’s inferno by then. The weak fistful you have of his shirt tightens ever so slightly in your sleep and he knows what you want. He turns to shut off the light and fits himself against you, tucking you closer to his chest. Spencer tries to distract himself from the fact that you’re set to leave in a month. He’d drink dry the River Lethe to forget it if he could. Instead, in the quiet, he allows himself to think about what the weather will be when he gets the chance to visit you. 

He’s always wanted to go to New York. He’s never been the best flyer and he doesn’t know how he’ll fare on a flight without the comfort of his team and the jet’s coffeemachine. It’ll have to make do, he thinks. It’s only a little over an hour’s flight. He tells himself it’s basically nothing. He can handle it. Besides, he can always make the eight hour drive, or the six hour train. The options are endless, much like his devotion to you—He’ll walk to you if he has to. 

“Do you think you’ll have time for a trip when I come visit?” Spencer asks one night, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. You’re too busy fumbling with the buttons of his pants to catch the lovelorn grin tugging at his lips. “I know there’s probably a lot to see in New York, but I’ve been saving my days off. And if I catch Hotch on a good day, I think I could carve out a few more.”

“Oh, baby, I don’t know,” you murmur, distractedly, “I usually don’t get much time off when I’m back. Let me know if you are planning to come, though—I’d love to show you around for a day or two.”

The fuck? 

Show him around? A day or two?

It’s frosty. Ice cold. A slow caress of his cheek at arms length. Cruel in the way that kindness can be. He tenses beneath you, shifting upright so suddenly that you blink up at him, confused.

“Everything okay, baby?”

The frown on his face indicates he’s anything but okay. “Yeah,” Spencer lies. “I just… I just thought—I mean, you knew I was planning to come visit, right?”

You hesitate. “Spence, we didn’t really discuss that, I—”

“I know we didn’t.” He tries to keep his frustration subtle, but it slips through when he runs a hand through his hair sharply. “But this? Us? How could I not?”

You try again, gentler this time. “Oh, baby, you don’t have to. I know you’re really busy, and—”

“I want to.”

The realisation settles slowly into your features. And then, quietly—naively—he lets himself ask, “Don’t you want me to?” 

Silence.

Oh. 

Somewhere deep inside him the ivy shrivels and the purple wildflowers wither. It appears that spring has come to a close. 

“Spencer,” you say gravely, “I thought we talked about this—” He doesn’t hear the rest. It all dissolves into static, white noise humming in his skull. He hates that tone on you—the way it sounds so careful, so deliberate. Its how you talk to Hotch, to unsubs, to people that need to be managed. Never how you talk to him. Not how you talk to him when you share sly jokes and interlock pinkies at the back of the van, thighs touching when you share a blanket in the jet. Not how you talk when you whisper baby, stop, someones gonna see us when he insists on a chaste kiss to your nose and another to your forehead—Because how could he ever stop at one?

He blinks back into focus when you reach for his hand, thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.

He should brace for the inevitable. He knows what’s coming, but he’s too far gone for it to matter, too far off the deep end for it to hurt now. What’s a stab to the heart when you make up for it with cotton-soft kisses and a feather light touch? I’m sorry, baby. Please don’t be sad. I wish I could stay too. Don’t be mad, okay? I don’t want you to be mad at me. As if he ever could be. Not when you’re kissing him the way that you are. Still, Spencer tries to tell himself that the wildflowers that bloom into rosettes beneath your touch are fragile things. He tries to carve it into his bones to remind himself that they won’t survive the winter of your absence.

It starts with the smallest frost, like soft snowflakes clinging to his lashes, signs he might have missed if he wasn’t already looking out for them. “Baby, you shouldn’t have,” you say when he comes home with a restock of your makeup remover. Spencer only shrugs, wordless. He knows you mean it. Not out of politeness, not out of gratitude, but because there won’t be any use for it soon.

Winter calls for shorter days, for less sunlight. It brings more cases, more exhaustion, more time spent apart. Nights where Spencer wakes up to an empty bed because you’d insisted on packing your suitcase, and insisted on doing it alone. As it turns out, the cold really does bite. 

It all couldn’t happen fast enough.

Nobody bats an eye when Spencer insists on tagging along to drop you off at the airport. It’s practical, really—an extra set of hands. Even Morgan doesn’t say a word, doesn’t call him lover boy with that knowing smirk. Maybe he would’ve if Spencer didn’t already look like he was on the brink of death. Hotch keeps his goodbye brief, a quiet nod, a quick squeeze of your shoulder after he helps unload your suitcase from the van. He mumbles something about keeping in touch, about how the door’s always open. 

Spencer is the one who walks you to your terminal. You walk briskly ahead of him, fingers curled loosely around the handle of your suitcase. You’d brushed off his offer to help—All the better because he has to shove his hands into the pockets of his coat just to keep them steady. He tries to count the steps between the check-in counter and security. All in all, both literally and ironically, too little too late. 

This is finality, signed, sealed, delivered. The clock has run out. Spencer Reid is out of time. And, for once, Spencer Reid is out of words. 

So, it’s you who takes his hand, pulling him closer. Drop me a call if you ever come visit okay? I will, I will. You’ll love it there. Take care. Call me whenever. This was amazing. You’re amazing. You’re so good. Too good. It’s you who tilts his chin and kisses him with such force he wants call it love. He would call it love. If you asked, he’d rip the wildflowers from his ribs and place them at your feet as proof disguised as an offering. You’re kissing like you’re trying to make him forget—where you both are, where you’re going, where he’s staying. You pull away, breathless, fingertips ghosting along his jaw when the intercom blares above you. He lets the last shreds of sunlight slip from his grasp when you walk through the gate. Spencer doesn’t stay to see if you turn back or not. He’s felt like an afterthought enough. 

The van is quiet when he climbs in.

Spencer ignores Hotch’s glances, keeps his head down, busies himself with the air conditioning. Granted, he rarely sits shotgun, but still, today, it feels colder than usual.

“She’s a great agent.”

“She is. She… worked great in the team.” Spencer’s fingers tighten around the vent. He nods, swallows around the lump in his throat. “You should’ve offered her a spot.”

Hotch’s eyes stay set on the road. “I did. JJ and I drafted a two-year contract for her.”

Spencer scoffs bitterly, “yeah? I’m sure Strauss took that well.” 

“Strauss had no issue with it.” 

That makes Spencer pause. His head turns, brows pulling together. “Then?”

A beat of silence before Hotch exhales, “she rejected it.”

The world stops. His stomach drops first, then his chest. Fragile stems and violet petals turn brittle, cracking as the frost works its way through him. Tiny pieces of petals and frost splinter his being. A brief attachment, no doubt. He should’ve known better. He should’ve noticed the subtlest change in the winds, distractions cloaked in tender touches as wandering hands made their way beneath clothes, apologies in a baby, I wish I could stay too. He really should’ve remembered to forget you. 

He feels the wildflowers inside him freeze over and with the gentlest shift of breath—They shatter.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

todays the day | s.r. x fem liaison!reader

something in the air told you. today was the day. you were gonna marry spencer reid, well first a proposal should happen then the marriage. but you didn’t need a huge wedding anyway, you just wanted to marry that man.

last month marked three years of dating, this month marked a year of living together, and today will mark a new occasion. you knew after your first anniversary that spencer was the only one for you and he even told you himself “i still can’t believe i get to call you mine. one of the few good things out of my life.”

so today was the day. it was a rare day off from work, fingers crossed for the whole twenty-four hours, and the two of you were just enjoying laying in your bed until noon. spencer curled up as you big spooned him, nose nuzzled into his lean neck, spencer’s hands holding onto yours that hugged his torso.

a delicate press of lips to skin, “spence…” wanting to wake him up slowly. he shifted and hummed in his throat, you pressed another kiss at the bottom of his neck, “i need to ask you something.”

you heard his deep inhale then he slowly rolled over so now the two of you were eye to eye. his sleep heavy eyes blinked slowly and his lips barely curled up, “hi.” the word an octave lower.

you brushed some rough curls away from his eyes as you drank him in, “hi handsome.” whispering to keep the atmosphere warm. his large palm came to sit on your exposed hip, his thumb rubbing into some of the soft flesh of your stomach. “what’d you want to ask me?”

you let your fingers trail along his profile, “will you, spencer reid, will you marry?”

he smiled, “of course i’ll marry you.” giving his answer as more of a statement then the finite answer. “i just wasn’t expecting you to be the one asking, not that i’m against the norm, but yes of course i want to be married to you.”

you pushed onto your elbow, “no, i’m serious spencer. would you like to get married, as in today. at the courthouse.”

now spencer sat up, a slight concern to his pretty features. “are-are you sure? well first, yes i want to marry you like i said. that’s a no brainer for me, but don’t you want a wedding ceremony?”

you shook your head, moving your body so you were able to rest both knees at spencer’s hips. you grabbed both his hands and intertwined your fingers, setting them on your chest. “i just want to be married to you. i don’t need a big fat greek wedding, or a-a million guest watching us say i do. although i would like us to get some professional pictures taken, but that can wait.”

three kisses to the back of spencer’s knuckles, “i don’t really want to wait any longer. and we’ve both said it, we love each other and always talk about our futures. so let’s start making them come true. i want to be able to call myself mrs.reid.”

spencer smiled and his eyes shown brightly in the afternoon light, “do you really want to get married today?”

“absolutely. i don’t think i could wait another moment being single-ish.” needing to restrain yourself from getting jumpy.

“okay, we’re getting married today! we’ll work everything out as we go.” spencer agreeing to your spontaneously ridiculous request and you screeched in delight. throwing your arms over his shoulders and holding him tight. “we’ll call penelope as our witness.”

“oh she’s gonna love and hate us.”

[pedroscowgirl]

Under surveillance

Derek Morgan x fem!reader ft. Aaron hotchner

MASTERLIST Warnings!: smut so minors DO NOT interact Unprotected p in v (wrap it up), Voyeurism (?) Degradation, Spanking, power dynamics, Aaron is cucking, creampie lmk if i forgot something! wc: 0.7k (it's a short one sorry) Summary: Fucking Derek in the interrogation room and aaron is watching

A/n: A quick drabble while i break my brain over my professor lupin fic. I hope you like it and i have some ideas for maybe a second part but idkk. I'll see how this one goes :')

The walls of the FBI interrogation room were cold. The dim fluorescent light above flickered slightly, casting shadows across the room. The metal table had been shoved aside, chairs abandoned—because they weren’t needed for what was happening now.

Morgan had you pressed up against the two-way mirror, your palms splayed against the cool glass, your breath fogging up the surface with every exhale. His broad frame was firm against your back, his strong hands gripping your hips as he moved against you, controlling you completely.

“You sure about this, baby?” Morgan murmured against your ear, voice dark and teasing, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, gripping the glass tighter, your body thrumming with anticipation. “Yeah,” you whispered, barely able to get the word out. “I want it.”

Morgan smirked, dragging his lips along the curve of your neck. “That’s my girl.”

What you didn’t know and what Morgan absolutely did, was that Hotch was watching.

Had been watching.

On the other side of the glass, Hotch stood frozen, his normally composed expression betraying nothing—except for the dark fire burning behind his eyes. He had suspected something was going on between you and Morgan, had seen the way the two of you moved together in the field, the stolen glances, the way Morgan’s hand always lingered on your lower back.

But this?This was something entirely different.

His fists clenched at his sides, his breath slow and measured. He should stop this. Should have left the moment he saw you spread open against the mirror, Morgan’s hands guiding you exactly where he wanted you.

But he didn’t.Because he couldn’t. And of course Morgan knew Hotch was watching. And that only made him rougher with you.

“Keep your eyes on the glass, sweetheart,” Morgan murmured in your ear, grinning at his own reflection because he knew exactly what he was doing. “Wanna see yourself. Wanna see how fuckin’ pretty you look while I ruin your pussy.”

A shudder ran through you at the filth in his voice. “Morgan…”He clicked his tongue. “What did I tell you?” You swallowed hard. “…Agent Morgan.” “Good girl.”

Hotch let out a slow, measured breath, his fingers flexing at his sides. He told himself it was to monitor the situation, to assess what was happening, but deep down, he knew better.

His pulse was hammering. And his breath was uneven. And the worst part? He was so hard.

“You wanted this, huh?” Morgan taunted, his hands gripping your waist, pushing you harder against the glass. “Wanted to be fucked in here like a naughty little thing?” You gasped, fingers slipping against the mirror as your body jolted from the force.

Hotch’s breath hitched.

Morgan leaned in, his voice thick with amusement. “Bet Hotch is watchin.” His lips brushed your ear. “Bet he’s standing right there, wishing he was the one touching you.”

You stiffened, eyes going wide. “W-what?”Morgan let out a dark chuckle.You had no idea that Hotch was standing on the other side of the mirror, watching every single thing Morgan did to you, watching you fall apart under his hands. But when you realised, your walls clenched around him.

Morgan smirked, his hand sliding down your stomach, fingers ghosting over your skin. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

Before you could even process what was happening, his palm cracked against your ass, a sharp, delicious smack that sent your head falling back against his shoulder. A muffled noise, something dangerously close to a groan, came from the other side of the glass.

Morgan’s grin widened, his dark eyes locking onto his own reflection, knowing exactly what Hotch was doing.

“C’mon, Hotch,” Morgan murmured, voice thick with smug dominance, knowing the older man had been silent for too long. “Say somethin’ to her.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then—Hotch’s voice crackled through the interrogation room’s intercom. "You're such a good girl."

Your entire body tensed, a whimper escaping your lips. The sound of his voice—low, dark, controlled, but dripping with need, hit you like a shockwave, sending you spiralling over the edge before you even realized what was happening.

Your nails scratched at the mirror, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as you came undone completely.

Morgan cursed under his breath as he felt it. Felt the way you clenched even harder around him at the sound of your boss's voice.

Hotch exhaled sharply, his hand gripping the front of his jeans, fingers pressing into the fabric, a quiet, restrained groan vibrating in his chest.

Morgan grinned, watching the wrecked expression on your face in the mirror after he came inside you. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to your shoulder. “You did so well for us.”

[not-a-fever-dream]

Bookstore Spence is my fave Spence

A bookstore meet cute I wish I could experience | Spencer Reid

Category: Fluff with S4 awkward, nerdy rizz Spencer

Warnings: use of Y/N, unedited (tenses keep shifting, sorry)

A/N: this is just 1.8k words of self indulgent self insert. Like this is inspired by some unpleasant experiences I've had talking with men about books in the past lol, and reader's responses defensive responses had been me at some point. i feel like a conversation with Spencer Reid would heal me, thus this fic. Also, save me, s4e9 Spencer Reid, save me.

He seemed like a fixture to the bookstore, if fixtures moved on their own. Or if they moved up and down the aisles with elegant fingers tracing the spines of the books on display. Or if they dressed like a rumpled professor, complete with the black rimmed glasses. He just seemed like he was part of the space, and you thought that every bookstore should probably come with one - a tall, attractive nerd who drifted all over the room like some sort of phantom. Maybe that would help with the literacy problem. It certainly would bring more people in, make them more interested in reading.

You've been trying to figure him out from afar, as subtle as you can. You're not a creep, after all, but he cuts such a lonely figure that you couldn't help but wonder if he needed some company. A part of you wonders if he's noticed you as well. This store is your late afternoon treat, after all. You come here every Friday, without fail, even when you know the inventory is unreplenished, simply to bask in the presence of books.

And then he started coming in regularly, and you had another reason to come.

You never approached him. Something about simply knowing he's there, while remaining a stranger, is thrilling. You can romanticize him if he's a stranger, project all the wholesome fantasies and book boyfriends you have upon him with no sense of accountability.

It also means you avoid the disappointment if he turns out to be another condescending know it all, eager to put you and your reading habits down because oh your tastes are so girly.

No, this was better. You're a flaneur, you tell yourself, you're here to be part of the space and observe from within, even though you doubt this is what Baudelaire had in mind when he wrote that essay and defined the term.

Still.

You smile to yourself, crouching down to check the books on the lower shelf, and also to catch a glimpse of his legs. He'd been on the other side of this shelf for the past five minutes, and you've gotten a soft chuckle when you saw his mismatched socks.

However, his lean form is nowhere to be seen. He seems to have moved to another aisle. With a small frown, you move to stand up, only to feel a tug.

“Shit,” a quick glance down reveals that a familiar looking shoe has accidentally stepped on your long skirt. You hadn't realized it billowed out around you when you knelt down.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!”

You look up and realize why the shoe looks familiar. It's him. You couldn't see him in the other aisle because he'd moved to your side, so silently you hadn't even heard him.

“Sorry, oh gosh, I didn’t notice.” He steps off quickly, and you watch as his cheeks bloom bright pink. A pink that quickly travels down his neck.

You stifle a laugh at how easily he blushed. “It's fine.” Your attempt to stand is more successful without his foot pinning the fabric of your skirt to the ground.

“I've messed up your skirt though.” He says, looking at the brown smudge left behind on the skirt.

“It's no big deal, it’ll come out.” You shrug, getting a good look at him this time. He's taller than you thought, with a sharp bone structure that's softened by large, hazel eyes and pouty lips. His hair is slicked back, curling at the nape of his neck, the color a soft brown that matches his eyes. Yeah, one of him should really come in every bookstore, you think.

“O-okay, uh, if you're sure…” He says, rubbing his hands on his pants. A nervous energy emanates from him, disrupting your idea that he's calm and tranquil.

Oh well, there goes that fantasy. Still, you wonder if maybe he's nervous because of you.

“I still feel bad though,” He adds, looking around, “Uh, how about I buy you a book for the inconvenience?”

“It's hardly an inconvenience,” You laugh, “But hey, I won't say no to a free book.”

He perks up, “Great. I'm Spencer, by the way.”

“Y/N. It's nice to meet you, Spencer.”

He repeats your name, and you find yourself enjoying the shape his mouth makes as he tests it out, lips and tongue wrapping around the syllables as if he wants to commit the way it feels in his memory.

You mentally kick yourself in the ass, wondering if you've read too many romance novels.

“Likewise,” He smiles, and you have to remind yourself that it's rude to stare at the lips of someone you just met. It's not your fault he has such pretty dimples, and you had the urge to count them. He continues, “So what kind of books do you like, Y/N? Romance?”

Your eyes narrow at that. You wonder how to answer. Yes? Would he judge you if you say yes? Is he one of those guys, the ones who only read heavy, intellectual books and look down on people who read fluff? Do you want to try and impress him by saying no, by scoffing and saying something like of course not I’m looking for a copy of Swann's Way by Marcel Proust? (which is the most “impressive” book you can think of at the moment). The idea seems too gross, too I'm not like other girls, and you immediately cross it out.

“And if I do?” you ask instead, surprised by the edge to your voice.

He blinks, then shrugs, looking entirely innocent. “Then we should head to the romance shelf over there.”

Once again, you're surprised. Some part of you had been expecting a smirk, maybe a roll of his eyes, that look you get when you even dare to bring up the romance genre. But, no. He starts walking to a different part of the store and you're forced to follow.

“Why did you think I read romance?” the words escape your lips before you can stop them.

He ducks behind a shelf, his hair falling down and hiding his face but you get a glimpse of the bright red skin of his neck. He's blushing again.

“Well, it's - ah - that is, I've noticed you here before, and you always seemed to hang out here in the romance section.” He says in a rush, his head still angled away from you.

You feel simultaneously called out, and a little giddy. So he's noticed you, just as much as you'd noticed him.

“So you're a stalker.” You can't help but tease.

He lets out a sound, somewhere between an indignant sputter and a scoff. “What? No! I just happen to be very observant, it's a skill I've learned to hone for my job, and you're not very hard to remember-” He cuts himself off, peeking at you with a horrified look on his face.

Laughter tumbles from your lips, and you clamp your teeth down your bottom lip to stop.

“I was teasing you.” You say, trying to fight the giggles.

He seems relieved, but the crease on his brow remains, a sign of his previous embarrassment.

“And you're right. The romance section has the biggest amount of secondhand books that I can read while I'm here.” You explain. This aisle also gives you the best view of the nonfiction section, which he frequents, therefore giving you the perfect spot to observe him over the past few weeks. Though you leave out that part.

“Ah,” He nods, looking around, “See anything you like?”

“No, I'm actually looking for a copy of The Hobbit right now.”

He lights up, “Oh, you're a fan of Tolkien too? I love him, he's such a genius and completely innovated the fantasy genre! So much so that he - wait, if you're looking for The Hobbit, why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“You just started walking.” You reply, smiling at him. He's adorable when he becomes so animated, hands waving around like his body can't contain his excitement and has to find ways to express them physically. “Had to follow you. But anyway, I'm assuming you've read The Hobbit?”

He accepts your explanation easily, then nods his head. You can't help but compare him to a puppy, so eager and nearly frantic in his excitement.

“I've read every Tolkien book.” He says, and you're surprised to find his voice contains no hint of superiority, or cockiness. Just genuine joy. It's refreshing, “Including The Silmarillion."

“Oh wow,” You laugh, aware of the reputation that tome carries, “I've only seen the Lord of The Rings movies.”

“Well that's not sufficient at all! You're missing out on so much history,” He says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Mhm, well help me find The Hobbit first, before I move on to the trilogy.” You reply, already walking over to where you know the fantasy books are.

He follows you, smiling bashfully, “You know, I have copies of all the books… I can just lend them to you, if you want.”

You pause, glancing over your shoulder in surprise. “You'd let a stranger borrow your books?”

“Only if you promise to take care of them.” He says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

“I swear on my life, I will not tarry your precious copies of Tolkien's masterpiece.” You make a cross over your heart for emphasis, which makes him laugh. This time, you stare at his lips shamelessly, enjoying the dimples that appeared from the action.

“Okay, maybe we meet up over coffee sometime?” he asks, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “I'll bring the books.”

You fight the urge to squeal. Your body refuses to contain the giddiness, and the sound compromises by coming out as a giggle.

“Yeah, sure.” you watch as he digs into his pocket, handing over a card. “Oh, how very professional.” You say playfully, accepting the slip of paper.

He ducks his head, and you see the beginnings of the blush creeping down his neck. It feels exhilarating, being able to make him blush like this.

“It's just more practical.” He mumbles.

You grab your phone quickly, typing in his number and giving it a call, so that your number goes through his as well. “I'll give you a call. But, you still owe me a book for this.” You motion at your skirt, at the stain of his footprint on the fabric.

He chuckles, “Of course. Can't go back on my promise.” he looks around the store and you're taken by the sight of him, looking like he's part of the space, like he simply belongs here. And this time, with you standing next to him, with him. “Take your pick.”

“I'm pretty indecisive.” You say playfully.

“I have time.” He smiles, and you find he has two dimples on one side of his face, and only one on the other. Your chest feels heavy with something that you can't quite put a name to yet, but you're eager for more of it.

[little-jana]

"A Valentine’s Surprise"

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: kissing

Words: 2k

Summary: You never expected much for Valentine’s Day, but Aaron Hotchner had other plans.

Valentine’s Day was never really a big deal for you. It was nice in theory, but grand gestures and romantic clichés always felt a little out of reach—especially dating someone like Aaron Hotchner.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t romantic. Quite the opposite, actually. He had his own way of showing love—quiet, steady, unwavering. He’d press a kiss to your forehead when he thought you were asleep, leave a cup of coffee on the nightstand for you in the mornings, and pull you close at the end of a long day without a single word.

But Valentine’s Day? With his schedule, you didn’t expect much.

So when you woke up that morning, finding nothing out of the ordinary, you shrugged it off. It was a workday for him, after all. You gave him a sleepy kiss before he left, told him to be safe, and went about your own routine.

What you didn’t know was that Aaron had a plan.

---

The first surprise came around noon.

Your phone buzzed with a text, and when you glanced at the screen, you saw his name.

Aaron: Check your front door.

Curious, you made your way over, unlocking the door and peeking outside. A small white box sat on the welcome mat, a neatly tied red ribbon wrapped around it. You bent down to pick it up, heart fluttering as you carried it inside.

Inside the box was a single chocolate-covered strawberry and a handwritten note.

"Something sweet to get you through the day. More to come. – A"

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. It wasn’t flashy, but it was thoughtful—so incredibly him.

---

The second surprise came a few hours later.

You were in the middle of a work call when another text came through.

Aaron: Be ready by seven. Dress warm.

Your stomach flipped. He hadn’t mentioned any plans earlier. You quickly responded, asking for details, but all he sent back was:

Aaron: Just trust me.

And you did.

---

By the time seven rolled around, you were dressed in a cozy sweater and your favorite coat, wondering what he had up his sleeve.

When you heard a knock at the door, you opened it to find Aaron standing there, looking unfairly good in his dark coat and suit. His tie was loosened just slightly, a hint of the long day he’d had, but his eyes were warm as they met yours.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you softly.

You smiled against his lips. “So, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

---

The drive was peaceful, the soft hum of the radio filling the space between you. He reached over at one point, lacing his fingers with yours, his thumb brushing over your skin absentmindedly.

When he finally pulled into a small park, you glanced at him, confused. “A park?”

He just smiled. “Come on.”

You stepped out, shivering slightly at the crisp evening air, but when you turned back to him, he was already opening the trunk. To your surprise, he pulled out a thick blanket and a thermos.

Your heart melted instantly. “You planned a picnic?”

He shrugged, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “I figured we could use a quiet night.”

You let him lead you to a secluded spot where he spread the blanket on a bench overlooking a small frozen lake. He poured you a cup of hot chocolate from the thermos, handing it to you before sitting beside you, close enough that his warmth seeped into your side.

For a while, the two of you just sat there, sipping your drinks, watching the way the stars reflected on the ice. It was peaceful, intimate, perfect.

“I know I’m not always good at… things like this,” Aaron said after a moment, his voice soft. “I don’t say it enough, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you. How much I love you.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you turned to look at him. His expression was open, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.

“Aaron…”

“I don’t take for granted how patient you are with my job, with my hours,” he continued, shaking his head slightly. “You make everything feel lighter, even when things are heavy. I don’t know how I got so lucky with you.”

Your eyes stung, overwhelmed by the quiet sincerity in his words. “You don’t have to do grand gestures, you know,” you murmured, reaching up to cup his face. “Just being with you is enough for me.”

His hand covered yours, his gaze searching yours in the dim light. “Still, I wanted to do something special for you.”

You smiled. “You did.”

He exhaled, relieved, and leaned in to kiss you. It was slow, lingering, filled with all the things he didn’t always know how to say.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

You smiled, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Aaron.”

And as you sat there, wrapped up in each other, you realized—this was the best Valentine’s Day you’d ever had.

[onegayastronaut]

Always With Her

Requested by anon: IF U STILL WRITE FOR JENNIFER JAREAU PLS MAY I REQUEST ONE BASED ON THR CLAIRO (i think? SONG WHERE IT GOES she’s so prettyyy when she goes down on me (x reader)

Words: 1059

The first time you realize you might be in over your head with JJ, it’s late—the kind of late that blurs into early morning. You’re both seated on her couch, bare feet tucked under you, a glass of wine balanced precariously in her hand. Her laugh—rich and melodic—spills into the quiet of the room, wrapping itself around you like a favorite sweater.

She’s just told you a story about an ill-fated college road trip, punctuated by wild hand gestures and her inability to stop giggling at her own misfortune. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine, her hair loose around her shoulders, and when she looks at you, it’s like the air is sucked out of the room.

“You’re staring,” she says softly, the laughter in her voice giving way to something more intimate, more dangerous.

You swallow hard. “Am I?”

Her smile tilts at the edges. “A little.”

You’re about to come up with some half-baked excuse when she leans in, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. Her fingers linger at your jaw, her eyes searching yours, and suddenly you’re not thinking at all. She kisses you softly, hesitantly, like she’s testing the waters. When you respond—pressing into her, letting the taste of her settle on your tongue—the hesitation melts away. The glass in her hand is abandoned on the coffee table, and her hands find their place at your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no room for doubt.

Loving JJ is easy in theory. She’s kind, thoughtful, and endlessly selfless, always putting others before herself. But there’s a quiet intensity to her, a weight she carries that’s both magnetic and devastating.

You see it in the way she pours herself into her work, in the long nights and the phone calls that pull her away at a moment’s notice. You see it in the way she’s with Henry, her gentleness wrapped around her like armor, her love for her son so palpable it nearly brings you to your knees. And you see it in the way she loves you—with a ferocity that’s sometimes overwhelming, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on tightly enough.

It’s in the stolen mornings when she’s still half-asleep, her body warm and pliant against yours, her hair a mess across her pillow. It’s in the way she presses lazy kisses to your collarbone, her voice gravelly and soft as she murmurs your name. It’s in the way she watches you with quiet reverence, as though she’s memorizing every inch of you.

And it’s in the nights when she’s gone—when the emptiness of your shared bed feels like a physical ache, and you’re left wondering how you ever survived before her.

The first time she tells you she loves you, it’s not planned. She’s standing in the kitchen, her hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts. There’s a smear of flour on her cheek, and she’s laughing at something you’ve just said. The sound is so pure, so genuine, that it fills every corner of the room.

“I love you,” she says, the words tumbling out unbidden. Her laughter fades, replaced by a wide-eyed vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

For a moment, you’re stunned into silence. And then you’re closing the distance between you, cupping her face in your hands and kissing her with everything you have. You taste the salt of her tears and realize she’s crying, and it breaks something inside you.

“I love you, too,” you whisper against her lips. “So much.”

She smiles through her tears, her arms winding around your neck, and you’re both laughing, crying, and kissing all at once. It’s messy and beautiful and entirely perfect.

The thing about JJ is that she’s all-consuming. When she’s with you, it’s like nothing else exists. She’s fully present, fully engaged, her attention fixed solely on you. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

There are nights when she’s on her knees before you, her hands gripping your thighs, her lips leaving a trail of fire across your skin. She looks up at you, her blue eyes dark and hungry, and you’re struck by how utterly beautiful she is. She’s breathtaking in her intensity, her devotion, and it’s almost too much to bear.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmurs, her voice husky and reverent. “So damn pretty.”

You’re about to respond, to tell her she’s the one who’s beautiful, but then her mouth is on you, and all coherent thought is wiped away. She takes her time, her movements deliberate and precise, unraveling you piece by piece until you’re nothing but a trembling mess beneath her.

Afterward, she’s all soft smiles and gentle touches, her body curled around yours like she’s afraid to let go. She presses a kiss to your temple, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, and you wonder how you ever got so lucky.

But things weren’t always easy. There are times when the weight of her world threatens to crush her, and by extension, you. There are nights when she comes home looking like she’s carrying the weight of the universe on her shoulders, her eyes hollow and distant.

You’ve learned to navigate these moments with care, giving her the space she needs while quietly reminding her that she’s not alone. Sometimes, she’ll let you hold her, her head resting against your chest as you stroke her hair and whisper words of comfort. Other times, she retreats into herself, and all you can do is be there, waiting for her to find her way back to you.

It’s in these moments that you’re reminded of just how human she is. She’s not the invincible, unshakable force she appears to be. She’s vulnerable, flawed, and achingly real, and you love her all the more for it.

Your relationship isn’t perfect, but it’s yours. It’s in the quiet moments, the stolen glances, the whispered promises. It’s in the way she looks at you like you’re her entire world, and in the way you feel when she’s by your side—whole, seen, and completely loved. And as you lay in bed beside her, her fingers intertwined with yours, her breathing steady and calm, you know without a doubt that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

[kiwriteswords]

congrats on your 2k 🎉

for missing scene Monday, could we get bearded Hotch's new gf he met on his secret assignment in Pakistan?? I'll leave it to you if you want to extend it back to the US and the BAU team!!

Just begging for anything with bearded Hotch and yes this was inspired by your 2k celebration gif choices ❤️ love ya!

Let It Be [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||Main Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 8k|| AN: Thank you so much for sending this request so early for day one! I was able to get a head start on this last week, and I really love how it turned out!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon-divergent, beard!hotch, canon-typical themes, hurt/comfort, banter, Hotch in Pakistan, non!BAU reader, kinda left tbc?

Summary: Hotch meets you on assignment in Pakistan, and you're exactly what he was looking for...someone who's just there without pushing.

The sun was relentless, bearing down on the barren expanse surrounding the base. Sweat collected under your tactical gear, but you barely noticed. It was the kind of heat that stripped away all distractions, leaving you focused on the mission ahead--or at least trying to be.

You adjusted the strap of your duffel bag and glanced around the bustling camp. This wasn’t your first special operations assignment, but the tension in the air felt different here. Heavier. 

It could have just been you dragging the weight of unresolved emotions halfway across the world, or it could have been the stakes of the mission--a dangerous operation involving an international terrorist cell that required precision, discretion, and teamwork between agencies not known for always getting along.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

The voice was deep, cutting through the camp noise. You turned and found yourself face to face with a tall man, his sharp features etched into a permanent state of seriousness. His gaze was steady, and his presence commanded attention without effort.

“That’s me,” you replied, clipped but polite.

He stepped closer, extending a hand. “Aaron Hotchner, unit chief for the BAU.”

The name was familiar. You had read the reports and heard the stories--his work on high-profile cases, his leadership, and his reputation for being unflinchingly methodical. You shook his hand, noting the firm grip and how it matched the intensity in his dark eyes.

“Special Agent Y/L/N, CIA Directorate of Operations,” you said, introducing yourself with the same straightforward efficiency. “Behavioral analyst and covert operations specialist.”

His brow shifted slightly, just enough for you to notice. He nodded, acknowledging your credentials with a quiet respect.

“Briefing starts in five,” he said, his tone all business. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you with the distinct impression that there was more to him than the stoic exterior he projected. You had worked with people like him before--people who carried their burdens in silence--but something about the weight in his eyes made you wonder if he had brought his own ghosts to this mission, much like you had.

….

The first few days were a blur of briefings, strategy sessions, and late nights poring over intel. You didn’t interact much with Hotch beyond the occasional exchange of information, but you caught yourself noticing him. The way he carried himself--calm and composed, but with an edge of tension that never seemed to leave him. You recognized it because you felt it, too.

As you reviewed reports in the command tent one night, he walked in, filling the space. He set a folder on the table and glanced at you.

“You’ve been here for hours,” he said, not a question but an observation.

You shrugged, keeping your focus on the documents in front of you. “So have you.”

“I’m used to it,” he replied, his tone neutral.

“So am I.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, he pulled out a chair and sat across from you, his gaze steady.

“It’s easier to keep busy,” he said quietly as if he was sharing a truth he rarely voiced.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was something there--something raw and unspoken. You wanted to ask what he was running from, but you didn’t. You weren’t ready to share your own truths, so you didn’t ask for his.

….

The nights were the hardest. The quiet gave your mind too much room to wander, dredging up memories you’d rather forget. One evening, you found yourself outside, staring at the vast expanse of desert under a blanket of stars. You didn’t expect company, but the sound of footsteps behind you made you turn.

It was Hotch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

He shook his head, stepping closer until he was standing beside you.

“Me neither,” you admitted.

For a while, you just stood there, the silence between you feeling strangely comfortable.

“I read your file,” he said eventually, his tone careful.

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Did you now?”

“You’ve handled some difficult assignments. Made a name for yourself.”

There was no arrogance in his words; it was just observation.

“Guess you could say I have a knack for throwing myself into the fire,” you replied. Something flashed across his face like he was going to respond with something, but he didn’t.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but his presence was steady, almost calming.

“Why are you really here?” you asked, breaking the quiet. Nobody in their right mind would have volunteered for this unless they either A) had nobody to go home to at night, or B) were trying to forget about something else. You could tell by the small photo Hotch carried around of, presumably, his son it wasn’t option A.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost reluctant. “Because it’s easier than being back home.”

You nodded, understanding more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. Same.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “What are you running from?”

You hesitated, the question hitting too close to home. “A mistake. One I don’t want to repeat.”

He didn’t press for details, and you were grateful. Instead, he said, “Sometimes running is the only way to keep moving.”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure if you agreed.

��…

As the mission dragged on, the weight of it started to press down on both of you. You began to notice how Hotch avoided certain topics, not that personal topics frequently came up. You noticed how his eyes darkened when the name "Prentiss" came up from the communication specialist on the special ops team.

You didn’t ask--he didn’t offer--but the pieces slowly started to come together. You had to be living under a rock in this field not to have heard about the major loss the BAU took this past year.

One night, after another tense meeting, you found yourselves in the makeshift kitchen, both reaching for the last cup of coffee.

“You take it,” you said, stepping back.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“I insist. I’ve had worse days.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of understanding. “I doubt that.”

You smirked, the slightest crack in your guarded exterior. “Careful, Hotchner. That almost sounded like empathy.”

His lips twitched--the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. “Don’t get used to it.”

….

A sudden sandstorm sent the entire team scrambling for cover. The wind howled outside the command tent, shaking the canvas walls as you huddled with Hotch and two other agents.

“Typical,” you muttered, brushing sand off your gear. “Mission’s hard enough without Mother Nature making it worse.”

Hotch sat across from you, his expression unreadable as he tightened the straps on his vest. He was scruffier than he was when you first arrived. It wasn’t a bad look, but you brushed down that thought.

“You’ve been through worse,” he said matter-of-factly, not a question but a statement.

You let out a short laugh. “Don’t give me too much credit, Hotchner. I’m not invincible.”

“No one is,” he replied, his tone softer than you expected. “But you’re resilient. I can see that.”

The compliment, if you could call it that, caught you off guard. You didn’t reply, unsure how to. Instead, you focused on the storm outside, the roar of the wind drowning out everything else.

But later, when the storm passed, and you stepped out into the eerily quiet desert, you found yourself glancing at Hotch. He met your gaze for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you--a mutual respect, a shared understanding.

….

It was late, and the compound was finally quiet. You were seated at a makeshift table, cleaning your sidearm, when Hotch approached with two cups of coffee.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said as he set one down in front of you.

“I doubt that,” he replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

You took a sip, wincing at the bitter taste. “God, this is terrible.”

“It’s coffee,” he said with a small shrug as if that explained everything.

You glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Do you ever lighten up, Hotchner?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “On occasion.”

“Define ‘occasion.’”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the weapon in your hands. “When it’s earned,” he said finally.

It was a cryptic response, but it made you smile anyway. “Well, I’ll consider this progress.”

He sat with you in silence, but it was comfortable. The company was more needed than either of you realized.

….

The day had been relentless, the kind that left your muscles aching and your mind frayed at the edges. You had lost count of how many hours you’d been awake--thirty, maybe forty. Every bone in your body screamed for rest, but the tension from the mission had settled into your chest, making sleep impossible.

You found yourself outside the command tent, slumping onto an old crate with a half-empty water bottle in your hand. The distant hum of generators buzzed like a white noise machine, masking the desert’s eerie quiet.

Hotch appeared a few minutes later, wordlessly lowering himself onto the crate beside you. His presence, steady as always, should have been comforting, but tonight it only made the lump in your throat harder to ignore.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You told yourself you liked the silence, but the truth was, it gave your thoughts too much room to spiral. Your chest felt tight, and despite the coolness of the night, your face burned with exhaustion-fueled frustration.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them.

Hotch turned his head toward you, his face unreadable but his attention sharp. “Why do you say that?”

You let out a shaky breath, staring out into the endless darkness of the desert. “Because I’m running. I didn’t know what else to do.” You hesitated, feeling the weight of your own admission. “I thought putting space between me and...everything would help, but maybe it just makes it worse.”

The words sat heavy in the air, and you instantly regretted saying them. You felt exposed, as though admitting it aloud would make it all the more real. Your hands fidgeted with the bottle, and you kept your gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to meet his.

You thought about the way your life had pretty much unraveled around you back at home. If it wasn’t for work, you’re not sure you’d still be standing on your two feet. Here you could be the strong, independent person you aspired to be. At home, you were heartbroken without an end in sight. 

The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t respond. But then, in that low, even voice of his, he said, “It doesn’t make it worse. It just makes it...quieter. And sometimes quiet is all you can handle.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the quiet vulnerability in his tone. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, distant and heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Is that why you’re here?” you asked softly, the rawness in your voice betraying how fragile you felt.

He nodded, barely perceptible, his gaze never leaving the horizon. “I thought being here might help me make sense of things. But some things…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Some things don’t have answers.”

There was something about the way he said it--not defensive, not self-pitying, just honest. It broke through the dam inside you, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you might cry.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening. The weight of his answer settled between you, tangible and heavy, yet somehow reassuring.

For the first time, the silence felt like a shared space rather than an empty one. You didn’t push for more. You couldn’t, not with your emotions already threatening to overflow. But as the desert night pressed in around you, you realized you didn’t need to.

Whatever walls you both had built were starting to crumble, and neither of you seemed inclined to stop it.

…..

The air in the abandoned warehouse was stifling, thick with the smell of rust and dust. You moved carefully, your weapon drawn and your eyes scanning every shadow. Hotch was just behind you, silent but steady, his presence grounding you in the tense atmosphere.

The intel had been solid: a potential threat against the local embassy was being planned here, and your team had been tasked with gathering evidence. But now, as you crept deeper into the maze of crates and machinery, something felt off. The place was too quiet.

A faint creak made you freeze. You glanced back at Hotch, and he gave a subtle nod, his dark eyes sharp with focus. He gestured for you to take the left while he veered right. You obeyed without question, trusting his instincts as much as your own.

You edged around a stack of crates, your pulse quickening. The sound came again--a faint shuffle, followed by a whisper of movement. You tightened your grip on your weapon, adrenaline flooding your system.

Then everything exploded at once.

A figure lunged from the shadows, slamming into you with enough force to knock you off balance. Your weapon clattered to the floor as you struggled against the assailant, their grip bruising as they tried to pin you down.

“Agent Y/L/N!” Hotch’s voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

You twisted, freeing one arm, and drove your elbow into the attacker’s side. They grunted, loosening their grip just enough for you to push them off. But before you could retrieve your weapon, another figure appeared, this one heading straight for Hotch.

“Behind you!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

Hotch spun just in time, deflecting the attacker’s blow and delivering a calculated strike that sent them stumbling. But the odds were quickly stacking against you--more figures emerged from the shadows, their movements coordinated and purposeful.

“Fall back!” Hotch ordered, his voice calm but commanding.

You grabbed your weapon and fell into step beside him as the two of you retreated toward the exit. The sound of footsteps echoed behind you, growing louder with each passing second.

“We’re not going to make it out clean,” you said, your voice tight as you scanned for cover.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “We don’t have to. We just need to slow them down.”

He pointed to a stack of crates near the exit, and you understood immediately. You fired a few shots, not aiming to hit but to force your pursuers to take cover. Then, together, you pushed the nearest crate, toppling it over and creating a barricade that bought you a few precious seconds.

“Go!” Hotch barked, motioning for you to move ahead.

“No way,” you snapped, falling into position beside him. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

His gaze flicked to you, something unspoken passing between you. It wasn’t the time for arguments, so he didn’t push it.

The two of you moved as one, covering each other as you navigated the narrow corridors toward the exit. Your heart pounded in your ears, but you didn’t let it distract you. Hotch’s steady presence was all you focused on, his calm precision a stark contrast to the chaos around you.

Finally, you burst into the open air, the sounds of shouting and gunfire fading behind you. You didn’t stop running until you reached the safety of the extraction point, where reinforcements were waiting.

You doubled over, hands on your knees as you caught your breath. Hotch was beside you, his breathing heavy but controlled.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, straightening up. “Yeah. You?”

“I’ve been worse,” he replied, a faint flicker of dry humor in his tone.

You couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “That’s one way to bond, I guess.”

Hotch glanced at you, and for the first time since the mission began, you saw something close to a smile on his face. It was brief, but it was real.

“Good work out there,” he said simply.

“Right back at you,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

In that moment, you realized just how much you trusted him--not just as a colleague, but as someone who had your back, no matter what. And from the way he looked at you, you had the feeling he felt the same.

….

The day had been unusually quiet. The base hummed with its usual activity, but the weight in the air seemed heavier that day. You had noticed it the moment you walked into the briefing room. Hotch had been there, as he always was, but there was something off.

His usual sharp focus felt dulled, his replies curt even for his standards. He spent more time staring at his tablet than actually reading it, and the lines etched into his face seemed deeper somehow.

You weren’t a profiler, but you didn’t need to be to know something was wrong.

Now, hours later, you found him alone in the makeshift command tent, the harsh glow of a desk lamp illuminating the strain on his features. He was seated, elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of him, staring at a map as if willing it to make sense.

“You’re still at it?” you asked gently, stepping inside.

His head lifted slightly, but he didn’t look at you. “There’s a lot to prepare for.”

“There always is,” you replied, pulling up a chair across from him. “But it’s late. You should take a break.”

“I can’t afford to.”

The edge in his voice wasn’t aimed at you, but it still made you hesitate. You considered leaving him to his work, but something kept you there.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tense quiet. “What’s going on?”

He finally looked up, his dark eyes shadowed by something heavy. For a moment, you thought he might tell you, but then his expression hardened, his walls slamming back into place.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, his tone measured but distant.

You didn’t believe him, not for a second. But you also knew better than to push.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You’re allowed to have off days, you know. Even you.”

His lips twitched, almost a humorless smile. “I don’t have the time for that.”

“You’re human,” you countered, your tone steady but not pressing. “It’s not a luxury. It’s just...life.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the table. But his hands, usually so still, were fidgeting now--his fingers twisting the edge of the map absentmindedly.

You let the silence settle between you, giving him space. After a few minutes, you stood and moved toward the coffee pot in the corner of the tent. You poured two cups, setting one down in front of him without a word before returning to your seat.

Hotch stared at the cup for a moment before picking it up, cradling it in his hands like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly, almost as if he was telling it to himself, though his tone betrayed him. “I just--” He stopped, shaking his head as if to dismiss whatever he’d been about to say.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said quietly, your voice steady. “We all have those days.”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “This one feels heavier.”

You didn’t know what he was carrying--something about him always felt impenetrable, as though he kept the world at arm’s length. But you didn’t need to know the specifics to recognize the weight he was under.

“You’re allowed to let it feel heavy,” you said after a moment, watching his reaction carefully.

Hotch’s hand tightened around the coffee cup, the faintest flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face before his walls went back up. “I shouldn’t let it distract me,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table. “Maybe letting yourself feel it for five minutes wouldn’t be a distraction. Maybe it’d just be human.”

He didn’t respond, but his jaw shifted as though he was grinding his teeth. His silence didn’t bother you--it was enough to just sit there, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

After a while, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not digging,” he said, finally looking at you. His gaze softened just enough to make your chest ache. “For just...being here.”

You offered a small smile, reaching across the table and resting your hand lightly over his. It wasn’t much, but the way his shoulders relaxed told you it was enough.

“I’ve got your back,” you said simply. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone.”

Hotch nodded, his grip tightening briefly on the cup before setting it down. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in the room felt lighter somehow.

The two of you sat there in silence, the night pressing in around you. And while the weight of whatever he was carrying didn’t disappear, you could tell it didn’t feel quite so unbearable anymore.

…

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, reflecting off the shallow, winding river that cut through the barren terrain. You adjusted your gear, sweat dripping down your temple as you followed Hotch’s lead. The mission had gone sideways--nothing catastrophic, but the extraction point was now miles further than planned, and the only route was straight through the rocky riverbed.

“Watch your step,” Hotch warned as he leaped from one jagged boulder to another. His movements were precise, practiced, but you could tell the exhaustion of the day was catching up with him.

“I was planning to fall flat on my face,” you replied, the edge of sarcasm in your voice lighthearted enough to soften the tension.

His lips twitched, that almost-smile you’d grown accustomed to. “Let’s avoid that.”

The river wasn’t deep, but the current was deceptively strong. The rocks were uneven; some were slick with moss, and others were barely stable. The whole setup was a sprained ankle--or worse--waiting to happen.

You made it halfway across before your boot slipped on a loose stone, your footing completely giving out beneath you. You stumbled, and the weight of your gear made it impossible to regain your balance.

Before you could hit the water, a substantial hand shot out, grabbing your arm and pulling you upright. The force of it brought you chest-to-chest with Hotch, his grip firm and steady.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and close, his breath warm against your temple.

“Yeah,” you managed, your own breath catching as you looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you.

His dark eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering in them--concern, maybe, or something deeper. He didn’t let go right away, his hand lingering on your arm as though he needed to make sure you were truly steady.

“I told you to watch your step,” he said finally, his tone softer than usual. His words did not match the gentleness in his tone.

“And I told you I was planning to fall,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a wry smile.

His lips twitched again, but this time, it felt closer to a real smile. His hand slipped away reluctantly, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he stepped back.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said, his voice all business again, though you caught the slight shift in his expression--something unguarded, fleeting, but unmistakably there.

…

The day’s trek had left you both bone-weary, but the setting sun brought with it a chill that seeped into your skin. The fire crackled low between you as you sat on overturned crates, the glow casting flickering shadows over the rocky outcrop that served as your makeshift camp for the night.

You had stripped down to your undershirt, your jacket drying on a nearby rock after the river crossing. Hotch sat across from you, rolling his stiff shoulders and rubbing his neck, his usual stoicism slightly cracked by the day’s exhaustion.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” you commented, watching him massage the tension from his muscles.

“So will you,” he replied, his eyes flicking to your bruised forearm from the earlier stumble.

“I bounce back quickly,” you said lightly. “You, on the other hand, might want to consider a hot bath.”

His lips quirked, and he shook his head. “I’ll add that to the list of luxuries I’m missing out on.”

“Right after edible food,” you added, holding up the protein bar you’d been gnawing on. “This is basically punishment.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, and it made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire and the rare ease of the moment settle over you.

“You’re not always so serious, are you?” you asked, half-teasing but genuinely curious.

Hotch glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Depends on the company.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion and something deeper--something you couldn’t quite name but felt pulled toward.

“Well,” you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you before he nodded slightly. “You should.”

The fire had long since burned down to embers, but neither of you had moved. The quiet was comfortable now, a shared understanding that didn’t need words.

“You’re different,” Hotch said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. His tone was thoughtful, not heavy, but it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t expect.

“Different how?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t push,” he said simply. “Most people do. They want something, even if they don’t say it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening at the vulnerability in his words. “Maybe I just know what it’s like to need space.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze dropping to the glowing embers. “It’s rare,” he said quietly. “And...appreciated.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you realized with a startling clarity that you didn’t want this moment to end. The mission, the chaos, the fleeting moments of quiet connection--they’d all built to this, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

You didn’t say anything, but you shifted closer, just enough that your knee brushed against his. He didn’t move away, and the warmth of his presence felt like an anchor in the cool desert night.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. But when he finally looked at you, the guarded distance in his eyes had softened, replaced by something you couldn’t name but felt deeply.

“Get some rest,” he said eventually, his voice low but gentle. “Tomorrow will come too soon.”

You nodded, standing and brushing the dust from your pants. But as you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him. “Good night, Hotch.”

“Good night,” he replied, his gaze following you as you walked away.

And for the first time since this mission began, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time--something you weren’t sure you could name but couldn’t deny was there.

…..

The air in the base felt heavier than usual. The usual hum of activity buzzed in the background, but your focus was locked on the figure in front of you--Aaron Hotchner, standing by the transport vehicle, his duffel slung over his shoulder. A stark contrast to how he had shown up so long ago. Now, slimmer and with a face full of facial hair.

You hadn’t expected the mission to end like this--not with him leaving before it was over. The news had come down hours ago: he had been called back stateside. No explanation, no warning. Just orders.

“Something urgent?” you asked, keeping your tone steady even as you struggled to meet his eyes.

He nodded, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight, a tell you’d come to recognize. “I have to return to Quantico. The team needs me.”

Of course, they do, you thought. You had known from the beginning that this wasn’t his world. His world was back home, leading the BAU, carrying burdens most people couldn’t fathom. Still, the abruptness of his departure left a hollow ache in your chest that you hadn’t prepared for.

You stepped closer, your arms crossed, not out of defiance but to keep yourself grounded. “We’ll manage here,” you said, the words feeling both true and hollow.

Hotch’s gaze flicked to you, his dark eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “You will,” he said, his voice low. “You’re good at this.”

A faint, humorless laugh escaped you. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” he replied, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips before it disappeared.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. You weren’t naive. Whatever had brought him here was bigger than the mission, bigger than you. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch him leave.

“Will you be back?” you asked finally, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Hotch hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I don’t know.”

The honesty in his answer hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nodded. “Well, in case you don’t…you know, good luck, Hotch.”

He studied you for a moment, as if committing your face to memory. Then, to your surprise, he stepped closer. His hand reached out, resting lightly on your arm.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you, but you didn’t pull away. “For what?”

“For being here. For making this easier,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You searched his eyes, the words catching in your throat. Instead of speaking, you reached up and squeezed his hand where it rested on your arm, the small gesture saying more than words could.

His hand lingered for a moment before he pulled back, his professional mask sliding into place once more.

“They’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice steady but distant.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Go. They need you more than we do.”

He hesitated again, his eyes flicking to yours one last time. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

And then he turned and climbed into the vehicle. You stood there, watching as it pulled away, the ache in your chest growing heavier with each passing second.

When the dust finally settled, and the vehicle disappeared from sight, you let out a shaky breath, the reality of his absence sinking in.

You hadn’t expected this assignment to change anything. But now, as you stood alone under the relentless desert sun, you realized just how much it had--and how much he had.

You weren’t sure how you’d get over missing him the way you felt the minute he left your side. 

…

The harsh glow of the tent's fluorescent light was a poor substitute for the sun. You rubbed your temples, trying to chase away the dull ache that had settled behind your eyes after hours of pouring over intel. The mission dragged on, one step forward and two steps back, and you were beginning to feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

The faint crackle of the comm system startled you, drawing your attention to the communications officer stationed at the other end of the tent. His head tilted, listening intently before he turned and called out, “Y/L/N, secure line for you. Priority channel.”

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. Secure lines weren’t uncommon, but they were usually pre-arranged. Rising from your chair, you crossed the tent, curiosity buzzing in the back of your mind.

When you picked up the headset, the officer handed you a notepad with a string of verification codes scrawled across it. “Verify the code,” he instructed.

You input the code into the secure terminal, and after a moment, the line cleared. “This is Y/L/N,” you said cautiously.

There was a beat of silence, then a familiar voice. “It’s Hotch.”

Back in Quantico, Hotch leaned back in his chair, his fingers gripping the phone tighter than necessary. The bullpen below his office was dim and quiet--most of the team had left for the night, but the stillness did little to ease the weight pressing on him.

The fallout from the Ian Doyle case was still reverberating through the BAU. Emily’s return had blindsided the team, and though he had tried to justify the deception, the cracks in their trust were impossible to ignore. Strauss’s scrutiny had sharpened, and his every decision seemed to be under a magnifying glass.

He hadn’t called to talk about any of that. He couldn’t.

But the familiar tension in his chest--the suffocating combination of guilt, stress, and isolation--had driven him to dial the secure line. He wasn’t even sure you’d pick up, but when your voice filtered through the line, steady and sure, it was like a knot in his chest loosened.

You straightened instinctively, surprise rippling through you. “Hotch,” you repeated, unable to keep the astonishment from your tone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he replied, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re not…no,” you assured him, leaning against the edge of the table. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough for you to sense the weight behind it. “I just wanted to check-in. See how things are going on your end.”

You frowned slightly, his words not matching the tension you could hear in his voice. “Things are...as expected. Slow, frustrating, and complicated. But manageable.”

“Good,” he said, the word clipped, almost distracted.

You weren’t a profiler, but the exhaustion in his tone was unmistakable. He sounded like a man carrying too many burdens, with no room to set them down.

“You sound tired,” you said gently, knowing better than to pry.

He let out a soft exhale, the kind that felt heavier than it should. “It’s been a long few weeks,” he admitted, though his words felt like an understatement.

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, your voice cutting through the static in his mind. He could still see the look on Morgan’s face when Emily had walked into the room, the betrayal simmering under the surface. He could hear the edge in Strauss’s tone as she grilled him about his decision to keep the team in the dark.

But here, with you, there was no judgment. No interrogation.

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?” you asked, keeping your tone light but genuine.

A soft scoff met your ears. “I’m trying,” he replied, the words carrying a note of dry humor.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the table. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

His silence stretched again, but this time it felt less heavy. You knew he wasn’t the type to reach out without a reason, but you also knew he wouldn’t say more than he wanted to. And you weren’t going to push.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For picking up,” he said simply. “For not asking.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the honesty in his tone. “Of course,” you replied softly. “You don’t have to explain anything, Hotch. You know that.”

For a fleeting moment, Hotch considered telling you. About Emily. About the team’s trust--or lack of it. But the words felt too heavy…too complicated to put into the space between you. He didn’t want to drag you into the mess, especially not when you had your own mission to worry about.

And yet, knowing you were there, steady and unwavering, brought him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in weeks.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the faint hum of the secure line filling the silence. Despite the distance between you, the connection felt tangible--grounding.

“I should let you get back to work,” he said finally, although his voice sounded reluctant.

“Yeah,” you agreed, even though you didn’t want the call to end. “But Hotch...don’t wait so long to call next time, okay?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, almost imperceptible, “Okay.”

And then the line disconnected, leaving you standing there with the headset in hand and a heaviness in your chest you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Across the ocean, Hotch set the phone down, his hand lingering on the receiver. For the first time in days, the storm inside him felt a little less suffocating. And though he couldn’t explain why, he knew that calling you had been the right choice.

….

Throughout the remainder of your mission in Pakistan, Hotch’s calls came sporadically, never announced, and always brief. Each time the secure line connected, his voice carried a steadiness that seemed to ease the tension that surrounded you. The conversations were simple--updates on the mission, quiet exchanges about the weather, or mutual remarks about the relentless grind of your respective work.

Yet, beneath the surface, those calls meant more. 

They weren’t about the words exchanged but the connection that had grown between you. Somehow, through the static of secure lines and the distance of continents, you felt you knew him intimately. 

Not in the way of shared stories or confessions, but in the quiet understanding of someone who had seen the same kind of pain.

Hotch never spoke about what weighed on him, and you never pressed. He didn’t need to. The heaviness in his tone, the pauses that lingered too long--they told you everything you needed to know. And you, in turn, found comfort in the silence he offered, in the unspoken acknowledgment of your own burdens.

It was a strange closeness, one that felt both fragile and unbreakable. You knew so much about each other, and yet nothing at all. He never asked about what had driven you to this mission, and you never asked about the strain you could hear in his voice. Yet, you understood each other in a way that words couldn’t capture.

In those stolen moments on the phone, it didn’t matter that the world outside was relentless. It didn’t matter that neither of you could put your pain into words. What mattered was that, for a few fleeting minutes, you weren’t alone. And somehow, that was enough.

It was those moments that patched up the pain in your chest, almost making you forget about the heartbreak you left at home. The failed relationships, the loneliness…you wondered how it would continue on--or if it would continue on once you were back home. You hoped. 

…..

The bullpen at the BAU was its usual hive of activity, with agents moving between desks, typing up reports, and chatting quietly between tasks. But today, there was an undercurrent of curiosity rippling through the team--one that centered on Hotch.

Seated at her desk, Garcia spun her chair toward Morgan, a playful smirk on her lips. “Alright, Derek, spill. What’s with the boss man and those secretive phone calls he’s been making?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I know anything, Baby Girl?”

Garcia raised a skeptical brow, gesturing dramatically toward Hotch’s office. “Because every time he steps in there and picks up that phone, he looks...different. Like, not his usual stressed-out-because-the-world-is-burning look. It’s something else.”

JJ, passing by with a file, paused to join the conversation. “You’re not wrong,” she said thoughtfully. “I noticed it, too. He’s been...quieter lately. More introspective. Not that Hotch is ever exactly chatty, but it’s different.”

Rossi appeared from behind them, holding his ever-present coffee mug. “And you’re all assuming that a few phone calls mean he’s seeing someone?” His tone was teasing, but there was genuine curiosity behind it.

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the craziest thing,” Morgan replied with a shrug. “The man deserves a little happiness. Maybe he finally found someone who gets him.”

Reid, seated nearby with his tablet, looked up. “It could be related to the fallout from the Doyle case. He might be reaching out to someone for professional advice or support.”

Garcia shook her head dramatically. “Oh, boy-wonder, that’s far too clinical. This is Hotch we’re talking about. If he’s calling someone regularly, it’s personal.”

JJ frowned slightly, leaning against her desk. “Whoever it is, I just hope they’re good for him. After everything with Haley, and now the strain with the team...he needs someone who can be there for him.”

Rossi took a sip of his coffee, his gaze flicking toward Hotch’s closed office door. “Maybe it’s not about what they say. Sometimes, it’s just about having someone who listens. God knows that man doesn’t let anyone in easily.”

The group fell into a contemplative silence, their gazes drifting toward the office where Hotch was currently on a call. Inside, his expression was characteristically composed, but the slight relaxation of his shoulders and the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed something softer.

Morgan broke the silence first, smirking. “Well, whoever this mystery caller is, they’ve got our fearless leader smiling. I say we let him have this one.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, clasping her hands together. “Smiling? You saw him smile? Oh, this is bigger than I thought.”

JJ and Rossi exchanged amused glances, and even Reid couldn’t suppress a small smile at Garcia’s theatrics. But beneath the playful banter, the team shared a collective hope--that whoever was on the other end of those calls was helping their stoic leader carry at least some of the weight on his shoulders.

….

Hotch sat in his office, the low hum of activity in the bullpen barely reaching his ears. His personal phone buzzed on the desk beside him, an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. He frowned, picking it up cautiously. It wasn’t often he got calls from unlisted numbers on this line.

“Aaron Hotchner,” he answered, his tone brisk.

“Well, that’s formal. Do you always answer like you’re being interrogated?”

His breath caught, the familiar voice pulling a genuine, if fleeting, smile to his face. “Agent Y/L/N. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you teased. “Just because I’m not in Pakistan doesn’t mean I’ve vanished. I still exist, contrary to popular belief.”

“Good to know,” he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I heard you finished the mission. Back stateside?”

“For now,” you said, your tone carrying the same measured ease he remembered. “It’s just a pit stop, though. The CIA doesn’t let its covert operatives sit idle for too long.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said, the faintest trace of humor in his voice. “How’s it feel to be back?”

“Strange,” you admitted. “Like I’m not entirely here, you know? You get that, don’t you?”

He did. More than he cared to admit. 

“I do,” he said simply, his voice low.

“And you?” you asked, your voice softening. “How’s the BAU treating you?”

He hesitated, the weight of recent weeks pressing heavily on his chest. The fallout from the Doyle case, Emily’s return, the team’s shaken trust--it all simmered just beneath the surface. But he wasn’t ready to unpack that. Not now.

“Still busy,” he said instead, his voice even. “But you know how it is. Work doesn’t stop.”

“I do,” you replied, a knowing edge to your tone. “Sounds like you’re carrying more than just case files, though.”

He stayed silent for a moment, his grip tightening slightly on the phone. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said finally.

“You always say that,” you said, a note of fond exasperation in your voice. “I’m starting to think it’s your catchphrase.”

“I don’t have catchphrases,” he replied, his lips twitching in the faintest of smiles.

“Sure you don’t,” you shot back. “Next, you’ll tell me you don’t ever crack a smile.”

“That’s a rare occurrence,” he said, his tone lighter.

“Well, I must be one of the lucky few then because I swear I’ve seen it.”

The warmth in your voice caught him off guard, but he didn’t mind it. Not one bit. “You’re in a unique position.”

“Unique, huh?” you teased. “You make it sound so exclusive.”

“It is,” he admitted, his voice softening. “Not many people see past the job.”

Your tone matched his now, the playfulness giving way to something more sincere. “That’s because the job is easier to focus on. It’s harder to look past it.”

He let out a quiet sigh, nodding even though you couldn’t see him. “You’re not wrong.”

The call buzzed with a quiet warmth neither of you acknowledged outright, but both felt. Hotch leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a breath. He stared at the phone in his hand, debating whether to say what had been sitting in the back of his mind.

"So, this call," he said, his voice measured but holding a thread of something lighter. "Official business, or are you just checking up on me?"

"Can't it be both?" you asked, your teasing tone doing exactly what you intended--it made him relax, even if just a little.

He let out a soft laugh, surprising himself. "I suppose it can."

"I don’t know," you said, your voice playful. "Can it?"

He hesitated just a moment before admitting, “I actually thought about calling you too; I wanted to see how you were doing. And…I guess I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

The silence between you settled softly, comfortable, and filled with an understanding neither of you needed to articulate.

“Well, I’m doing okay,” you said finally, your tone calm. “Work’s the same. Chaos, classified details, long hours. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he replied, the weight of shared experience clear in his voice. “Too familiar.”

“And you?” you asked gently, your tone softening. “How are you, Hotch? Really?”

He hesitated again, the instinct to protect himself battling against the trust he felt when speaking to you. “I’m…I’m managing,” he said at last, quieter than before. “But it’s...been a lot.”

You didn’t push. You never did. That was one of the things he appreciated most. 

“Well,” you said, the warmth returning to your voice, “if you ever feel like you need to step away from saving the world, give me a call. I’ve got plenty of experience in chaos management.”

He let out another rare, quiet laugh. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” you said lightly. “Don’t be a stranger, Hotch.”

He let the words settle, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t sure what prompted him, but before the conversation could end, he spoke again.

“Actually,” he started, his voice betraying a hint of nerves that even he couldn’t suppress, “have you ever thought about meeting up?” The question lingered, and he immediately wondered if he had overstepped. “I mean, if your schedule allows it,” he added, his tone faltering slightly. “I know how demanding your work is.”

You paused, clearly caught off guard. “Meeting up?” you repeated, a smile audible in your tone. “You mean in person?”

“Yes,” he said quickly before he could second-guess himself. “I just thought…you’ve been a consistent voice through everything, and…” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t know how to explain it without giving too much away. “It would be nice to catch up.”

“I think that sounds...great,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “Though I should warn you, Hotchner, I’m still terrible at small talk.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” you teased, “I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried.”

“Flattered,” he said, surprising himself again with the sincerity in his tone.

The brief pause that followed carried an unspoken weight, a quiet understanding of the connection that had been building between you since the mission in Pakistan. Neither of you said it outright, but it was there, tangible in the way you lingered on the call longer than necessary.

“I’ll check my schedule,” you said lightly, breaking the silence. “But don’t think I won’t hold you to this.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he replied, his voice steadier now.

When the call ended, Hotch sat back, his thoughts circling the conversation. He realized that while he still didn’t know the full scope of your personal life or if there was someone waiting for you back home, he felt compelled to try--to find out, to see where this connection might lead. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself the thought of something beyond the weight he carried every day.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216

[not-a-fever-dream]

Oh so tender. This man deserves all the love.

Can I request the prompt 20 with hotch please? 😊

Pretty Sure

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAUfem!Reader

Category: Fluff (with a touch of angst) 

TW: mentions of Hotch and Haley’s divorce, mentions of Haley’s death, worries about Jack accepting a new stepmom

Prompt: 20. Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

Thank you so much for this request and I hope you like it! xx 

When he officially signed the divorce papers, served to him by Haley, Aaron Hotchner had been pretty sure that he would never be able to find any semblance of that life ever again. He’d always been, as Haley had once lovingly put it, a tough nut to crack. He figured he’d had his chance at domestic bliss and had messed it up. 

He’d been wrong about that. 

When Jack and Haley’s lives had been threatened by The Reaper, Aaron had been pretty sure the team could catch him. Unfortunately, pretty sure hadn’t cut it that time. Haley’s death symbolized to him, at least, that Aaron Hotchner wasn’t as infallible as he’d hoped. He knew, objectively, that no one is perfect. He couldn’t be right about everything, obviously, but this particular time...he was pretty sure he could never forgive himself for it. He was pretty sure Jack would never have another maternal figure. 

He’d been wrong about that.

He was pretty sure he didn’t want to add a new team member. However, Strauss’s urging following JJ’s departure from the team meant that they’d be getting one, whether or not he wanted it. He was pretty sure when he picked you that you’d hate the requirements of the job. A job that required more than any of them ever imagined it would. 

He’d been wrong about that. 

Aaron was pretty sure, following Haley’s death and the divorce before that paired with the fact that he was out of practice in the dating scene, that he’d never be able to ask another woman out on a date again. He was also pretty sure that his crush on you, which began with a growing respect and admiration for you as you proved yourself time and time again, would fade. 

He’d been wrong about that.

He was pretty sure you’d say no when he asked you out. He was pretty sure it was a fluke when you’d said ‘yes’. He was pretty sure it was an accident when you’d replied with ‘love you too’ after he’d whispered the sentiment into your hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head while the two of you fell asleep on the jet. He was pretty sure that Jack wouldn’t like you, based solely on the fact that he (understandably) missed his mother. He was pretty sure you’d hate how committed to the job he is, that you’d be overwhelmed by the baggage of him being a widower, of him having a son...that you’d fall out of love with him somehow. 

He’d been wrong about that. 

“Aaron?” your sweet voice interrupts his reverie. He looks up at you, standing just above him in the stairwell. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, smiling up at you, “sorry...just, just lost in thought.”

“Nothing too horrible I hope,” you tease, clearly still a tad concerned.

“Nothing horrible at all,” he assures you, placing a hand over yours on the handrail. “Just thinking about you, actually. And how lucky I am to have you.”

You try to fight the small grin that grows steadily on your lips at the compliment. You look down at him and open your mouth to say something, but close it almost immediately, instead leaning forward and placing a kiss atop Aaron’s head, the stairwell’s height providing ease in the action. 

“I’m lucky to have you, too, lovey,” you whisper. Aaron leans up on his toes, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. 

He’s been pretty sure about a lot of things that turned out to be untrue. Most of them disproved by you. But he hopes more than he’s ever hoped before that his sureness about you saying ‘yes’ to being his forever (and to wearing the ring currently hidden in his pocket) proves to be correct. 

(As it turns out, he’s right about that.) 

~~~

Feel free to send me more kissing prompts from this list! xx

[softtdaisy]

injury prompt 16 and 22 for reid perhaps... :D Love your writing btw <3

make my heart beat again / spencer reid

summary. spencer was sad. spencer was miserable. he thought he could handle it until he couldn't anymore. he thought he could deal with it alone until he couldn't.

words count. 2 249

prompt. “Why won’t you let me help you?” “…because I don’t deserve it.” / “You deserve to be helped, I—who told you this?” from here

what to expect. very angsty, spencer is so sad i want to hug him, i chose the mentally injured more than physically, mention of murder very quickly

a/n. ok first thank you so much for requesting it sweetie!! and i'm sorry, i wish i posted it sooner but i started it again to make it shorter and...it's not shorter, but it's here and i hope you will love it (and now i can work on your other request) 🫶

F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

You weren’t quite sure how everything started again with Spencer.

One day he was a memory of the past, one of your biggest regrets. The next time he was back in your place, like he always belonged there.

You went on a couple of dates a few years ago, and it would be a lie to say your heart didn’t fall for that boy. Sweet, gentle, the nicest man you’ve ever met. And so beautiful with his always so messy hair, his gorgeous brown eyes that always seemed to look at you like you were one of the seven wonders of the world, and that perfectly shaped mouth that you loved to kiss.

You were sure things could have worked out with Spencer if a) his work didn’t take him that much time—and more. b) You didn’t have other issues in your life you had to deal with before thinking about love.

So you ended your relationship, or whatever it was at that time, before it could be more serious. And you spent way too many nights missing Spencer Reid. 

The way he would start every date with a fact that could either last a minute or ten and how you could notice the change in his eyes when he noticed you were truly interested in what he was saying. How he was blushing at any physical contact you were initiating, even in bed after he made love to you. Or even how you never said you loved each other, yet the way his lips would stay longer on your shoulder when you were falling asleep was speaking for your feelings.

You never thought Spencer would miss you just as much.

But he spent months contemplating the idea of seeing you again and trying to convince you this could be good. That he could be good for you. But months turned into a year. And when he celebrated his whole single year on the other side of the country, Spencer read into it that maybe he had glorified love. In all its aspects.

And this conclusion haunted him for years.

To the point Spencer stopped meeting new people and was barely trying to stay in touch with those in his life. He wasn’t seeing his mom much; his colleagues noticed the distance he was building between them, and Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he saw his “friends.”

Because at some point, the fear of losing people turned into a feeling of not being good enough to people’s lives and made him a loner. A sad loner.

That was something you immediately noticed the first time you saw Spencer in years.

Your life has barely changed from your last date. Still the same job, but at a higher place. Still the same apartment, but with a different setting. Still the same person, but more mature.

It wasn’t hard for Spencer to find you. And if he spent a whole year contemplating going back to your place before putting that thought away, the day he truly needed it, it took him a minute to decide it was time.

You didn’t question his presence here when you opened the door. Maybe he should have. But when Spencer grabbed your face after you simply said his name with confusion, nothing seemed to matter. 

Not his hair longer than before, not him looking more shaped yet more fragile, not the circle under his eyes being way darker than the last time you saw him. Not that he was eagerly kissing you, something he never did.

You remember Spencer being gentle, taking his time to appreciate every second with you.

No, he was hungry, like each second could be the last with you. For him.

“What are you doing here, Spence?” you finally asked him. You were both lying on the rug in your living room. His eyes were locked on the roof, like he was disconnecting from reality. His arm around your back, holding you against him, was brushing your skin slowly, but he seemed to do that mindlessly. 

And Spencer didn’t turn his head to look at you when you, you couldn’t stop looking at him. “I needed that.” Not you. You put away the pain hearing that and tried to see the good in this, that you were the one he went to. 

But still, something was different with Spencer.

It would take you a few nights to realize he wasn’t blushing anymore when you touched him. Or that he didn’t seem to have a lot to talk about.

Actually, Spencer wasn’t talking much anymore. 

For weeks, Spencer would come to your place at night. Either after a day at the office or when he came back from a case. Usually, when it was the latter, he would even stay the following day to fully decompress from what happened.

You tried to question him once or twice. But Spencer always had the same answer: going down on you to keep you quiet with your question.

It was a win-win situation. 

He was giving you pleasure and making you think about something else.

He was concentrating on something else, and your moans were filling his head with other thoughts.

Until one night, the sex wasn’t enough to put his problem away.

You didn’t expect Spencer to come. Two days ago, he told you he had to leave for a case and it would probably last a week. Nothing out of the ordinary. But it gave you the time to think about him and where this was going.

Yet, your bell rang at 10 p.m. Let’s say that dating an FBI agent taught you to not open your door to anybody. You almost played dead and ignored it. But your gut told you to look at who it might be. 

You didn’t expect to see Spencer through your spyhole.

You certainly didn’t expect to see him cry on the other side of your door.

“Spencer, what’s going on?” you said, opening your door and immediately bringing him inside. The saddest part was that he let you do it. He didn’t stop you when you took him in your arms. Neither when you brought him to the sofa and sat him on it while you kneeled in front of him.

He was shaking; his face looked red from the tears and the scratching he did with his fingers, trying to take the pain away. But it didn’t work. And hurt him even more.

You grabbed one of his hands to take it away from his face. You tried to ease his joints with a soft caress. You even tried to make eye contact, but it was a lost cause with the way he was closing his eyes hardly, probably hurting himself like that. “Talk to me, Spence,” you whispered, putting your chin on his knee. “Open to me.”

You hated how he pinched his lips together before talking, like he was trying so hard to not break down. “I can’t,” he sobbed. He repeated that multiple times, sounding more angry with himself each time.

But the fact he wasn’t letting go of your hand made you believe that maybe a part of him, maybe just a very little one, wanted to have you. He still came to you tonight, right?

“Why won’t you let me help you?” 

This was a genuine question. One that grew over the last weeks. Sometimes, you would wake up in the middle of the night wondering which signs you might have missed when he was here. What did he try to hide from you with kisses and attention that you weren’t asking for? And if maybe you weren’t an accomplice of his troubles by accepting all his treats, knowing it was an excuse to keep everything from himself.

And during these moments, you imagined what Spencer might have answered. That he didn’t want his burden to impact your relationship, that he didn’t want to talk to you specifically. 

But you never considered what was coming as an answer.

“…because I don’t deserve it.” 

The world went silent. 

Except for your heart that just fell on the floor and broke into a million pieces.

Except for Spencer’s sorrow being louder than ever in your small living room.

It was obvious that Spencer wasn’t doing ok. But you couldn’t imagine how broken he really was.

You couldn’t force him to look at you and make him see he wasn’t alone at all. So you put your forehead against his, his sweaty hair sticking against your skin. Your arms wrapped against Spencer so you could hold him against him. You couldn’t believe that this grown-up man, in his thirty, could be a broken kid inside. You tried to hold back the tears.

You stayed like that for minutes; you don’t even know how long. This could last an hour or two if he needed to. You probably could have stayed all night if it meant calming Spencer down.

Little by little, you felt his shaking stop and even one of his hands land on your arm. The pressure of his fingers on your skin wasn’t harder, almost like he didn’t have any strength anymore. It was more like a delicate touch. One that reminded you of the old days, when Spencer was too shy to touch you.

Once you felt he was ready to hear this, maybe not listen yet but at least be able to understand what you were saying, you stopped hugging him so you could grab his face in your hands. “You deserve to be helped. I—who told you this?”

You met the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen at this moment. Couple with his sad smile. Oh, how you wished you could just kiss the pain away for once.

“I just…” he started, with a grazed, hoarse voice. “Every person in my life ends up sad or hurt or dead. I’m a problem. I’m a burden. I don’t deserve someone to take the time to help me, be there for me. I can’t risk someone, you, taking the time to make me feel better if it means losing you at some point. I can’t, I can’t do that again.” You heard the sob in his voice at the end. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but Spencer gave you the look, one he strangely never gave to you but that you understood immediately, meaning that he still had a lot to say. And deep down, you were happy to shut it if it meant he was finally opening up.

“I was taking care of a kid these days. We knew he might be in danger, so I was supposed to make sure he would be fine while working the case.” Spencer took a moment to continue, but you could only focus on the tear running down his cheek. “He got killed. Because I couldn’t protect him. Everyone around me has something bad happening to them. Even in my job. How can I be such a bad person?” 

You started brushing away the tears with your thumb, but Spencer cuddled against your hand. There was something even sadder with this man feeling like he didn’t deserve to have someone yet still craving every attention he could get.

“You’re not a burden, Spencer,” you whispered, and he closed his eyes again. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to go through all these moments by yourself. I can’t imagine how hurt you must be from living such difficult times over and over again. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to have someone by your side.”

He didn’t answer. You weren’t sure this was the best decision, but you sat on his knees, trying to be closer to him so you could make him feel less alone. 

You thought that if he didn’t want that, he would push you away. But the way Spencer's hands ended up on your back so quickly made you think that maybe he needed that too.

“I can’t and won’t force myself into your life, Spencer, never,” you said, brushing his hair away from his face. “But if you’re ready to try, I can be by your side and help you consider that you deserve to be a supporter. Not only by me but by all the people that love you.”

Again, your words working on him, Spencer opened his eyes slowly. This time, even if the sorrow was still present, there was the smallest and almost slightest light in them. “Because people love you, Spencer Reid.”

As an answer, the only one he could give you, Spencer brought you against him and hugged you as hard as he could. It wasn’t the tightest hug he ever gave, but it was the best he could do. And it was enough. Enough to know that you opened a door in his mind. 

You offered your bed to Spencer that night, but he insisted on you staying by your side. He refused to let you know it was due to the fear of the nightmares he had for months now. Nightmares that always had different stories but ended the same way: with him losing someone and being alone.

All he needed was you, and you were willing to give yourself entirely to help him get better.

You didn’t know if you imagined it, but you were sure that when he was falling asleep, holding you against him like an antistress comforter, Spencer thanked you.

[minswriting]

can you give me a fic/headcanon/whatever where spencer comes home from a case in another city that took him an eternity to close and he gets home just to find you sleeping. he’s so frustrated all he does is get into bed WITH

his clothes ON barely takes his time to literally take his dick out of his work pants just to fuck you on your side, from behind in a way that both of your legs are against your chest because he just happens to need you and miss you real bad?

im sorry. im very slutty for him and this is how i want to be fucked by him. don’t mind me.

nsfw | mdni | spencer reid x reader | somnophilia

i love thinking about desperate and needy spencer. he’d come home so exhausted but so sexually frustrated. before he had left for the case, you guys were in the middle of having sex when hotch had called, telling spencer where was a case. so you guys weren’t able to finish. and spencer was PENT UP as it had been a week since that happened.

and when he comes home and sees you sleeping on the bed, on your side, spencer almost cried in frustration. that was until he noticed that you were naked. so ofc he takes that as an invitation because you guys have already discussed waking each other up with sex. so he drops his things and unzips his pants just enough to free his cock before lying down next to you. he kisses along your spine, moving up towards your neck while guiding his cock to your cunt.

and when you begin stirring, spencer doesn’t hesitate to just insert his cock, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you whine from the intrusion. he’s thrusting into you in a desperate sort of way while you’re whining and moaning, reaching behind you to grab one of spencer’s hands and intertwine your fingers. the pace begins to get frantic as spencer uses your cunt to relieve himself of the pressure built over the past week.

when he’s close, he’s whining hotly into your ear, telling you how much he craved and needed this before burying himself so deeply inside of you and releasing his cum into you with a loud groan.

i love desperate spencer so much

[vigilante-3073]

Right Where You Left Me

Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Summary: There had always been something lingering between them, an unspoken connection that could destroy everything.

TW: Boss/Employee relationship, tension, angst, mentions of death/loss, resignation, right person wrong time.

Y/N L/N had been a member of the BAU for years. Y/N looked through case files, arranging them in priority order based on victim amount and methodology. Y/N presented the cases to the team while JJ contacted local officials and interacted with the media. As a result of her role, Y/N spent quite a bit of time with Hotch.

Y/N reviewed cases with him, allowing Hotch to decide which unsub posed the most risk based on his profiling expertise. Y/N was incredibly good at her job, she saw a great deal of darkness and tried her best to prioritize and compartmentalize.

There would always be those cases that made it feel like there was no point in trying to stop bad things from happening. Humanity would always find different despicable ways to harm one another.

Hotch could always tell when the work was beginning to get to her. He was kind, willing to set aside the work and have a serious talk with her about their jobs. There were people out there who counted on them, victims who wouldn't be alive today if it weren't for the BAU.

Hotch always managed to bring her comfort, reminding her why they do what they do and making her entire day better. He was a good man and Y/N trusted him more than anyone. She would do absolutely anything he asked without question.

Some people may call it loyalty, but that's not what it was.

It was love.

Y/N had been in love with him for years, she knew that she could never tell him how she felt. He was married and he had a family at home. Y/N saw Haley and Jack on multiple occasions, each time left her with an uneasy feeling of guilt that settled in her stomach like a rock.

Y/N tried to remain professional, but loving him was ruining her life. Y/N went home every day to an empty house, sleeping alone before returning to the same tortuous place.

Y/N began to look forward to every moment she was able to spend in his orbit. Hotch was a light in the darkness, he burned like the brightest flame and Y/N could only get so close without getting burned.

Y/N knew that what she was doing wasn't healthy, she had an attachment to him that was inappropriate. She should quit, turn in her resignation and leave to save herself the pain of loving someone she could never have.

A selfish part of her didn't want to give him up, he was the one good thing in her life and she wouldn't be able to handle the loss.

Y/N was stuck.

She had taken a step back from Hotch, closing herself off to him and keeping things as professional as possible. Hotch knew that something had changed but Y/N assured him that everything was fine with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Y/N sat at her desk, silently reading through potential case files at almost three o'clock in the morning. A gentle knock on the door made her jump, "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Rossi said.

"It's fine," Y/N assured.

"Do you have a minute to chat?" Rossi asked.

"Of course," She nodded, he stepped into her office and sat down on the chair in front of her desk.

"Have I ever told you about why I left the BAU in 1997?" Rossi asked.

"No, I don't think so," Y/N replied, closing her file.

"I told everyone that it was because I wanted to write and got sick of the FBI bureaucracy, but none of that is true... The real reason is that I had feelings for Gideon's wife," Rossi said.

"You did?" Y/N asked.

He nodded, "I would have these thoughts that Jason wasn't good enough for her, so I stepped away from the BAU... I thought it would be best if they went on as a family," He said.

Y/N gulped, trying to blink away the tears that gathered in her eyes.

"I know you're in love with him and I can see what it's doing to you... I know it's hard, but sometimes you have to let go," Rossi said.

"What if I can't let go?" Y/N asked shakily, a tear escaping and rolling down her cheek.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, kid, it's not going to be easy but you'll be better off for it," Rossi said.

Y/N's chest stuttered as she held back a sob, holding her head in her hands as she cried. Rossi stood up from his chair and made his way around the desk. He set his hand on her shoulder, providing silent comfort to her as she broke down.

Rossi watched Y/N go through exactly what he had all those years ago, wanting someone he could never have and getting his heart broken. Y/N was such a kind person and he could see how much loving Hotch had hurt her.

Years of watching the one you love be happy with someone else was a cruel punishment. It was like a knife to the gut, draining the life out of you until there is nothing left to give.

Rossi couldn't stand by and watch her lose herself for any longer. He hoped that she'd be smarter than he was, that she would realize how her feelings for Hotch were affecting her and leave. But love was a powerful thing and it could blind even the smartest person in the world.

...

Y/N made her way over to Hotch's office with a white envelope settled on top of a case file. Rossi was right and Y/N knew that she needed to make some changes in her life. Y/N slowed to a stop outside his office and knocked on the door gently, taking a breath to steady herself and calm her racing heart.

"Come in," Hotch called from inside.

Y/N opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door gently behind herself. She stepped over to his desk, taking off the envelope and holding out the case file to him.

"I think this should be our next case, but I wanted your opinion before briefing the team. The unsub is obviously escalating and is desperate to get the media's attention," Y/N said.

Hotch took the file from her hand, opening it and scanning over the information briefly, "It sounds like they could definitely use our help. Have you given it to Garcia?" He asked.

"Yes, Sir, she can have everyone briefed and on the plane within the hour," Y/N replied.

"Perfect," He nodded, closing the file and standing from his desk.

"Um, Hotch... I also have this for you," Y/N said, holding out the envelope.

He took it from her hand, "What is it?" He asked.

"My resignation," Y/N stated.

A look of confusion passed over his face before he quickly regained his composure, "Is there anything in particular that brought this on?" Hotch questioned.

"No, Sir, I just needed a change... I've already spoken to JJ and she'll be able to take over for me so there isn't any need to search for a replacement," Y/N said, glancing at her watch before moving towards the door.

"Y/N, hold on. I- Can we talk about this?" Hotch questioned, setting the envelope down on his desk.

"Hotch, the briefing," Y/N said, her hand settling on the door handle.

"Have I done something to upset or offend you? I thought that we were close, but recently things have changed and I just want to know if you're leaving because of something I did," Hotch said.

"No, I'm not leaving because of you," Y/N stated.

His shoulders sunk slightly as he looked over her, "You're lying to me," He said.

Y/N opened her mouth before closing it, letting out a soft breath as she moved over to him, "You are the best boss that anyone could ask for, Hotch. You did absolutely nothing wrong, I promise," Y/N assured.

His eyes searched her face for any indication of a lie, reluctantly nodding when he found none.

"How long before you go?" He asked.

"I'll stay until the end of this case," Y/N said.

"And there's nothing I can say to change your mind?" Hotch questioned.

Y/N smiled softly, "No, there isn't," She said.

He took a breath, "I'm going to miss you," Hotch stated.

"I know... I'm gonna miss you too," Y/N replied.

They made their way to the conference room, everyone had already settled in their seats as Garcia passed the remote to Y/N.

"Just before we start, I have a bit of an announcement... I'm resigning from the BAU after this case," Y/N said.

"What?" Emily asked.

"Are you serious?" Morgan questioned.

"Where are you going?" Spencer asked.

"I don't really know yet, but I have some promising offers," Y/N said.

"Seems kinda quick. Is everything okay?" Morgan asked.

"I just need a change," Y/N said simply.

"Change is a good thing, kid," Rossi said, Y/N nodded.

"So, let's get started," Y/N said, clicking to the first set of photos.

...

It had been a few years since Y/N had resigned from the BAU, she managed to get a job with the CIA Office of Public Affairs. Hotch saw her on the news occasionally and he always stopped to watch. He had been incredibly close with Y/N and her abrupt resignation left him feeling confused.

Hotch missed her.

Y/N had become an incredibly close friend to him over the years and he wished that they still worked together. Y/N sent him flowers with a kind message when Haley passed away, but there was no other communication between them.

Things had been challenging since she died, Jack wasn't coping well and Hotch didn't know how to help. Hotch had never been an emotional man and he found himself feeling helpless in the face of such a complex situation.

Jack had always been closer to his mother, he felt her loss deeply and struggled to adjust to life without her. He was slowly returning to the happy little boy that he had been before her death, but Hotch would still catch him watching home movies occasionally just to hear Haley's voice.

It had been almost a year since her passing when Hotch made his way through the bullpen, "Hey, Hotch. Check it out, our girl is well on her way to becoming the face of the CIA," Morgan said.

Hotch looked up at the television, smiling softly when he saw the footage of Y/N holding a press conference for the CIA.

"She looks good," Hotch stated, continuing across the bullpen and up the stairs to his office.

Morgan looked over at Emily and Rossi, "Did I just hear that right?" Morgan asked.

"You did," Emily nodded.

"You think Hotch is ready to put himself back out there? Get a little something something?" Morgan questioned, wiggling his eyebrows.

"I don't know... He seems happy, it could definitely be something he's starting to think about," Emily said.

"I'll get to the bottom of it," Rossi said.

"Wing man to the rescue," Morgan smirked.

Rossi made his way up to Hotch's office, gently knocking on the open door. Hotch stood at his desk, eyes downcast as he looked over a case file.

"You got a minute, Aaron?" Rossi questioned.

"Of course," He nodded, closing the file and setting it down.

Rossi stepped into the office, closing the door behind himself, "Are you thinking about putting yourself back out there? Maybe going on a date or two?" Rossi questioned.

"I don't know. It hasn't even been a year since Haley passed," Hotch said.

"Listen, Aaron, Haley wouldn't want you to be alone. If you feel like you're ready to get back out there, you should do it," Rossi said.

"I'll think about it," Hotch stated.

"If you're serious about this, I have a good place for you to start," Rossi said, slipping a hand into the inside pocket of his blazer.

Rossi pulled out a business card, holding it out to Hotch. He glanced at him before taking the card from his hand, looking down at the name on it.

'Y/N L/N '

"Why do you have this?" Hotch asked.

"We get together for coffee a few times a month," He shrugged.

"I don't think she wants to hear from me, Dave," Hotch said, shaking his head and holding the card out to Rossi.

"Trust me, she does... Give her a call, Aaron," Rossi said, making his way out of the office.

Hotch stared down at the business card, brushing his thumb across the paper before opening his drawer and setting it inside. He closed the drawer, picking up his file and making his way down to the conference room for the morning briefing.

It took the team three days to apprehend the unsub, rescuing a few victims and reuniting them with their loved ones. There was a bittersweet feeling when only a few people were saved but a multitude of lives had been lost. These kind of cases made everyone cling to their loved ones a little tighter.

Hotch sat at his desk, diligently completing his report long after everyone had already gone home. He sat back in his chair, fidgeting with his pen before he reached over and opened his desk drawer.

Hotch easily located the business card, pulling it out and staring down at it. Hotch took a breath, picking up his phone and dialing the number.

The line rang, he honestly hoped to end up on an answering machine but the soft click caught him off guard.

"Y/N L/N," She said.

"Hi, it's Aaron Hotchner," He replied.

"Hotch? How did you get this number?" Y/N asked.

"Dave gave it to me... I hope that's not a problem," Hotch said.

"That depends on what you're calling about," Y/N replied.

"Do you want to go out for dinner with me tomorrow night? Or, I guess it's today now," He said, glancing at the clock.

"Like a date?" Y/N questioned.

"Yes, a date," Hotch nodded, fidgeting with her business card.

"I'd love to," Y/N said.

"Really?" Hotch questioned.

Y/N let out a soft laugh, "Were you expecting a different answer?" She asked.

"I was, actually... After you left, I kept thinking about your last few weeks at the BAU. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out what I'd done to make you hate me all of a sudden," Hotch started.

"Aaron, I didn't hate you... I left because I was in love with you," Y/N said.

"You loved me?" Hotch asked.

"I did... But you were my boss and you had a wife at home. I couldn't stay there and keep getting my heart broken," Y/N stated.

"I'm so sorry," Hotch said.

"Don't be. I had to do what was best for me. None of it was your fault, Aaron," Y/N assured.

He let out a shaky exhale, "I really miss having you around," Hotch said.

"I miss the BAU," Y/N replied.

"Enough to have coffee with Dave a few times a month?" Hotch questioned.

"Hey, that was all his idea. If I'm being honest, I think he was just making sure I was still single," Y/N said.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Hotch nodded.

"I missed these conversations," Y/N said.

"I did too," Hotch replied with a small smile.

"For tonight, you can pick the restaurant and text me on this number. I don't really know what my day will look like and I know it's the same way at the BAU," Y/N said.

"Okay, I will make a reservation for us and send you a message... Have a good night, Y/N," Hotch said.

"You too, Aaron," Y/N replied.

He hung up the phone, unable to keep the smile off his face as he packed up his things to head home for a few hours of sleep. Hotch knew that he would have to thank Rossi for his help when he saw him in the morning.

[etclouie]

day nine — prettiest bouquet

ᯓ ꨄ︎ — summary; getting flowers delivered to your desk, you know who they’re from without reading the card (Luke Alvez x fem!reader)

ᯓ ꨄ︎ — warnings; bau!reader, established relationship (but no one else knows), they're secretly dating, flower pictures are just for show, reader calls luke ‘lukie’ — not outright but it’ll make sense towards the end, that’s it though i think

ᯓ ꨄ︎ — word count; 1,044

ᯓ ꨄ︎ — a/n; he’s mr. lover man

prev day | next day louie’s 14 days of love | main masterlist

you and Luke had been dating for the past couple months, and hadn’t told anyone yet.

both of you agreed that you wanted to tell people eventually, but for now you enjoyed keeping it between you both.

today though, that was all changing.

or at least, the secret that you were seeing someone was coming to light.

you were making your way back to your desk, but had stopped halfway when you noticed a boquet of flowers sat on your desk.

you knew exactly who they were from, and you knew exactly where he was. Luke sat at his desk, trying to mask his smile as you inspected the flowers — a bouqet of your favourites.

as you reached for the small card planted between the petals, a click of heels grew closer and was quickly followed by an excited squeal you knew all too well.

“who are these from?!”

turning, you were met with Penelope. an excited look across her face as her eyes flicked between you and the flowers, before falling to the card in your hands.

quickly pulling it away before she could read it, only for Emily and JJ to join in too.

“you’ve been keeping secrets from us?”

Emily chastised, though you all knew she was joking. but it was the truth, you were keeping your relationship a secret.

as the three of them continued barrelling questions your way, your eyes flicked over to Luke again. silently pleading for help, only for him to shrug and go back to what he was pretending to work on.

sighing you turned your attention back to the three of them, still clutching the card in your hand as you answered.

“yes i’ve been seeing someone”

you told, eyes barely catching the way Luke’s lips curled into a smirk.

“and you never told us?”

JJ chimed in this time, Emily and Penelope both trying to reach for the card as you continued to keep it from them. or at least attempted too.

Emily was successful in taking the card just as Luke made his way over to the four of you, smirk still across his face until everyones eyes were on him.

“what’s going on over here?”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his attempt to act clueless, especially because he was the cause of all of the questions coming your way.

“her boyfriend got flowers delivered”

Emily told, holding up the still closed and unread card. your eyes flicked over to Luke’s again in another plea for help, which he granted this time.

before Emily could open the card properly he took it from her, clearing his throat as he prepared to speak again.

all three women’s attention on him, as you wanted to sink into the ground.

was he really about to out that you were dating him?

“oh, it doesn’t say a name”

Luke announced, and a sigh of relief quickly following as you sank down into your chair.

it wasn’t as if you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing, you just didn’t want all of the questions that would follow with them knowing it was Luke you’re dating.

“so.. who’s the lucky guy?”

JJ asked, sitting on the edge of your desk as she admired the flowers on your desk. Emily stood by her side with her arms crossed over her chest and Penelope pulled over another chair.

you couldn’t help but let your eyes flick briefly to Luke, casting a second glance to the card in his hands as he reread the messgae he had written.

“just this guy”

you shrugged, the room feeling warmer than it had a couple minutes ago.

“just some guy?”

Luke chimed in, his curiosity making clues fly through JJ’s mind. a smile working its way onto her face as she slowly started to piece it together, you and Luke had been spending more time together around the office, even choosing to sit next to each other on the jet while away on cases.

the look across JJ’s face was telling that she knew, which Penelope quickly picked up on.

“what, what?!”

she asked, making JJ laugh before shaking her head.

“i know who it is”

part of you knew it would be her first, but you didn’t expect her to get it this quickly.

Penelope’s lips parted in disbelief, mostly at the fact that she wasn’t first to know, which made you laugh.

you could feel Luke’s eyes on you again, looking up at him and nodding.

“i mean i could tell you, but i think that’s his decision to make”

you shrugged, your words confusing Emily more than she already was and making Penelope try to recall every little detail of the previous couple minutes.

“wait—“

she had started, but cut herself off. you however, had met Luke’s gaze again, earning a nod from him as he handed over the card.

quickly reader the card as a smile made it’s way across your face, looking back up at him.

‘just because i love you — your Lukie’

the fact he used the nickname you called him made your smile wider, and the just becauseness of the flowers making your heart thrum.

“you all know the guy i’ve been seeing”

you told, which only added to their confusion. JJ however, stayed sitting on the edge of your desk with a smirk.

it wasn’t until you stood from the chair and took Luke’s hands into yours did all the pieces click into place, as did you in his arms.

turning to face the three of them, your back to Luke’s chest as you laughed.

“surprise”

you murmued, which made Luke chuckle before he pressed a kiss to the top of your head as Penelope exclaimed in disbelief.

“no way—you secret keepers!”

Penelope exclaimed before she hugged you, letting go to poke a finger at Luke’s chest while Emily hugged you and then JJ.

you laughed as you heard Penelope chastising Luke for not telling her, while JJ and Emily congradulated you.

“you’re good together”

JJ told, though your eyes weren’t on either her or Emily, they were on Luke. who was enduring all of Penelope’s questions as his eyes flicked over to you again, smiling softly.

“yeah we are”

reblogs are highly appreciated !

[nachrosas]

VALENTINE'S SURPRISE | s.reid x reader

summary: you only wanted one thing: to spend valentine's night with Spencer. pairing: spencer reid x reader content warnings: death, major character death, drug use (do not use, please), angst in general word count: 565 a/n: i don't have so much to say, just enjoy :)

The apartment was illuminated by soft light and the smell of freshly prepared dinner permeated the air. The table, set with the utmost care, had candles burning on it and a small gift package lay next to his plate. It was something symbolic, but something you had chosen with great care - a rare edition of “A Study In Scarlet”, which you had spent the last two months digging through bookstores to find.

His heart was beating fast in his chest. He didn't suspect a thing, and the thought of seeing him surprised, perhaps even blushing, made a sweet smile play on his lips. He looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes away. With every sound of footsteps coming from the corridor, her breath caught for a second. Soon, he would be there. 

The silence was the first thing you realized was wrong.

The house, which should have been filled with your animated conversation or the rustling of book pages, was still. The lights in the hallway were still off, and the smell of dinner still hung in the air, untouched.

“Spencer? Have you arrived?” the question came out hesitantly, but the only answer you received was silence.

Your stomach churned. Footsteps became hurried, eyes scanning the room until they saw him.

He was lying on the living room floor, one arm outstretched, his pale skin reflected in the dim light coming from the street. Next to him, was an empty syringe, an empty ampoule. Old and new marks dotted his arm, a cruel reminder of a fight he had promised you he had won.

“No! No! Spencer, baby!” despair tore from her throat as she ran to him, her hands trembling as she touched his face. Cold. She shook him hard, her fingers squeezing any part of his body she could find; his shoulder, his cheek. “Wake up, baby, please wake up!” her voice rose with each plea, but he didn't react.

His chest tightened, and a wave of suffocation and panic spread throughout his body. He couldn't have left her like that.

His fingers searched for a pulse that was no longer there. The world around him fell silent as if even time had stopped.

“No…” the word came out shakily, a fragile denial against the inevitable.

The present still rested on the kitchen table, wrapped in red paper, waiting for the new owner, who would never open it. Dinner was getting cold, the candles were flickering, indifferent to the despair that was taking over her body and the atmosphere.

Tears fell uncontrollably, soaking his shirt, while you held him, shook him, begged him. But the body in your lap no longer belonged to this world. And inside your chest, something shattered forever.

Her trembling fingers could barely hold the phone. The distant sound of Hotch's voice mixed with the deafening ringing in her ears.

“He's… he's not breathing, Hotch.” the voice came out broken, choked by waves of sobs.

The cell phone slipped out of her hands, hitting the floor with a dry clatter, but nothing else mattered. The house that should have been filled with love that night was now a tomb, lit only by the candles that burned uselessly.

Her gaze turned to Spencer, to the fallen syringe, to the cell phone on the floor.

You had prepared a surprise, but it was he who left you one.

[dawajlanek]

i have a really bad urge to write a spencer x reader x emily fan fic- would anyone like to read it?