#hotch as a dog hotch as a dog

[existential-flu]

there's something so fascinating about the physicality of Hotch. he's tall, strongly built, and he uses that, he's commanding. he's loud, his voice carries well, but he's rarely violent. he's a clean shot, he's steady. that drops when he's not in charge of a situation. his voice gets the softest of anyone on the team. he moves stiltedly. stands awkwardly, like he's trying to shrink - he makes himself look smaller. he fidgets but it's isolated to areas of his body, the rest of him freezes. when he loses control he tears down to bone. screaming in the face of fire, beating Foyet to death. inherent violence tamped down and down. and you know it's there, when he's physically commanding, but it's not far away even when he's not.

[hotchology]

[aerisake]

additional photos from 1.01 | Extreme Aggressor !! these aren’t high quality .. just mostly wanted to share !

[ebullientheart]

dogs. aaron hotchner x reader

content — dogs🤍. fluff. humour. fem!bau!reader. brief mention of case. one swear. sorta sunshine!reader.

5 times you try to convince hotch to get a dog with you +1 time it works.

1. the scent dogs

a frazzled officer had handed you the leads of two sniffer dogs, running away on the insistence his captain was going to ‘kill me for letting them piss on his van again’. you had snorted sympathetically, meaning to tell him you’d love to help out but your unit chief would be expecting you; he was already running away.

you laughed and accepted your fate, wrapping the leads tightly around your knuckles and sitting cross-legged with them. they were eager for your affection and silly voices, even though they were squashing you in their best attempt at hugging. two large german shepherds, but probably the friendliest police dogs you’d ever seen.

“how do these things always happen to you, agent?”

hotch saw the way your shoulders stiffened, and regretted scaring you. the dogs seemed to pick up on this too, turning to the man with low growls at his interruption. you stifled your mirth at their reaction and twisted on the spot to look up at your slightly formidable, but currently intimidated by the dogs, boss.

you chanced a shrug, careful not to dislodge the canine leaning on your shoulder, “one of many mysteries, sir. wanna say hi?”

the look he gave you then was priceless; it was pure disgust. but at your giddy grin, he did crack the smallest of smiles on the hard stone of his face.

i wish i could make him smile all the time. no, shut up.

your mind was not on your side as you tried not to flush, instead burying yourself in between the dogs and letting them yip happily at the attention.

“don’t you just want one of them forever? or maybe both. look how cute they are!” you put your face between theirs.

hotch risked a muffled laugh and extended a hand, wondering how you were an adult. instead of putting your palm in his own, though you were severely tempted, you handed him the leads for the dogs.

“careful, there’s an angry captain on the prowl with a piss stained van. okay paperwork, bye!”

like the officer before you, you were gone before he could open his mouth to reprimand you. not that he was planning on reprimanding you. he was planning on asking if you wanted to get a drink post-case, but for now he had two other problems in the form of two disgruntled german shepherds.

2. the stray

the neighbourhood you were canvassing was not exactly upmarket. it had a high concentration of crime and poverty, and with that, plenty of malnourished animals that likely carried many diseases. no matter how much you loved them, and you did still love them, you were not planning to kneel down with them and touch. you weren’t carrying hand sanitizer.

“the unsub should be familiar to almost all of these people, he’s prominent in this community, so if- erm, shoo?”

seeing hotch startle back and weakly attempt to ‘shoo’ a stray dog was probably the highlight of your day. she was a small thing, possibly some kind of terrier, but too underfed to tell for sure. she sniffed at his ankles as though he’d have any food kept there, but besides that, made no threatening move. you took pity, unwrapping the sandwich you’d got from the hotel cafeteria to eat for lunch, and ripped it up into pieces to make it easier for her to chew. she wolfed it down and skittered off.

hotch frowned, “why would you give your lunch away?”

“she clearly needed it more than me. i hate people who abandon their pets….” you lamented, watching the assortment of strays on the outskirts of each alley. the dogs formed small packs, while the cats hunted alone, equipped with the ability to catch birds and mice.

the two of you kept walking, knocking on doors, when the idea struck you on the way back to the local precinct. you were only teasing, lacking even an ounce of sincerity.

“you should adopt one! i’m sure jack would be thrilled, and i don’t mind holding it on the plane home.”

he just deadpanned you and walked away at a pace you struggled to catch up with. eventually, he took pity as you had on the dog, and slowed down for you to fall in step next to him once more.

3. movie night

it had taken him quite a while, but hotch did eventually ask you out for that post-case drink, which turned into a few dinners, which turned into regular dates, until the two of you had a designated saturday night. this time, you were at his apartment watching a film he’d picked out from his limited stack of dvd’s.

“oh my god!”

hotch had left you alone for two minutes to get you a glass of water.

he raced back into the room, causing his hair to become disarrayed for probably the first time in his life, only to see you pausing the movie to point out… a dog.

he huffed, “are you kidding? my knees can’t cope with that, woman.”

you laughed, beckoning him over, “i didn’t mean to scare you, but look how cute he is.”

“i can see just fine from here.”

“suit yourself.”

but he caved, and crossed the distance between you. not to stare enthusiastically at the dog, but to kiss you on the cheek and press play on the remote while you were distracted by his affection.

you hummed, “i think i’m gonna get a dog.”

he raised a brow, “it’s never moving in here.”

now both completely ignoring the film playing behind his back, you smiled, “and i am?”

at the risk of sounding too forward and scaring you off, despite you being one of the most intense people he knew (and he knew garcia), hotch merely offered you a shrug and another quick peck before returning to the kitchen. you could hardly contain the glee on your face as you burrowed into the cushion you were clutching and tried not to let your thoughts get ahead of themselves.

4. jack’s plea

“i made a mistake.” hotch murmured to himself, watching you and jack bond.

as he once predicted, you were going to be the death of him. albeit a happy, glittery death.

your activity of choice to bond with the child you’d only officially met once so far, was to take him to a park. a dog park, where you volunteered in your free time. some people took their dogs there, others dropped them off with a volunteer for the workday. jack was jovially bonding with your daily pups, a young golden retriever, and an elderly pomeranian.

he tried to stack them, but you quickly intervened.

“mistake? the only mistake was not letting me get matching boots for him and the dogs.”

hotch just looked at you blankly, lacking the heat of a glare, but clearly unamused with your antics. externally, at least, because on the inside he was definitely smiling fondly at you. you took that from his eyes.

jack, at that moment, rushed to you with the enthusiastic dogs on his heels. you didn’t miss the fact hotch didn’t flinch as they jumped at him, whereas a few months ago he definitely would of. you decided that was progress, kissed him on the cheek, and knelt down to speak to jack.

he whispered conspiratorially, though loud enough for his father to hear, “i want to take one home.”

hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, while you looked between the two gleeful you, “well, little man, these lovely guys belong to some other lovely people who would miss them very much.”

you weren’t going to promise him on of his own. it wasn’t your place, and you were not in the business of making empty promises; you’d all but accepted that aaron’s reluctance translated to ‘never gonna happen’. it was just fun to tease.

jack nodded, “that’s true. i like the big ones, anyway.”

that was not what his dad wanted to hear, but you were elated.

“finally,” you laughed, entwining your arms behind aaron’s neck when jack went back to play, “a hotchner after my own heart.”

he only laughed back, spinning you around so you both had eyes on the adventurous kid, and keeping his arm firmly around your waist. eventually, he responded, “we work too much for a dog.”

the fact he’d even got that far in thinking about it? you considered it a win.

5. clooney

morgan didn’t ask the team for favours all that often, but occasionally he asked one of you to dogsit, if he knew nobody else could check in, feed, walk, and so on. reid never took that bait.

one extended, long weekend, on which he planned to travel to a nice resort on his time off, he handed responsibility to you. at first, you’d been delighted, but not even a day into bonding with your new pal, you’d fallen with the flu. fallen being an accurate term for your dramatics. luckily for you, you’d recently moved in with aaron.

luckily for him too, because you made much better pancakes than he did.

so while you were ill and uncharacteristically miserable, he was playing tug of war with the dog, and cursing himself for thoroughly enjoying it. jack rolled around laughing, and he was struggling to fend off the invasive thoughts that were result of your persistence. he had once promised to dedicating the parts of his life that weren’t reserved for profiling to making you happy, and while that was usually an easy task, a dog would…

but he cut the thoughts off when clooney peed on his kitchen floor.

yeah, fuck no.

later on in the day, he ventured into your shared room to check on you. pitifully, you curled into his side of the bed and offered a morose sniff in reply to his gentle greeting.

“how’re you feeling, honey?”

you sighed, unfolding the covers from where they were tucked into your chin, “you know how you felt when jack accidentally hit you in the skull with his metal lunchbox? worse.”

despite your detailed description, aaron took your verbose approach to his question as a sign you were on the mend. he brought you another glass of water, and let jack give you a get well soon card, while holding your breath to risk contaminating him. on the front, a rough sketch of clooney, holding a flower.

“this is the best card i’ve ever seen, jack.” you assured him, propping it on your nightstand.

“if we had a dog, i could put him on the card!”

you nodded, “that is true.” aaron rolled his eyes.

he was saved by your chest racking cough, ushering jack out the room to let you rest. jack was happy to run back down to clooney.

aaron gave you ‘the look’; it meant calm down and go to sleep. he gave it to the team a lot.

you had to giggle as he went downstairs to jack’s onslaught of ‘can we get a dog? when?’. you were proud of your little ally as you laid back down.

+1

having to work a case on your birthday was unfortunate but unavoidable. the team bought you a cake, which you really appreciated, and until the strangulations, there was a celebratory air to the unit. on the plane home two days later, spencer even offered to let you win at chess. you flipped him off for that.

in the car, you yawned dramatically. amused, aaron asked, “tired?”

you mumbled back, “jus’ wanna go home and see jack.”

he couldn’t ignore the way his heart tightened at that admission. glancing over to your sleepy face, he didn’t think he’d yet been this in love with you. if he regretted the decision he’d made on a phone call to jessica while in california, he would remember this moment. by the time he pulled into the driveway, you’d long since closed your eyes.

“honey, wake up. we’re home.”

you all but slugged your way to the front door, aaron’s hand between your shoulder blades, urging you onward. he carried both your bags, and tomorrow you’d apologise for not helping. today, you just wanted to check your stepson was tucked in for the night, then crawl into your own bed and collapse.

to your confusion, the tv was still playing. which wouldn’t be strange, jessica did put it on sometimes, but it was playing cartoons. you frowned, off to investigate. if you’d turned and seen aaron’s smile, you would’ve been more confused.

“hey, little man, what are you still doing up?” you opened your arms and he ran to them, while you gave his aunt a quizzical look. she gestured for you to turn around, jack giggling.

behind you, aaron held a gorgeous puppy, looking at you with round, brown eyes, inset in a face of smooth fur. his tail whipped back and forth excitedly as you reached out to hold him. aaron deposited him carefully in your arms, overcome with second hand joy at the expression on your face.

tearfully, from your exhausted state and fear of his answer, you asked, “are you kidding?”

he shook his head, while jack drew your attention again. he wanted to pet the puppy.

you lightly put him to the floor, where he ambled around with little grace, absorbing all the attention you had to offer him. at some point, aaron had to intervene and put jack to bed, but you stayed with the dog for hours on.

almost nervously, aaron asked, “do you like him?”

you gaped at the ridiculous question, “i love him. and i love you.”

there was a quiet moment, where he admired the happiness before him, and you hugged your new friend some more.

“can he sleep in with us, aaron?”

“absolutely not.”

[cimmanonrowl]

saw this picture and had to share it

he’s so big i can’t 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

WHAT THE FUCKKKKLK?')_!_(?)£((((£(??£@+@+ I JUST SCREAMED AND CREAMED 🤤 I THINK I JUST HAD AN ORGASM 😭 HE’S SO BIG SO SO SO SO BIG LOOK AT HIS CHEST 😍 AND HIS STOMACH 🙈 HIS SHIRT IS SO TIGHT 🤤 I WANT TO KNEEL IN FRONT OF HIM 🛐 I AM BARKING AND DROOLING LIKE A RABID DOG 🐕 BARK BARK BARK

DEAR LORDDD WHEN I GET TO HEAVEEEN PLEASE LET ME BRING MY MAAAAAaaN 🎶🗣️

PSA. I just finished my period please don’t think badly of me. I’m a decent woman on regular days.

[hotchtits]

i'm not a violent dog, i don't know why i bite vs. the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't

[aaronwhorechner]

Please tell me you write fanfic? Because I feel like you could write the funniest BAU Crack!Fic. Lmao

lmao thank you?? i dont really write, but the thought of writing something with gideon just booking it is so funny fjdksfjds

itd be something like

as the squad huddled together in the street listening intently as the local pd gave a run through of the crime scene, hotch kept a close eye on gideon. the older man was notorious for running away - not in a crazy old man way-- well, actually, yes, in a crazy old man way, but, also in the way that as soon as he put things together in his mind, he had to make a move, whether it was to outrun the idea hamster in his head, or immediately get to the crime scene to put it all together visually, aaron would probably never know.

nodding along with the sheriff, aaron cast a side glance at gideon only to realize the man was gone. with a tired sigh, hotch reached into his back pocket to retrieve his phone.

"siri," aaron says, defeatedly. "play dog days are over by florence and the machine" and with that, he took off in search of his colleague, friend, and crazy retirement home escapee.

[masterwords]

echoes in my head

Summary: Hotch doesn't want to fly back to Quantico with the team. He says it's because of his ears, but maybe it's a little more than that. And maybe what he learns is a lesson in what it means to be home. (Coda to 4x02 - The Angel Maker)

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 5.1k

Warnings: mention of sex, injuries from canon, grief (this is an angst fest with a soft ending)

AO3: echoes in my head

Notes: THIS IS MY 300TH CM fic! Well, okay, let's be real...I've deleted a lot of them over the years (shhhhhh) and there are tons floating around Tumblr that never saw AO3 because I'm notoriously bad at organization but...for the sake of excitement...this is my 300th CM (Hotch) fic on AO3. 180th Hotch/Morgan fic. I've surpassed 500k words for 2023 with this fic, too. So for all of those reasons, I thought it would be fitting to have it be an Angel Maker fic, a Mayhem fic, because that's my bread and butter. This is a slightly different take - a quieter one, no dramatics, just reflection, sleep and a soft place to land. This is the first of many one-shots that will fit into the Restless Heart universe. Thanks, as always, for indulging me!

I listened to a lot of Dwight Yoakam while I wrote this. That should set the tone.

I've got bruises on my memory I've got tear stains on my hands And in the mirror there's a vision Of what used to be a man

I'm a thousand miles from nowhere Time don't matter to me (A Thousand Miles From Nowhere | Dwight Yoakam)

Restless Heart Masterlist

**

There isn’t much to do between Ohio and Virginia, not for one broken down man and a government SUV. There were plenty of places he might stop if he had Jack with him, quirky little tourist traps and amusement parks that stretched up into the skyline and hummed electrical tunes in the distance. But one man, all alone, with a pounding headache didn’t hear the siren song of the amusement park and didn’t hear the call of the tourist traps. In fact, this man didn’t hear much of anything. There was the slow, rhythmic beating of his heart and the shattered, shaky breaths, and the fog. The way his right shoulder clicked in its socket when he extended his arm to the side, the way his heart stopped when he unlocked the SUV, the way his internal monologue sounded a lot like static.

The night before, he’d broken his cardinal rule. He showed up one Derek’s hotel doorstep with every intention of staying. Of sleeping in his bed. They never did that – it wasn’t like they’d discussed it, made a list of rules, it just made sense. Work and home didn’t mix, they couldn’t mix. But the case was over, and they’d opted to stay another night because the town didn’t have a bustling airport. They weren’t going to insist the one tiny little airstrip be manned for their departure during off hours just so they could get back to their metropolis, back to their desks and their paperwork and the next case. They could wait until sunup when the staff arrived and take a much-needed breather. He’d tried to sleep, to lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling counting flecks of foamy popcorn texture, counting and categorizing stains by size shape and color, counting the drips from the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The world was muffled through his painfully ruined ears, and lying in the strange stillness of his room had sounded like heaven but quickly became hell when his thoughts took over. The physical assault had almost been preferable.

He closed his eyes and saw Kate lying in the street. “Am I moving my legs?” Only it was barely her in this vision, she was already dead. She was gray and speaking through lifeless lips. It was her voice, her body cold, the light in her eyes gone. It was horror, plain and simple. He didn’t know what to do with any of this. Where to put these thoughts. She deserved better.

So, Derek’s doorstep it was. He figured if he was going to get any peace at all that night, it was going to be lying beside Derek and breaking relationship protocol would be worth it. It was.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked with a towel draped over his shoulder. He was getting ready to shower, the water was already running and the sound of it made Hotch feel almost peaceful for the first time in days. The smell of sandalwood and eucalyptus, Derek’s open bottle of body wash in his hand, made his senses swim.

“I’m interrupting, I’m sorry,” he said quietly, letting Derek pull him inside. “I couldn’t sleep. My head.” He didn’t finish the sentence, and by the look on Derek’s face, he didn’t need to.

“I’m heading out for drinks with Prentiss in a little bit. There’s this cowboy bar down by the precinct that had a mechanical bull and we had this bet about where that bastard’s remains were...anyway, I won. She’s gotta ride the bull.”

Hotch smiled and nodded. “You’re going to ride it too.”

“Damn right I am. I’d invite you to join us but…”

“I wouldn’t be any fun.”

Derek didn’t argue and Hotch wouldn’t ask him to just to save his wounded pride. “I’m gonna hop in the shower, you wanna join me?”

Hotch had never, not once, turned down a shower. The steam from the bathroom billowed out from beneath the door and called to him. “Sure,” he said quietly as Derek headed toward the bathroom. Their shower was quiet, soap suds and water spray and Hotch closed his eyes and relished the feel of Derek’s slippery skin against him. They held each other there for what felt like forever, lost in the timelessness of water. “I could stay here all night,” Derek whispered against Hotch’s good ear. “But Prentiss is gonna be here soon and the last thing she needs is to see this. Let’s go lay down for a bit first.”

Derek, who knew exactly what Hotch had come for, got himself ready to go out to the bar while Hotch slipped into some of Derek’s sweats and a t-shirt. He hadn’t brought his own things, hadn’t really known what his plan was except to be near Derek. Luckily for him Derek brought sweats and pajamas, though he rarely wore more than his underwear to bed. They were more of a precaution, in case of a shared hotel room with someone other than Hotch. It wasn’t often they had to share rooms anymore, but Hotch was glad that Derek remained prepared for such an event anyway as he slipped into clothes that weren’t his. Clothes that smelled like home.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out the minute your head’s on the pillow.”

“That’s the plan.”

As they lay down, Hotch couldn’t help feeling overcome with gratitude. Everything in the world felt harder since Haley left, but the one thing that he hadn’t managed to screw up yet was this. With Derek. He almost had, he’d come dangerously close to lighting it all on fire, but Derek was too stubborn to allow it. He fought for it when Hotch couldn’t, and he still couldn’t completely understand it all.

“I’m not flying back with the team tomorrow,” Hotch said quietly as Derek wrapped around him beneath the covers. He was wearing crisp jeans and a soft sweater; he smelled warm and green like a summer evening. Like lying under the stars watching fireflies blinking in the trees, like listening to the owls hooting and the frogs humming.

“You gonna drive?”

Hotch hummed in response, already half asleep.

“Want me to drive with you?”

“No,” Hotch whispered, closing his eyes. He felt Derek stiffen a little behind him and he pressed his back in closer. “I just think I need a little time alone. To think.”

“Yeah, I got you. What are you gonna do?”

“Drive.”

“Not gonna stop and smell the roses?”

“No.”

He fell asleep shortly after, curled up in Derek’s summer sun warmth and didn’t hear when Emily knocked on the door or the conversation they had in hushed whispers as Derek pulled on his boots and left.

The room was quiet and steamy, the air thick after their shower and it held him in place for longer than he thought – hovering somewhere between sleep and awake, dreams and void. When Derek got back, a little drunk and a lot smelling like cigarettes, they took another shower together. Hotch, whether asleep or awake, found himself able to do little more than just lie in the bed not moving. He hadn’t been still like this in so long, letting his bones sag heavy in the middle of the bed, that it almost felt luxurious if not for the pain in his head. That persistent jackhammer pain, the screaming siren wail in his ear that made it hard to focus. Derek had asked him that morning if he wanted his glasses, made a crack about him getting old, because he was squinting through a particularly painful ear-scream brought on by nothing louder than a few cops telling a joke and laughing feet away.

Derek’s voice, the volume and the pitch, hurt his head as he told stories about Emily on the bull, and getting on it himself. “I knew it,” Hotch whispered with a smirk and Derek shrugged, continuing without a break or a breath. It was 2am, they had succeeded in shutting he place down. “Even Rossi joined us,” Derek said at the end. “He laid down some bills tonight. You shoulda been there.” They both knew that wasn’t exactly true, but the sentiment wasn’t lost on Hotch. Derek had wanted him there and that made him smile.

The shower was hot, almost too hot, and Hotch would have been content to stay under that water for hours except Derek was doing that sleepy eyed thing he did when he’d had too much to drink and was about to pass out standing up. “Let’s go to bed,” Hotch said quietly, turning off the shower and angling Derek out of the tub and toward the towel rack. It took him almost five minutes to get Derek dried and into the bed, not bothering with clothes for either of them this time. It felt like wasted time when the alarm was going to go off in just a few short hours.

Derek was still a little drunk when he woke up, that kind of hazy half-asleep half-buzzing bleary-eyed world that seemed unreal and was glad when Reid and Prentiss made comments about his driving. It afforded him the perfect excuse to toss the keys in the direction of someone who wouldn’t be a danger behind the wheel without having to admit that was what he’d been hoping for. He watched from beside the vehicle, chugging his second bottle of lukewarm water as Hotch took the plate of baked goods (the sight of which turned his stomach) from the Sheriff and told Prentiss and Rossi he wouldn’t be flying back with them. Feigning disinterest, he looked the other direction, absorbing the last of this town in the middle of nowhere, glad to leave it behind. He offered Hotch a small wave before getting into the SUV. They’d already said their goodbyes – first in the shower, and then under the sheets. It was fast and sloppy, and he had the distinct impression that it hurt Hotch more than he let on, but it was Hotch whose hands and lips and desperate little whimpers initiated it, and it was his moans and his quiet pleas that sealed the deal. Derek would have been content to stand beneath the shower with all the cotton in his skull and kiss forever. But then, he had still been holding out some little hope that Hotch would change his mind and ask him to come along, to drive with him and keep him company but he held firm.

He had to do this alone.

But now, as Hotch drove down the endless stretch of highway with nothing very interesting to look at outside of various colored road signs begging him to stop and enjoy the best pancakes, the best pie, the biggest hamburger in the world, he didn’t think much of stretching it out instead of just getting home. Dave had given him a list of places he recommended, restaurants and places to stop and have a look around, a little bed and breakfast set on a sprawling farm, but the further Hotch drove, the less he wanted anything more than a locking door and a bed. It didn’t matter where or how nice or what the service was like, he planned only to use the bed. He hadn’t had a real night of sleep in over a week.

After four hours of driving, he found a roadside hotel with a diner attached and called it good. It was barely 2pm, he wasn’t even sure they’d let him check in yet so he wandered into the diner for a cup of tomato soup and some garlic toast. It was the first real meal he’d eaten in days and it hit his stomach like a rock. There was a little sign on the counter as he paid letting him know that hotel check-in began at 3pm and he could take care of that right along with his check, one stop shop – there wouldn’t be anyone in the hotel office until 6. He smiled at that and asked for a room and a piece of chocolate cream pie to go, figuring at the very least if anyone asked whether he treated himself he could at least mention that he’d gotten himself some pie. It was weak but it was something.

The room wasn’t bad, not as bad as he’d been expecting. He and Derek had stayed in worse, being sent out on the road for weeks at a time doing police training and custodial interviews. There were no bells and whistles, nothing that had been updated since about 1975 by his estimation, but it was clean. And quiet. There were no strange sounds, nothing clicking or squealing or rumbling, just the soft white noise of the mini fridge and the heater beneath the window churning out as much dusty warmth as he could make it do. He sat down at the foot of the bed and began the arduous process of forcing his body to bend to his will for the simplest tasks like getting his shoes off. Every joint was stiff, his bones ached, his head was a cement block on his shoulders. He hid it well through sheer force of will but when he was on his own and didn’t need to perform for people who looked to him for guidance, even Derek to some extent, he moved slow and methodical, making room for the long pained breaths as he hinged forward at the hips to untie his shoes and then used his toes to nudge them off. Getting blown up is no joke, he knew that, but every time it happened it seemed to take longer to recover. Of course it was rare he was this close to the explosion; he hadn’t been up close and personal since Adrian Bale in Boston and he was much older now. Things didn’t heal as fast. Or maybe he just paid it more attention now.

Sleep came surprisingly easy once he’d checked the locks, set the heat as high as he could stand it, glanced out the window at the bright blue afternoon sky, at his SUV (not exploding), at the parking lot. Sleep came easy and hit hard. He woke once and cracked an eye open, squinting bleary and foggy until he saw that it was 3am and promptly closed it again. His alarm went off a half-hour before check-out time and his body said no, absolutely not, so he picked up the phone and told the front desk he would be staying another night.

He didn’t wake fully until 4pm, and he woke with no memory of having called the front desk. There was a quick panic in his chest when he saw the time and it didn’t click in his mind that he’d called until he reached for the phone, until his fingertips grazed the beige plastic and then it came back. He’d been asleep, off and on, nearly 24 hours and he still thought he could force himself back under if he really wanted to but he was hungry. No, not hungry, starving. The pie only teased him – it was divine, silky and sweet, a little bitter from the dark chocolate shavings, just the right amount of savory from the fresh whipped cream that had begun to melt and weep over the edges. It just made his stomach growl angrily by the last salty crust crumb, so he grabbed his keys, slipped on his tennis shoes, and made his way back to the diner. It wasn’t until he walked inside that he realized he was wearing nothing but one of Derek’s t-shirts and his sleep rumpled slacks. Luckily for him, he was the only patron in the place. The only other living souls (of the human variety, anyway, he’d seen a few flies in the windowsills and a cat milling around outside the front door waiting for scraps) were the waitress and the cook who looked like they saw their fair share of tired disheveled folks because they didn’t even bat an eye. He sat in the booth at the back, the view of the restaurant stretching out before him, and took in the kitschy charm of the place. There were trophies in a case on display near the metal skeleton of what once had been a small salad bar. Trophies that proclaimed them to be co-ed softball champions year after year after year. He wondered at that; how many teams played? These small towns had a way of feeling invisible, barren, who could possibly live here? But if you looked hard enough, you saw a whole new world. His father had played in a recreational men’s baseball league growing up, sponsored by law firms and restaurants and grocery stores. He and Derek tried to play for the FBI’s rec team, but their schedules made it hard to commit fully. Hotch’s innate ability to get hurt on cases didn’t help either.

“What can I get ya sweetheart? Coffee?? You look like you could use a whole carafe.”

He wanted to say yes – god he wanted coffee so badly, but his body said no. He needed more sleep somehow, this was just a break. “Tea, if you have any. Please.”

“Comin’ right up. You know what you want to eat or need more time?”

“I’d like the tuna melt with potato salad, and a slice of the chocolate cream pie to go.” Yes, he would now be able to proclaim that he’d been truly wild...he’d gotten himself two slices of pie. He was living dangerously.

The tea came as a cute little set – a personal pot full of scalding water, a caddy full of various types of tea, and a little dish of sugar packets. He flipped through the colorful array of tea packets until he found one that didn’t have any caffeine and decided that would have to be good enough. While waiting for his food, he breathed in the astringent, herbal steam as his tea steeped – there was chamomile and vanilla and lavender, not exactly his favorite flavors but if sleep was his goal then sleep he would get. His mind wandered back to New York, back to the street. The silence, the smoke-filled air, how surreal it was and how long it felt he was alone on a whole new planet. He’d seen the footage, watched the way the explosion blew him off of his feet, sent him flying through the air in the shape of a flock of geese, he saw the way his body hit the asphalt and somehow, inexplicably managed to pull himself upright not long after. It looked like something out of a zombie movie, all broken misshapen limbs that work independent of one another, getting upright only to fall back down over and over. He couldn’t remember any of that. He watched himself on the screen going through these motions and had no recollection of it. In fact, the first thing he really remembered was asking Kate to repeat herself. “What?!” he’d asked, like the world suddenly came into focus and his mind returned to his reanimated body. He was doing what he was trained to do, what his body did naturally, he was helping. He responded when people were in trouble whether his head was in the game (or even in the area code) or not.

“Sir?” the waitress’s voice broke through the waking dream and he blinked up at her stupidly. He was doing a lot of that lately, losing full moments in time. Forgetting or just never knowing, they both felt the same. “Sorry for startling you – here’s your food. Can I get you anything else?”

He looked down at his plate and thought about how hungry he was very seriously before deciding. “Could I get a bowl of soup? Whatever your special is today.”

“French onion.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

He managed to eat it all and make his way full and content back to his room. He probably could have eaten more, if he was being honest, but knew he shouldn’t. After a shower and a few answered texts (there were a lot of people who were threatening to come and drag the state of Pennsylvania looking for his mangled corpse if he didn’t answer soon) he fell right back into an easy sleep and didn’t wake until his alarm told him to in the morning.

There was a physical map laid out on his bed while he ate his slice of pie for breakfast and brewed the terrible hotel room coffee. The headache that felt like a scratchy wool blanket stuffed behind his eyes told him he needed some caffeine or he might just die, and by any means necessary became the mantra as he tore into the little foil packet and filled the carafe with water from the bathroom sink. He stared at the map, at the stretch of highway that remained between where he was and where he was going, wondering whether he was going to make another overnight stop or if he’d just get home. He’d missed every sunrise and every sunset since heading out on his own, hadn’t taken a single beautiful picture of something that moved him, he’d just been sleeping. Everyone told him to stretch it out, to feel, to process, to experience and all he could seem to do was lie horizontal with his eyes closed. He would return home after days with nothing to show for it.

Ultimately, he decided to play it by ear. There was a part of him that felt a little reckless, egged on by Strauss’ demand that he tell her exactly when he’d be back or if he was taking an extended leave “as I suggested last week, mind you, Aaron”...he didn’t have the patience for that. He might just drive to Atlantic City and send her a photo of him in a casino. Okay he wouldn’t do that, he hated gambling, but there was a small part of him that found it amusing enough to imagine that it got him through a good fifty miles of driving on that feeling alone.

That first fifty was nice, but the next fifty sent him down a different path entirely. He started to feel sick with grief as he approached the Maryland state line. A song, a wave of nausea, Kate’s voice, the smell of ozone and gasoline. He pulled over and breathed through the worst of it with his hazard lights on, his forehead pressed against the cool leather steering wheel. But he didn’t cry. He realized, as he came through to the other side, that he hadn’t cried yet. Not for Kate, not for himself, not for any of it. Jessica had once told him, after his father died, that he needed to cry. “Force yourself,” she said. “If you’re not sad about your dad, think about something that would really make you sad. You need to cry or you’ll explode. It’s like letting off steam, depressurizing.” He never did find a way to cry for his father, either. He’d cried for Sean, for his little brother growing up without a father and with a shitty older brother who was already too busy with his own life to be anything more than another person breathing down his neck when he made the wrong choices. That cry hadn’t felt good, it wasn’t cathartic, it was exhausting and made him feel sick. It turned out, he didn’t like being depressurized.

He didn’t cry, even after all of that. Even after feeling that painful tightness in his chest, that squeezing in his lungs, the racing of his heart. Even after his eyes burned. He just got back on the road and started driving, passing the last logical turn that could still take him to Atlantic City, leaving that little fantasy in the dust. He headed south now, toward Virginia, toward home. His chest got tighter, until it was hard to breathe and as he passed streets filled with hotels, with beds for him to rest his weary head, he knew for sure it wouldn’t be as idyllic as those first two nights. Something had changed in him there between the first fifty and the second, something had changed at the Maryland state line. Something broke, and now he felt wrong. Being alone was no longer relaxing but almost scary. He’d become somehow vulnerable there on the side of the road, wide open and raw. If he stopped to check in to a hotel he might just burst out in tears and scare the hell out of the poor front desk attendant who did not deserve that during their shift.

He thought about Derek and he drove, put his foot on the gas and pressed his car above the speed limit just enough to make himself believe he’d be there sooner. He’d make it before total breakdown. It was happening whether he wanted it or not, he was just about out of time.

Passing his own apartment, he almost stopped. His eyes were cloudy and red raw, his contacts scraping and moving every time he blinked his salty teary eyes. The crying had begun slowly, just a few tears leaking at the outer corners that he could swipe away and pretend that was it, but then his lashes were wet and the red yellow green of the streetlights caught in the tiny crystal droplets. He really should have stopped but Derek’s house wasn’t that much further. He could make it.

The car came to a full stop not in front of Derek’s house, but in his driveway. He pushed up as close to the motorcycle as he could and got out and away from the SUV as fast as he possibly could. It had become almost suffocating, and he couldn’t bring himself to lock it. Not happening. To push the button on the fob, to hear that sound, it would be absurd. His shoes clicked on the cold sidewalk under the pale early evening moon, he’d made record time and when his fist pounded on Derek’s door it was with such intensity that he felt ashamed. This was the first sunset he’d been awake for in days and he was missing it, laser focused on the task at hand. He pounded urgently, and sucked in one two three chest rattling breaths. Derek was going to fly to the door thinking there was an emergency only to find this shell of a man, pathetic and crying, on his stoop. No emergency, no danger, just a man who can’t figure out how to process his grief like everyone else – it either didn’t exist or he was falling apart and there was no in-between. He was thankful, at the very least, that the second option was rare.

“Aaron,” Derek said, opening his door. Clooney was at his feet immediately, tail wagging, tongue lolling to one side, looking about as dopey as any German Shepherd had a right and Hotch couldn’t help smiling through his tears. Clooney turned his dark eyes up at Hotch and almost seemed to be begging him to pat him on the head, a plea that Hotch couldn’t turn down. He let one hand drop, fingers dragging over fur, scratching at his bony forehead. “I thought you were staying out another night.”

He shook his head, words failing him completely, and practically fell into Derek’s arms the minute they were open to him. Derek wrapped him tight, one hand at his neck, the other behind his shoulders, kissing the warm place behind his ear that smelled like hotel soap and salty tears. Hotch buried his face in Derek’s shoulder, in the scent of onions and garlic, the smell of dinner cooking. The smell of home.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay man...come inside. Dinner’s almost ready, you wanna help me make the biscuits?”

“Sure,” Hotch whispered, swiping at his eyes the minute he was moving forward. Like it had worked before, like wiping them away would stop them. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Derek just laughed and shook his head. For someone so incredibly brilliant, who was so in tune with everyone around him, he could be incredibly thick when it came to introspection. “Uh, I do. The whole last week just came over you. Finally.”

“I suppose.”

“Oh. You suppose. He supposes, you hearin’ this shit?” Derek was talking to Clooney now, walking at a brisk pace toward the kitchen with Clooney on his heels. He was barefoot, in a tank top and basketball shorts, his ball cap backward, warm and relaxed and everything Hotch loved and needed. Hotch stopped and watched them as he stood, gathering himself, stilling his breath, knowing he was home. And that was the only place for him to be. Not Atlantic City telling Strauss where to shove her medical leave paperwork, not out on the road in some nondescript hotel and diner, not some fancy Bed and Breakfast with cocktail hours and sheets that Dave said were among the most luxurious he’d ever slept in. Not commiserating with cows and goats on sprawling idyllic farms, taking pictures of sunsets. This was home. Where Derek was, where Clooney was, where he could call Haley in the morning and ask if he could have Jack for the day. (Of course, she would say. Because she could use a day to herself, and he could use a whole lot of Jack’s little snorting toddler laugh.) Where he could listen to Jessica tell him he needed to cry to release his grief over Kate or ask him if he’d eaten anything, where she could mother him because his own never really had.

“Let me make the biscuits,” Hotch said finally, clearing the thick emotion from his throat. He’d likely spend the rest of the night crying off and on, if the past was any sort of indicator. Once it was open it was hard to close back up. He would smile and cry and eventually find his way through this path of grief, but it wasn’t going to stop him from living his life. And more importantly, it wasn’t going to stop him from saving dinner. “Your biscuits are always like rocks. Go do something else.”

Derek looked at Clooney with a sly grin, like he’d just won something. “You believe this guy? He’s here five minutes and taking over my kitchen.” Clooney let out a little bark and Derek laughed. “Yeah. Okay. He’s right, my biscuits do suck. I’m glad he’s home too. Even if he is an asshole.”

[hotchology]

Aaron Hotchner for #5 and 16!

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

this ones two fold.

mini skirt by aoa because the first time i ever watched route 66 i saw his exposed calf, called him a slut for walking around with his legs out in his miniskirt and then started brainstorming about a miniskirt edit and live translating the lyrics to my sister who was sat right beside me witnessing hotch leg induced insanity.

then a more serious answer all things end by hozier for a few reasons. Divorce. and also when i think about him leaving the show it starts looping in my head over and over and over. most haley divorce. but. i cant talk too much about it or ill get insane about it.

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

jj/hotch 😭 something abt it man. just do not get it

character ask game!!

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[kimstills]

insatiable

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: with an age gap like yours and aaron’s, it’s expected for there to be differences. aaron expected it, of course, but he never expected it to be like this. but is he really complaining?

content warnings: smut, 18+, minors do not interact!, established relationship, age gap, like two (2) spanks, some dry humping, p in v, cowgirl, cream pie, reader is a horn dog but hotch is whipped regardless, degradation, dirty talk, hints of sugar daddy!aaron

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i already had this in my drafts but when i saw this post i couldn’t help but speed up the process teehee 🤭 all i ever write is smut but i honestly cant help it lmao there’s something wrong w me

Aaron is a tired man.

A tired, busy, stressed, and overworked man.

He swears he somehow has six children despite only one of them having his actual blood and DNA.

He knows the relationship between him and the rest of his team has become fatherly in some aspects (keyword: some), even silently acknowledging the way they call him and Rossi ‘mom and dad’ behind their backs.

Yet, despite his love and respect for them, he was still a tired father man. A man that gave his team the weekend off so he could go home and sleep for 48 hours straight without the annoying six a.m. alarm that was constantly pending and going off.

But, of course, it seemed that you had others plans for him.

You, who he would normally classify as his sweet, beloved angel of a girlfriend, was secretly the devil reincarnated, someone who patiently waited for him to arrive to your shared apartment in order to attack.

He can sense the tension as soon as he steps inside the living area and sees you waiting for him on the couch, sitting primly with your legs tucked underneath you and facing the door. A sweet smile and seemingly innocent look adorns your face but Aaron knows better, and it doesn’t take a profiler to see the mischief that still sparkles through your facade.

He groans inwardly, not just because of those tactics of yours he’s already used to, no. But because of what you’re wearing. The cherry on top, truly.

A short, pink—and overall skimpy—nightie adorns your figure, the satin fabric shining the slightest bit from the glow of the table lamp from behind you. It ends at your mid-thigh, the lace adorned slit spread open over your skin, leaving little to the imagination. He can tell it’s new, a piece he hasn’t seen before—a piece he’s certain you bought with his credit card.

You look sweet, so sweet, but Aaron knows what you truly are.

A horny, insatiable beast.

Out of all the things Aaron has ever wondered in his life, he couldn’t help but be at a loss at how you’ve managed to conceal such ravenous desires with specious normalcy. He knew that hypersexuality and eagerness was a prone factor of yours, given the significant age gap between you two.

The insecurity prods at him now and then, the one that makes him think he’s far too old for a girl like you. But while he still considered himself to have a somewhat normal, healthy libido for his age, yours was over the roof—completely skyrocketed over what Aaron thought was the normal amount for a woman your age.

He doesn’t know how you do it, how you’re always ready to pounce on him at—quite literally—all times.

There’s been times where he’s been woken up with your mouth wrapped around his dick and your head bobbing up and down underneath the blanket, times where little to hardly no work gets done when he’s working from home because he just ‘looked so hot concentrated,’ times where his alarm goes off early in the morning and you call him back to bed with just a spread of your legs.

He swears he’s going to get a heart attack because of you one of these days.

The sound of you shuffling around the couch snaps him back to reality, swallowing harshly when you move to lean over the backrest of the couch. Your breasts push against the cushions, accentuating them further than the nightie allows.

“Welcome home, my love.”

He’s faced far worse monsters than a horny twenty-something-year-old, but he can’t help but look away in mortification as the exhaustion he was previously feeling begins to get replaced by his trousers tightening around him.

Your giggle snaps him out of his trance and he clenches and unclenches his fist, setting his suitcase down by the door. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You grin brightly, eyes twinkling in the low light of the apartment as you tap the seat next to you. Like a predator masking kindness and genuineness in order to get closer to their prey before they attack.

“How was work?” You ask, eyes following his every move as he cautiously makes his way over to you. You shift your body so that you’re facing him once he sits down, the top of your exposed knees brushing against the side of his thigh.

Aaron’s breath hitches. This was all part of your routine, your plan. He knows that you actually do care about how his days go, but right now, by that look in your eyes, he can tell you’re attempting to lure him in just like a siren does with a sailor.

If any of his team members were here right now they’d be snickering at how Aaron Hotchner, their seemingly stoic and intimidating boss, was turning weak in the knees for his horny girlfriend. He swallows the lump in his throat before answering, “It was good. Just a paperwork kind of day.”

You hum, nibbling at your bottom lip and leaning forward, one hand coming to rest on his pantsuit clad thigh. “I missed you today.”

It’s a ruse, Aaron says to himself. It’s all a ruse. The way you flutter your eyelashes at him and creep your hand further up. He knows it, he knows all of your little tricks.

Yet he still has to push you away. He never does.

“I missed you, too, sweet girl.” His heart flutters at the way you bite your bottom lip and smile, another endearing giggle echoing through the room before you finally move onto his lap.

Like a siren with a sailor.

You wrap your arms around his neck, practically shoving your boobs in his face as you settle yourself on either side of his thighs. Aaron groans when you plant yourself right on top of his growing bulge, throwing his head back as you begin to pepper needy, heated kisses all over his face.

His hands come to grip at your waist, hissing when you bite and suck at the sensitive skin on his neck. “Sweetheart—” he tries to usher you, to get you to slow down, but he’s cut off by you grinding down on his clothed dick, eliciting a moan from both of you.

“Missed you so much,” you repeat, voice coming out in a whine like you’ve been starved of his attention for months.

God, Aaron swears he can feel his body go into overdrive in order to attempt to keep up with you. Your lips continue to kiss at his neck while your hands eagerly work to undo his belt, messily pulling and tugging.

He hisses quietly when you reach inside his boxers to spring his cock free of its restraints, the bulge slapping against his tummy while the angry red tip leaks of precome.

“Y/N, honey,” he tries again, trying to regain control of the situation, as if he had ever had any of it to begin with. Another groan is pulled from the back of his throat when you wrap a perfectly manicured hand—a manicure he paid for, of course—around his length, interrupting his attempt to snap you out of your lust-filled haze.

You hum in satisfaction at the sight of him, moving your hand up and down, tugging at the base of his cock and running your thumb over the slit. “So big,” you whimper, nibbling at your bottom lip. “Missed your cock, Aaron. Always miss you.”

Aaron digs his nails into the fabric of the nightie, throwing his head against the cushions when you spit onto your hand and use it as lube to quicken your pace.

Maybe you were secretly a succubus, one that feigned purity and serenity to fool and lure in her victims before showing her true form. One that maxes out all of her victim’s credit cards to buy skimpy outfits and pay for all her things.

But who was he to deny you anything? Aaron never thought he would be able to handle all of this—all of you, even without the constant horniness— but here he was, fighting for his life while you lifted your hips and sunk down on his cock.

Aaron groaned again, the sound loud and guttural as it mixed in with your own cry of pleasure. Your walls clenched, wrapping around him like a vice who never wanted to let go.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he mumbles, his grip on your waist loosening and his hands skirting down your back to slip underneath the hem of your nightie, delivering a particularly harsh slap against your ass that makes you whine. “Take what you so desperately want all the time.”

He chuckles at the sight of your cheeks turning pink, your desperation overpowering your slight embarrassment as you begin to move your hips.

“Aaron,” you cry out, bottom lip jutting out and eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“What? Does that feel good?” He taunts, one hand slipping around your waist, keeping you close while the other leans against the backrest of the couch.

You nod, a fucked-out expression already taking its place on your face. “S-So good, I l-love it.”

“Yeah? You love it?” He coos when you nod again. “Dirty girl, always so needy and ready for me. You have no shame, do you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-uh,” you mumble, “Need you all the time.” The straps from your nightie slip down your shoulder as you lean backwards, resting your palms against his knees behind you before quickening your pace and bouncing needily.

“Shit, honey,” Aaron murmurs, taking in the sight of you before him. Your tits jiggled in his face, threatening to jump out of the fabric covering them, and your head was thrown back in utter pleasure while you rolled your hips. Some of the sweetest sounds Aaron had ever heard in his life were leaving your mouth, a mix of babbled words and moans.

“‘Mma, I’m g-gonna cum, ba-baby,” You whisper, too blissed out to form proper words. “I’m gonna—fuck—gonna c-cum, Aaron.”

Aaron could practically feel how close you were, your walls clenching and unclenching around him repeatedly as you pushed through the pain shooting up your thighs and continued bouncing on his cock.

“You’re going to be the death of me, sweet girl,” he mutters, stopping your irregular movements before pulling you into his chest and taking over for you.

A loud, practically pornographic moan echoed through the apartment as he began thrusting up into you, settling himself further down the couch for a better angle. The only sounds that could be heard were his low grunts and your high-pitched moans along with the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing in with the squelching sound of your pussy.

Repeated strings of ‘yes, yes, yes’ left your mouth, teeth digging into your bottom lip harshly and toes curling as you felt your orgasm approach you violently. You shook in his hold, adding to his thrusts by bouncing up and down again as best as you could.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers into your ear, tightening his hold on you. “Come on my cock, you wanted it so bad, right?”

You nod dumbly, eyes shut and face contorted into pure, utter bliss. You quiver when another slap is delivered to your ass, and it doesn’t take long for you to finish right then and there. You squeal in his arms, body stuttering and shaking as your orgasms rips through your body and invades all your senses.

Aaron presses a chaste kiss to your cheeks, not letting go of his hold on you as he continues thrusting up inside your gushing cunt, his own movements becoming sloppy as he feels his own high approach.

“Aaron,” you sigh, “Come in m-me. P-Please, fill me up,” you throw your head back, “Want it so bad.”

All it takes are those words for him to unload inside you, another groan escaping as white, hot ribbons of his come spurt deep inside you, mixing in with your own release.

You both lay still there, his cock still inside you as you attempt to regain your breath. After a while, you giggle breathily, coming up to wrap your hands around his neck and lay your head on his shoulder tiredly.

“What a shame you have to go back to work tomorrow,” you say, the pout on your lips evident despite Aaron not being able to see you properly.

This next part he knows he shouldn’t say, but he can’t help himself.

“I, uh, gave the team the rest of the weekend off.” He feels you freeze in his arms. “I’ll be home, honey.”

You sit back up, your eyes holding that hunger again as you stare up at him and tilt your head to the side coyly. “Really?”

He nods, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You giggle again. “Well, looks like we’ll have a lot of time to ourselves then, no?”

Aaron groans when he feels you begin to clench around him again.

When he goes back to work the next Monday, he’s approached by a confused looking Rossi, the older man’s brows furrowed as he takes in his appearance.

“You look more tired than before?” He says, the observation coming out as a question.

Aaron sighed.

Yes, you were insatiable. But he was, too.

[heavenlybodies333]

Fuck Around and Find Out -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

The BAU bullpen was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Quiet—except for the unmistakable sound of Spencer Reid laughing. Honest-to-God laughing. Loud enough that Penelope Garcia had poked her head in from her office like a prairie dog, wide-eyed and clutching her oversized glitter mug.

The reason? You, standing frozen by your desk, half a scream still lodged in your throat, face flushed, heart hammering. A small airhorn—rigged expertly beneath your rolling chair—had gone off the second your weight touched the cushion. Spencer had timed it perfectly. You’d jumped six inches off the seat like you’d been tasered, papers flying.

Spencer was doubled over by the whiteboard, flushed and wheezing behind his hand.

You blinked at him. “You’re dead.”

He smiled sweetly. “You were the one who said you couldn’t be scared.”

“You know I only said that because you said you’d profile me into a fear response.”

“Which I did. Successfully.”

“You bastard.”

“Oh, don’t pout,” he said, brushing imaginary lint from his cardigan sleeve like the smug bastard he was. “It was scientifically sound. You’re most startled when your focus is fragmented—coming back from coffee, headphones in, already multitasking. Classic misdirection. And you’ve been smug about getting everyone else with pranks all month. Frankly, it was overdue.”

Yeah, there was no fucking way you weren’t getting revenge. You went easy at first. Psychological warfare. Little annoyances to lull him into overconfidence: Switching his sugar packets with salt. Changing the shortcut on his BAU laptop so every time he typed “unsub,” it autocorrected to “Daddy.” Leaving cryptic post-it notes in his books like “ask Garcia about the rash.” Until, Reid programs your ID badge to display “Dr. Spencer Reid’s Assistant” temporarily and you didn’t know how to change it.

That really annoyed you so you began to hit harder. On Thursday, his pens were replaced with identical ones that wrote in invisible ink. On Friday, the audio on his Bureau laptop randomly played recordings of you saying things like, “Dr. Reid, you’re so smart,” and, “You were right again, Spencer,” every 13 minutes. Loudly. In front of Hotch.

The kicker? You programmed the audio clip to be labeled “File: Lila.mp3.” Just for the look on his face. The following hour, he leaves a note in your file folder that just says “Nice try. MIT wasn’t even my hardest degree.”

The team caught on quickly. Morgan looked between you and Spencer during a morning briefing and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, how long have you two been hate-fucking?” Rossi raised an eyebrow but didn’t object.

“We’re not—” you started, just as Spencer said, “That’s not—”

“Wow,” JJ muttered. “That was in sync.”

You both shut up after that, but the damage was done. Even Garcia started keeping a whiteboard in the tech office with “Reid vs. You Prank Tally” scrawled across the top in glitter marker. But no one—not even you—expected the war to detonate the way it did.

That weekend, while on a stakeout in Denver, it came to a head.

You’d both been posted together, alone in the SUV, surveillance gear buzzing softly in the back seat. It was two a.m., freezing outside, the heater running on low to avoid drawing attention. You were in one of his FBI windbreakers, swamped in the sleeves. He smelled like coffee, ink, and his mother’s perfume—that subtle powdery scent that always lingered on his shirt collars, like the past was stitched into his clothing. And he wouldn’t stop smirking.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” he replied innocently. “You’re just… tense.”

“I’m cold.”

He turned toward you, eyes dancing behind his glasses. “I think you’re nervous.”

“You wish.”

“No,” he said softly, “I think you’re waiting for me to make the next move.”

“Is that what this is?” You gave him a sweet smile, your eyes narrowing. “Foreplay?”

He looked at you for a long beat. “Maybe.”

You blinked. The shift in tone was so subtle you almost missed it. His posture relaxed, but his gaze was pinning. Heavy. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Eventually, you turned and stared out the window. It didn’t die down after that.

The next morning at HQ, he dropped a file on your desk with the phrase “Checkmate, sweetheart” scrawled on the cover. Inside were ten pages of surveillance photos.

You. Switching his sugar packets with salt.

You. Programming the audio file on his computer.

You. Changing his pens. Wearing gloves as if you were stealthy.

He'd been documenting everything, always one step ahead of you. The smug bastard. And somewhere deep in your chest, something cracked open like a fault line.

The knock came just after ten. You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when a knock came at your door.

You opened it without thinking. And there he stood. Spencer Reid. Wearing his FBI windbreaker, rain dripping from his hair, holding your misplaced badge and house key between two fingers.

“I assume this fell out of your bag in Quantico,” he said. “Or maybe you left it on purpose.”

You blinked. “Why would I—”

“Because you wanted me to come over.” There was no accusation in his voice. Just fact. You stared at him. You realized you were only wearing a towel. He realized at the same time. And yet—he didn’t move.

“I came to call a truce,” he said quietly. “But that might’ve been a mistake.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to call a truce.”

You stared at him for a moment before replying, “You gonna stand there or come in?”

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t speak. You just looked at each other for one long, slow second. His eyes flicked down your body. He exhaled shakily. There was no one else around. No Garcia keeping score. No Morgan making jokes. No Hotch in the corner giving the two of you side-eye like you were one “Daddy” autocorrect away from being fired.

Now it was just you and Spencer. Alone. No whiteboards. No excuses.

“I’m not here for a prank,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “No?”

“I wanted to call a truce. That was the plan.”

You took a step toward him. “And?”

His eyes dropped to your collarbone. Your towel had started to slip. “And now I don’t want a truce.”

He didn’t move. Not until you reached for the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down, slow. Peeling it off his shoulders, letting the rain-damp fabric drop to the floor. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers twitching.

“You’re wet,” you murmured.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “Wearing less than usual.”

You smiled. “Observation skills still sharp, Dr. Reid?”

“Terrifyingly so.”

Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt. “So what happens now?”

His answer was not verbal. He surged forward—suddenly, finally—and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Years, maybe. You gasped into his mouth as his hands slid up your waist, firm and wanting, towel falling to the floor as he backed you toward the wall.

His mouth was on your throat then, hot and hungry—sucking, biting, tasting. You let your head fall back, a soft gasp escaping as his hands roamed. His touch was worshipful but firm, like he was imprinting every inch of you into memory. His fingers cupped your breast, thumb brushing your nipple—slow at first, then faster, until your knees nearly buckled.

“Bed,” you whispered.

He swept you there like it was nothing. Your legs hit the mattress and you fell back, pulling him with you. Spencer climbed over you like a man possessed—crawling between your thighs, kissing down your collarbone, dragging his mouth across your sternum and lower.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, pausing at your navel, voice hoarse. “I mean it.”

“Reid—” Your hand tangled in his hair. “Don’t stop unless the building’s on fire.”

He groaned. “That’s a reasonable threshold.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot, careful, devastating—his tongue circled your clit with the same concentration he gave to serial profiles and rare languages, and Jesus Christ, you had underestimated him. He licked and sucked until your hips were arching off the bed, thighs shaking around his shoulders, breath breaking into gasps you couldn’t control.

“Spencer—fuck—” Your hand fisted in the sheets. “Don’t stop—”

“You’ve been like this the whole time?” he asked softly, like he was marveling, the fucking menace. “When you were programming my computer? Or when you were planting that Lila file? You were this wet?”

You let out a little whine. “Reid—”

He groaned, shifting above you, and then you felt him—the hot, heavy drag of his cock against the inside of your thigh. One slow thrust and he was teasing you with it, rubbing along your slick folds but not pushing in.

“Beg,” he whispered.

You almost laughed—almost—but then he gave a tiny roll of his hips, barely nudging the head of his cock into you, and your pride crumbled like sugar glass.

“Please,” you hissed. “Fuck, just—please.”

He pushed in slow, groaning into your neck, both hands braced above your head as he filled you.

You clawed at his back, your ankles locking behind him, his name falling from your lips in broken syllables.

“You feel—” he whispered, panting, forehead against yours, “you feel so fucking good, I can’t—”

“Harder,” you begged, nails raking his spine. “Please.” He was deep. Thick. Stretching you in the best kind of way. You arched beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, breath stuttering.

Pushing in to the hilt and staying there, letting you feel every inch before pulling back. Then again. Again. Your body rising to meet him, gasping for more.

Your fingers clutched at him, his chest slick against yours. You could feel the taut pull of muscle in his back, the trembling restraint in his hips as he tried not to come too fast. The way his mouth found yours again and again, greedy and messy, like he’d never learned how to stop.

“Fuck, you’re so—tight,” he rasped. “I thought about this—god, I thought about this so many times.”

You bit his shoulder, gasping as he drove into you, angle perfect now, hitting that spot that made you see white. “You waited too long.”

He shifted his weight, one forearm bracing beside your head as the other hand snaked between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the precision of someone who cataloged sensations like data points.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching your face contort with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.”

Spencer’s name ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit hard, you came around him hard, mouth open in a silent cry, walls clenching, trembling. “You feel so amazing—” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, and then he was groaning deep in his chest, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he came with a ragged, helpless sound. You felt it—the hot rush of him, buried deep—and the way he trembled above you, forehead dropping to yours, breath shattered.

The room was silent except for your gasps. Then, after a long, aching moment, he moved—carefully rolling off of you, still panting, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t not touch you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence stretched for a beat. Two. His fingers drifted along your back, soft and absentminded.

Finally, you broke the silence with a muffled, “So… truce?”

Spencer let out a breathless, wrecked laugh against your hair. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

You lifted your head. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve gone too far. The war is eternal now.” He kissed your temple. “We’ve crossed the Rubicon.”

“You’re quoting Caesar after fucking me raw in my own bed?”

He grinned against your skin. “Would you expect anything else?”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillow.

Spencer turned onto his side, propped his head up on one arm, and stared at you like he was studying something rare.

You tried not to squirm under the weight of it. “What?”

“I think this might’ve been inevitable.”

Your voice was dry. “The sex?”

“This.” He gestured between the two of you. “The… whatever we are.”

Your heart thumped. “You saying you want this to happen again?”

Spencer leaned in and kissed you—soft, unhurried, less like a demand and more like a promise. He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I’m saying I already know it will.”

a/n: 3 PhDs and not one in self-restraint

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[ssa-dado]

Waaaa :3333 so happy you liked it <3 <3 <3

Cat Equals Sign Of Integration

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff, smut (implied) Summary: Aaron, ever the strategist, decides that a little wine might help soften the blow of figuring out with you how to tell the team you’re dating. A solid plan - except for one tiny flaw: wine makes him a whore. Warnings: +18, MINORS DNI Hotch is a touch starved whore, a few cuss words here and there, wine gets a bit into both of your heads. Word Count: 5k Dado's Corner: Did I hallucinate this while working on one of the many requests still on my to-do list, only to realize halfway through that it was completely derailing from the main plot - but too cute to abandon? Yes. Is this fun? You tell me (pretty please).

masterlist(s)

One of the many rules you and Aaron had in your relationship was that if you cooked for date night, he was the one doing the dishes.

His idea.

You had been opposed to it at first - not because you minded, of course. You were actually a huge fan of grown men handling household chores without whining like toddlers about how it might somehow demasculate their poor, fragile egos.

No, you were opposed because you didn’t want him doing it out of some sense of obligation.

It took you a while to accept that Aaron wasn’t doing this because he owed you - he was doing it because he wanted to.

Because that was just… Aaron.

Ever the caregiver, always looking for ways to make life easier for the people he loved. He could give you the world and still come to you like a wounded dog, begging for forgiveness because he thought he wasn’t enough.

It was infuriating - for all the deep psychological reasons you could analyze for hours, but also for a much pettier one: when it was his turn to cook, instead of letting you do the dishes like the so-called rule dictated, he just… did them anyway.

And thus, the noble Mr. Clean - brave warrior of dish duty, his arms submerged in treacherous, frothy depths - found himself utterly helpless against the sudden, most dreadful buzzing of his phone.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed!

Stranded, defenseless, bound by duty to his porcelain captors, he could do nothing but stand there, a tragic figure of great importance, cruelly denied his right to immediately bestow his undivided attention upon whatever poor soul dared summon him.

Oh, the agony! The injustice! How swiftly the mighty are humbled… by a sink full of bubbles.

That was because, logically, if even a single drop of water touched his phone, he would instantly lose all of the very important, highly classified FBI secrets stored inside. Of course, phones couldn't possibly be waterproof.

Ha, imagine?! What a concept.

“Who is it?” Aaron asked, still scrubbing at your wine glass like he was trying to erase its entire existence.

Which – by the way - was completely pointless, considering that in less than five minutes, he planned on refilling it with some more. A different wine, yes. But for God’s sake, you weren’t going to die if the last few drops of white mixed with the red.

…What a fussy man.

“Penelope,” you replied, admiring the view.

What a view, really. That man was all legs and no ass, and you were finally learning to appreciate it. 

“Ignore it,” he said, not even turning around.

Unfortunately for him - and for the HR department still blissfully unaware that their most serious, by-the-book boss was fraternizing with a subordinate - you were a profiler.

The U.S. government literally paid your bills every single month because you were exceptionally good at reading people.

And the way he answered? Yeah, that wasn’t the tone of a man casually dismissing an unimportant text. No, that was the tone of a man caught red-handed, scrambling for plausible deniability.

Embarrassed. Secretive. Suspicious. Frankly, if you didn’t already know what he was hiding, you’d be halfway to slapping cuffs on him. Wouldn’t even be the first time.

And so you read it – out loud.

Penelope Garcia, 7:56 PM:

hotch sir hotch bossman sir, i am DYING please tell me if you found out who her mystery boyfriend is i am suffering!!!!!!!! i know you know. i know it in my heart. if you can’t say it just give me a hint. a tiny one. a cryptic riddle. a blink. i will take anything.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

By her, of course, she meant you - because despite a few months of keeping your relationship under wraps, you still hadn’t gotten around to telling the team. Your colleagues. Your friends. Your unwanted, overly nosy adopted children.

That their elusive "mystery boyfriend" was, in fact, your mutual boss.

You were going to tell them. Eventually.

Didn’t know when. But you would.

Then again, it wasn’t like you were surrounded by some of the best profilers in the country, trained to pick up on the slightest behavioral shift.

It’s not like the second two incredibly touch-starved people like you and Aaron started walking around with even a fraction of happiness, that wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions.

…Except, apparently, it hadn’t.

Because somehow, the team had only managed to land on half the conclusion: you were seeing someone.

But Aaron? Not even a blip on their radar.

It was almost impressive, really. The answer was so obvious that they had discarded it entirely, still wandering around in the dark, trying to piece together a puzzle that was sitting right in front of their faces.

Just like Penelope was doing now, so desperate for some reason that she was straight-up asking him outright - when not that long ago, she still thought twice before even making a dirty joke in his presence.

And so, you got up, walked over to Aaron, and held the phone directly under his nose. “What does this mean?”

He squinted at the screen, then at you. “Oh, honey, I don’t know. She always sends me that - I don’t understand what exactly equals the sign of integration”.

…What?

You were suddenly just as confused as he was.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in that utterly sincere, slightly bewildered way of his. “That sign before it,” he said, completely lost. “It looks Chinese. Thought you knew Chinese, sweetheart.”

…What?

Oh, for the love of God.

If this man hadn’t already seen the absolute worst horrors the world had to offer, you would fight for his innocence with your nails, your teeth, and - if absolutely necessary - one of the worst shooting records ever logged in the Bureau.

You looked at the screen again.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

Oh.

Oh, that’s what had confused him.

“Aaron,” you said gently, doing your absolute best not to kiss him right then and there, “that is a cat.”

You sighed, then pointed at the message again. “By the way, the ‘sign’ in the middle is in Korean, not Chinese.”

He looked at the screen again - then back at you. “…Cat equals sign of integration?”

“No, honey,” you said, barely suppressing your smile, tapping the little text emoji. “It’s just a cat.”

He studied it for another second. “Oh.”

There. That did it. You gave in. Leaned in and pressed a loud smooch to his cheek.

At least your dignity was still intact - he had no idea why you’d done it, just assumed it was one of those spontaneous bursts of affection that came with being hopelessly in love.

Honeymoon phase truly did work wonders.

“Do you think I can have the cat too?” he asked, grabbing the bottle of red and a corkscrew.

That was a trap.

Because Aaron Hotchner still signed every single text he sent.

And while it wasn’t an issue when he was sending something standard -

Lawyer, 6:17 PM:

They found a new body, we’re gathering at the precinct in 30.

A.H.

- it became a lot more unsettling when he sent the filthiest, most depraved things you’d ever read, only to end them with that stiff little A.H. like he was dictating official Bureau correspondence.

Lawyer, 11:51 PM:

Sweetheart, if only these stupid walls weren’t so thin, I’d have you right here with me, bent over, face pressed against this mattress, making you come so many times you’d forget your own name. At least three. Maybe four, if I’m feeling generous.

A.H.

So now, standing in his kitchen, watching him pour wine like he hadn’t just permanently scarred you with his painfully bureaucratic approach to sexting, you knew that if you admitted he could simply copy-paste that ‘cat equals integration sign,’ it would only be a matter of time before you were subjected to something truly traumatizing, like -

Lawyer, very-late-office-hour PM:

It’s your fault I’m getting distracted with the paperwork, because I’m still thinking about how good you tasted last night while sitting on my face. God, I can still feel your thighs shaking, you were so sweet for me, honey, so fucking perfect.

P.S. How many reports do you still have left? Because I’ve been thinking about having you on my tongue again before the night is over. I think I’ve got about an hour or so left but then I’m all yours.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

That man could not be trusted with the cat.

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades as your fingers brushed over his back. “I don’t think you can get it. She must have programmed it herself into her phone.”

You truly hoped you were as convincing as he was clueless about text etiquette.

“It’s a pity,” he sighed, both of your wine glasses in hand as he made his way to the couch. “I would have loved to send you the cat.”

…Of course he would. Smug ass.

But as the words left his mouth, something shifted in him - just barely. A pause that didn’t usually belong there... weird.

Still, you followed, watching as he settled in, patting the cushion beside him with a half-smile. “Come here, sweetheart.”

A misleading gesture, considering his legs were very much spread - a much clearer invitation. At least, that’s how you chose to interpret it.

Because you could swear - those legs spoke to you. Called to you. So you slid right into your rightful seat - his lap.

…Would have been rude not to answer.

“Back to Garcia,” he said, resting a hand on your thigh as he handed you your painstakingly polished wine glass - so clean, so immaculately spotless, that the red wine inside looked redder than red. A real masterpiece, Mr. Clean. “She doesn’t seem to be letting up about finding out who you’re dating… This is the fourth message this week.”

You raised a brow, taking a sip of your wine. “Well, she’s second only to you when it comes to being nosy about gossip.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head, that same small half-smile back on his lips.

That particular smile.

The one he used when he was trying to convince someone he was fine when, in reality, he was not - when he was trying to reassure everyone else while simultaneously refusing to admit, even to himself, that something was eating him alive.

Oh, now you knew what this was about.

He had definitely practiced this conversation in his head - refined it down to the perfect phrasing. Measured. Logical. Reassuring.

A version so well-rehearsed, so carefully constructed, that he’d convinced himself first before trying to convince you - that this didn’t scare him.

That this was just another rational step forward.

That it was fine.

Because if he could make it sound easy, maybe it would be.

Maybe it would give you something solid to lean on, because the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were standing on shaky ground with someone just as fractured as he was.

But in the end, even the best-laid words couldn’t withstand the weight of his emotions - whether he liked it or not, even rocks are meant to erode.

“I think it’s time we come clean to the team,” he admitted, completely veering off-script - though, of course, he still made sure to soften the blow with a kiss to your temple.

Not that it made much difference. You both knew this moment was inevitable, but somehow, you’d managed to delude yourselves into thinking that if you just kept putting it off, the perfect time would miraculously appear.

At first, you’d delayed it until things were official.

Then, because you needed to be sure this could work in the long run.

Then, because you wanted time to just enjoy each other.

Truthfully? If it were entirely up to the two of you, you’d probably keep postponing it indefinitely - at least until the day you were both retired, far away from any fraternization rules or painfully awkward team dynamics.

Unless, of course, your eyes had been deceiving you all along, or life decided to be cruel and rip this happiness away from you before you ever even got the chance. All you could do was hope not.

Aaron sighed, watching you carefully. “So, how do you want to do this?”

At least he could take comfort in the fact that his very specific plan of having wine while discussing this was still intact - especially since the very large sip you took the second he asked hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He huffed a laugh.

Yeah.

This was going to be fun.

“Are we sure we have to?” You groaned, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart. It’s the only way to keep them from getting the satisfaction of figuring it out first and do this our way…”

It was his turn to take a long sip now… he surely wasn’t thrilled about the lack of an actual game plan.

“…Still need to figure out what exactly we mean by ‘our way,’” he admitted. “But, you know… that’s what these are for.”

He tapped a finger against his temple, then against yours, clearly implying that your very skilled, highly trained profiler brains would surely work this out.

You, however, were placing your bets on your problem-solving skills drastically improving after a few more glasses of wine, because right now?

“We are so fucked,” you commented.

Aaron clinked his glass against yours, deadpan. “Completely.”

You both took long, slow sips of wine like it might somehow provide divine intervention.

It didn’t. You were indeed left pretty much alone in this.

You sighed, setting your glass down on the coffee table. “Well, you definitely have the face of someone who already has a plan...” You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “...a very handsome face.”

Cheesy. But deserved.

Aaron chuckled. “I believe…” He kissed you on the cheek – twice - before setting his own glass down too. “…We should tell them directly. Get ahead of it. Lay it out as matter-of-factly as possible.”

“Matter-of-factly?”

He nodded, all serious, like he hadn’t just suggested the worst possible approach.

“Sweetheart…” You pinched his cheek, making him scrunch his nose, hoping – more like praying - that it would snap him out of whatever fantasy land of logic, reason, and good intentions he was apparently living in.

“If we tell them directly, Penelope will throw an actual partypersonally design matching t-shirts, and have the entire team wear them.” You paused, leveling him with a look. “And you know it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I know.”

“Emily and Derek will immediately start making jokes like two middle schoolers who just learned what sex is and will not let us breathe.”

“I know.”

“JJ will be quiet but then ask all of a sudden, ‘So when’s the wedding?’ which will restart the chaos all over again.”

“I know.”

You turned to face him, deadly serious. “Spencer-”

“-Will hit us with a full statistical analysis of workplace relationships,” Aaron finished, exhaling sharply, already bracing himself.

Because there was only one team member left to account for - the worst of them all.

“And… oh God… Dave…”

And with that horrifying realization, he did the only logical thing a man in his position could do - he face-planted directly into your chest with a dramatic, muffled groan of pure defeat.

You blinked down at him, amused. “Honey…”

Why was he even so touch starved like that?

“All I ask,” came his muffled voice, still very much nestled between your breasts, “is five minutes of peace.”

You snorted. “You do realize this isn’t exactly discouraging me from making fun of you, right?”

He sighed again. “You do realize that if you keep laughing, you’re just shoving them further into my face?”

…Damn him and his irritating ability to state the obvious.

You sighed, fingers absentmindedly combing through his short spikes of hair. “…So we’re back to square one.”

Aaron exhaled, still very much face-first in his chosen safe haven. “Unfortunately.”

You hummed, “Okay, hypothetically, if we just… never tell them, how long do you think we could get away with it?”

That was so absurd that it actually made him lift his head. He blinked at you, utterly offended by the suggestion.

“I am not spending the next decade pretending I don’t stare at your ass every time you walk away.”

…Alright. That was definitely the wine talking.

In vino veritas, as the Romans said. Wine makes people say dumb shit: the truth.

“Wow. Didn’t know you were a poet, Hotchner.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t pretend you’re above it, because I catch you every time you drift off during briefings just to stare right at-”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could fully call you out... he was not happy about it. “We’re both shameless…"

You needed an exit strategy. Fast.

You reached for his wine glass over the coffee table. “Well, at least the bright side of telling them is that we won’t have to schedule our coffee breaks in advance anymore and pretend to look surprised when we see each other.”

And all of that was just for one single moment.

The fleeting brush of fingertips as you handed him the cup you always poured for him.

The way his hand was always warmer than yours, despite the fact that you were the one holding the scalding mug, as if basic thermodynamics simply did not apply to Aaron Hotchner.

And if it was one of those days, sometimes, there’d be a little extra something.

A longer touch.

Eye contact that lingered just a second too long.

A slow sip from his cup while still holding your gaze, and suddenly, it felt indecent - like something you definitely shouldn’t be doing in broad daylight, let alone in a federal building.

And now - here, in the comfort of his apartment, with nothing and no one to stop you - he reached for the wine glass you were offering, except… he wasn’t actually reaching for the glass.

He was just holding your hand.

Aaron chuckled, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. “I think we’re holding onto this touch just a little too long,” he murmured, nuzzling into you, his breath warm against your ear. “Might start looking suspicious.”

Didn’t he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, also some-” you started, or at least tried to, because as if everything else wasn’t enough, now he was kissing just behind your ear, his lips just brushing the sensitive skin there, warm, and slow, and wet and… God…

Okay. Okay.

Maybe it was the wine.

Maybe it was the fact that you were always kind of a little bit obsessed with him.

Either way, the result was the same: you really, really wanted him right now.

You sighed, tilting your head to grant him a little more access - but not too much, or you might actually end up using the full length of his three-seater couch instead of stubbornly remaining curled up in the same cramped two-foot space you’d unofficially claimed as your own. Ergo - going horizontal with him instead of just being seated on his lap.

“I thought we were having a serious discussion,” you murmured, though the breathy edge to your voice wasn’t exactly helping your case.

Aaron hummed in response, slowly dragging his lips from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw, pressing a kiss at the hinge. “We are.” Another kiss. “What were you starting to say, sweetheart?”

And another one.

You tried to think. Really, you did.

But it was getting increasingly difficult with his mouth still very much on your skin, moving towards places that were making it exponentially harder to form coherent thoughts.

You would’ve made a mental note to never wear anything that resembled a tank top around him again, if only you had the actual brain capacity to form any notes right now.

“Aaron-”

Aaron smirked against your skin. “You were saying?”

…Blank. Absolutely blank.

Your brain stalled for a solid three seconds before mercifully rebooting.

“I-” You licked your lips, cleared your throat. “Penelope.”

That, thankfully, was enough of a keyword to get him to back off - though, the second he did, you already desperately missed the warmth of his mouth on your skin.

He tilted his head, “Penelope?”

You swallowed. “She’s… gonna be beaming.”

Aaron blinked at you. “Beaming.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, because God, he was too cute when he was confused like this. “Her and Kevin have been desperate for another couple to go out with. Ever since JJ and Will stopped leaving the house because they’re too busy baby-proofing every square inch of their lives.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “And by ‘go out with,’ you mean double dates.”

You hummed, fingers grazing his cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. Double dates.”

Aaron didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, absolutely not.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “Wait, what?”

His face was resolute. “I’m not doing double dates.”

You squinted at him. “Okay, but why?”

And that’s how you learned that if there was one thing your boyfriend hated - more than messy paperwork, more than delayed flights, more than the Bureau’s budgeting meetings - it was double dates.

Not specifically with Penelope and Kevin. God, no. He was practically the puppet master of their relationship in the first place. Just… double dates in general.

“They’re impractical,” he said.

You snorted. “What do you mean?”

Aaron sighed. “They are a waste of time. You sit there, and for the first fifteen minutes, it’s fine. The usual small talk, polite conversation…”

You nodded, barely biting back a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Honestly, this just sounded like some classic Aaron Hotchner being the most adorable introvert to ever exist.

He shot you a look, deadly serious. “It’s a trap.” You nearly cooed. Adorable. “Because at some point, you end up talking one-on-one with someone from the other couple. And right when the conversation is actually getting interesting-”

He suddenly paused.

His hand started at your shoulder, innocent enough - until it wasn’t, until it drifted lower, fingertips skimming down until they found your thigh, before sliding inward, squeezing your soft flesh there.

“See?” Aaron murmured, voice deceptively casual. “It starts off innocently. A hand on the shoulder…”He angled his fingers just a notch further up your upper thigh. “…Then the thigh. Then-”

He leaned in, kissing you just at the corner of your mouth.

"A little kiss here," he murmured, lips barely brushing your skin.

Then another - softer, lingering just at the very edge of your lips.

"A little peck there."

Okay.

Ahem.

For a man who hated double dates, he was making a very strong case for them.

This was clearly foreplay.

Had to be foreplay.

You chose to interpret it as foreplay.

So, naturally, just as you were about to pull him in properly - to finally taste the wine on his lips – he pulled back.

Mixed signals whore.

“And then,” he continued, and you swore his voice had gotten even lower - sluttier, if you were being honest - "it escalates.”

...Wine-induced yapper. "Because one couple decides a little peck isn’t enough, so they turn and start devouring each other’s faces… in public.”

The wine that was in your system, instead, suggested you should have him biblically, right here, right now, on his couch.

“Care to demonstrate this part too?” You licked your lips, tilting your head.

Aaron sighed “Honey.” You knew you were in trouble the moment he smirked. “You’re demonstrating my point…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…You want more.” Aaron tutted, shaking his head, feigning disappointment. “Of course you want more. A chaste kiss isn’t enough. How could it be, sweetheart?”

Hell yes you wanted more.

Badly.

You might have even nodded without meaning to.

“But imagine if this was happening in public. In front of two other people. What about them?” he murmured, tilting his head, voice dropping into something dark, silky, dangerous. “In front of two other people.”

You swallowed, very much not thinking about them right now.

“Because at that point, they only have two choices: they either sit there - third-wheeling, watching - or…” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide over your bare waist, gripping, pulling you that much closer. "… they start doing it too."

Your breath hitched. “Aaron-”

"With just a kiss, it creates an environment," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear, "where both couples get competitive. Where they start copying each other - but making it more…"

He dragged his nose along the curve of your jaw, the ghost of his lips tracing just behind it. "Passionate."

A teeth-grazing kiss against your pulse.

A slow drag of his lips down the column of your throat, before he made his way back up, tilting your chin up with his fingers just so, forcing you to look at him.

And God, that look.

"More tongue," he continued, letting you see it first - his own darting out, wetting his lips just before he brushed them over yours.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

“More biting.” Aaron caught your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just enough to confirm what you already knew -

He tasted like red wine.

Rich. Dark. Addictive.

And so did you.

“More touching.” His hand drifted, fingertips just skimming over your ribs, teasing along the underside of your breast - so close, so close, before he let it trail lower again, just as his lips ghosted over your ear.

"More sounds."

You barely bit back the breathy, desperate little moan clawing its way up your throat because -

Aaron shoved you off his lap.

In one fluid motion, he shifted, pressing you back into the couch, caging you in beneath him, his arms bracketing either side of your head.

His knee slotted between your thighs, pressing up just slightly - just enough to make you gasp, make your hips twitch without thinking.

You were pretty sure now that this was, in fact, foreplay.

“At that point,” he murmured, lowering himself, pressing his body against yours, pinning you down with nothing but his weight, “if you’re already getting ideas…”

Aaron rolled his hips against you, his knee shifting just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. “…it’s better off just staying home. Because at least then,” he whispered, “we can do this.”

And then he kissed you. Properly.

Deep and hungry, pressing you down into the cushions until you moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer as one of his hands slipped under your shirt.

“You-” you swallowed, trying to find words, but he stole them from you, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “You expect me to believe this is why you hate double dates?”

“I expect you to understand,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of your neck, “that if I ever go on one…” he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “…I’ll be thinking about this the entire time.”

Then - click.

The sound of the button of your pants being undone, followed shortly by the hiss of your zipper. You felt the warmth of his fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, resting over your hip bone.

Well, fuck.

“You’ll be sitting across from me,” he continued, voice so unfairly composed, so infuriatingly smooth, “pretending to listen to whatever they’re taking about.”

He tilted his head, kissing along your collarbone, then much lower. You made a mental note to always wear anything resembling a tank top in his presence from now on.

“And the entire time…” his fingers dipped just slightly beneath the elastic of your underwear.

You shuddered. “Aaron.”

He hummed, pleased - so deeply pleased - before finally sliding lower, his fingers finally brushing right where you needed him most.

You whimpered.

“I’ll be remembering,” he murmured, “exactly how you sound right now.”

Your back arched into his touch, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as his fingers moved.

“And how you look,” he added, his lips brushing the curve of your breast, “when you fall apart for me.”

Your breath hitched-

And then.

Then-

He stopped.

Just - stopped.

His hands left you completely as he leaned back, settling onto his knees above you, looking far too pleased with himself.

You gaped at him, betrayed. “Are you kidding me?”

Aaron just smirked, gaze flicking over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, your uneven breathing, the way your body was still desperately aching for him.

“See?” he shrugged, voice so damn smug. “This is why I hate double dates.”

How funny would it be if these ended up being his last words?

You huffed, adjusting yourself on the couch, crossing your arms like you weren’t still ridiculously turned on and very annoyed about it. “Alright, you know what? Fine. No need to suffer through a double date if we just… conveniently wait to tell the team about us until after JJ and Will start going back out with Penelope and Kevin.”

Aaron smirked.

At least you’d both come to an agreement - the exact same procrastination tactic you’d been using, just with a new and improved excuse attached.

“…Smart girl.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathing heavily, still so deeply unsatisfied, as Aaron pressed a kiss to your temple, then stood, stretching his arms.

“I’ll clean the wine glasses,” he mused, already heading toward the kitchen. “And then I’ll be back to you.”

You stared at him.

He paused, glancing at you over his shoulder, smirking.

You huffed, sarcastic, “glad we could work this out.”

You were not glad. Not at all. Especially because not even a full minute later, your phone buzzed with a text.

From him.

From Mr. Clean himself, who was currently just a couple rooms away from you.

Lawyer, 8:43 PM:

Sweetheart, I hope you're ready, because I’m going to spread you out on that couch and fuck you so deep, you’ll still feel me when you sit at your desk tomorrow.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

"Garcia just told me how to get the cat," came his voice from the kitchen - so damn smug you could hear the smirk in it, followed the sound of his footsteps getting closer.

Before you could turn, before you could say anything, he was there - leaning in from behind the couch, arms sliding around you, caging you in, whispering into your ear -

"It was just a simple copy-paste."

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe2

[keirareidss]

summertime girl - a.h

♡ summary: reader wears a sundress. hotch goes insane pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, reader wears a dress,slight description of readers body wc: 1.5k

The sun was out, the weather was hot, and the BAU was on vacation. They all had the day off so they were spending it at Rossi's mansion, in his backyard for a barbecue.

The smell of burgers, hot dogs, and summer wafted through the air. Rossi stood at the grill, swatting at anyone who tried to come too close to his precious meat with his spatula. Emily and JJ sat in folding chairs, drinks in hand, sunglasses on as they relaxed. Spencer sat cross legged on the grass, teaching Henry chess while Morgan sat on the porch with Hotch.

You... well you were definitely entertained. You and Jack were playing some made up game, a cross between tag, hide and seek, and the floor is lava. Currently, you were chasing him across the lawn, sandals left on the porch next to Aaron's chair for him to dutifully watch over. Your sundress flowed behind you in the wind, fluttering around your legs when you stopped. You caught up to Jack, wrapping your arms around him and laughing as the both of you tumbled to the ground. Your fingers danced along his sides, tickling him as he squirmed on top of you. You stopped, letting him rest as his giggles became more breathless.

"You've been caught. The tickle monster wins again!" You cheer as he smiled wide. He lets his head drop down to your shoulder, huffing out a breath, tired from all the activity. "You hungry bud?" You asked, rubbing his back gently. He nodded.

"Uh huh."

"I think Rossi's almost done at the grill. What do you want, burger or hot dog?"

"A hot dog!" Jack sits up on your stomach. You glance over, seeing Rossi start serving out burgers.

"Well, go get one before they're all gone." You smile and he climbs off of you, running over to Rossi. You lay on the grass, staring up at the sky and breathing in the fresh air for a few peaceful moments. Soon, a face appears above you. Your lovely boyfriend Aaron Hotchner.

"Having fun?" He asked, smiling down at you.

"Loads of it." You grinned. He holds out a hand to help you up and to take it gratefully. He pulled you to your feet, steadying you with a hand on your waist. "Mm, handsy today, Hotchner." You grinned at him.

"It's hard not to be when you're wearing that." He murmured lowly, leaning close so only you can hear him.

"You like it? I had you in mind when I picked it out."

"I love it. You look gorgeous. Are you hungry?" Sweet, sweet man.

"I could eat."

"Let's get you some food." He says, holding an arm out to guide you towards the grill. Once you pass him, Aaron spares a quick glance to make sure the others aren't watching before he plants a firm smack on your behind.

"Aaron!" You giggle, looking over your shoulder at him. He wears a smug grin as he follows you to the grill.

That fucking dress. He couldn't stand it. He hated it. He loved it. He loved the way it fluttered around your ankles. He loved the way it hugged your curves so well, accentuating your form. He loved the pattern, the length, the cut, everything. It was absolutely perfect. And he despised it.

He watched from the porch, where Morgans chatter was drowned out into nonsense, as you chased his son around the yard. He felt like a perv for staring but he absolutely couldn't help it. When you and Jack toppled to the ground, his jaw clenched at the way the hem off your dress rucked further up your thighs. The wind blew it up high enough that, if he were close enough, he might be able to see your panties.

"Yo, are you listening?" Morgan's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Yes."

"What'd I just say?" Derek asks, but luckily Hotch is saved by Rossi's voice calling out.

"You two! Burgers or hot dogs?"

"Burger for me!"

"I'll have the same." Hotch agrees. He watches Jack get off of you and run towards the grill, faintly hearing him say 'can I have a hot dog please?'. Hotch gets up, making his way over to you. You look angelic, laying on the ground, hair splayed out around your head, your chest rising and falling softly. He helped you up and you went to get burgers from Rossi, the team all sitting down to eat together. A few bites in, you stood up from the table.

"I'm gonna run and get napkins, does anyone need anything?" You asked politely. They all declined so you headed inside. You were searching Rossi's kitchen to find some extra napkins when you heard the door open. You turned to find Aaron entering the house, the door swinging shut behind him, blocking the others from seeing or hearing the two of you. "Hey, what do you need?"

"You." He said huskily, striding over to you, pushing you against the island and capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. His hands grip your waist, yours moving to wrap around his neck. "You look so beautiful." He trails his kisses down your neck, sucking a patch of skin between his teeth and biting down. You let out a small gasp as he leaves a mark on your neck. His lips trail further down to your chest, pressing firm kisses onto the skin of your breasts. He brushes the hair off your other shoulder, moving to that side to press kisses to the other parts neck.

"Aaron," You say breathlessly.

"Shh. Now, turn around and bend over." He murmurs into your ear. You turn, pressing your hips against the counter as you lean onto it. "So pretty." Aaron hums, his hands gathering the fabric of your dress, lifting it up. He rucks it up your body until its collected above the curve of your ass. The hand that's not holding your dress up starts undoing his belt buckle. He unzips his pants, pulling them and his boxers just low enough to free his cock. He pulls down your pretty lacy panties, his eyes landing on the slick between your legs. You're already wet for him. He moves forward, holding his hand under your chin. "Spit." He orders. You comply, spitting into his hand. He moves his hand back down, slowly pumping himself.

"Aaron, please." You whined, pushing your hips back towards him.

"Be patient, honey." He grabs your hips, slowly inserting himself into you. You let out a moan as he sheaths himself inside you, pausing to let you adjust to his length. "Shh. Don't want to get caught, do you?" Aaron teases. "We have to be quick, sweetheart, or else they'll come looking for us." He starts moving, pulling himself nearly out of you before slamming back in. You moan again and his brings his hand back to your mouth, muffling your moans. He keeps a steady pace, thrusting in and out of you, pressing you against the counter. He lets out a few low groans, stifling the louder ones through clenched teeth. His hand pushes your dress further up your back as he fucks you against the counter.

"So good for me. So, so pretty." Aaron grunts, quickening his pace. You moan out against his hand, yours coming up to pull it away from your mouth.

"I'm close. 'M so close, Aaron." You whined, the symphony of skin slapping against skin, the scent of arousal encasing your words.

"Me too. Almost there, honey." He fucks into you harder and faster, sweat dripping down his brow. He leans down, kissing you sweat slicked spine, his hand trailing down your side, feeling your soft skin under his fingers. His grips your ass harshly.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna-" You cut yourself off, moaning his name as your orgasm washes over you. Aaron follows soon after, his upper body collapsing onto yours with a grunt. He kisses behind your ear before standing, tucking himself back into his pants. He pulls your panties back up, snapping the elastic waistband against your skin teasingly. He pulls your dress back down, fixing it so it sits nicely. He spins you around by your waist, checking you over.

"How do I look?"

"Ravishing. How do you feel?"

"Ravished." You grinned, slipping past him on wobbly legs to find your purse. You pull out your compact concealer, covering up the fresh hickeys on your neck and chest. You meet Hotch's gaze over the top of your compact and notice the smug look on his face. "You are something else Mr. Hotchner." You shake your head smiling. You flick the compact shut and drop it back into your purse, taking his hand. You walk back out of the house together, heading back over to where the team was eating. Derek looks up, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Hey, where are the napkins?"

a/n: this it my first time writing smut, what do we think? I have a lot more planned so stay tuned! let me know if you think I should start a tag list or something :)

[palmerzy]

NSFW! - explicit sexual themes.

the team is returning from a late night case, the jet deadly silent, save for the sounds of soft snoring coming from morgan and hotch.

spencer reid, though, spencer is wide awake. so are you, sitting pretty against one of the cream leather chairs, a leg crossed over the other as you intently complete a crossword. you occasionally ask for his opinion on an answer, voice quiet and lips barely moving, eyes trained on the paper before you. the lack of looking up at him is the only reason you haven’t noticed the very prominent tent in the front of his slacks.

he can’t help it, not when you’re in his line of sight like that, and he hasn’t fucked you in days. his cock is aching by now, his stomach burning with need and he reaches a breaking point, muttering a small “i need to use the bathroom.” you still don’t look up at him, not until you notice the absence of him making any effort to move, and you raise your focus. “come too?” he whisperers when his gaze meets yours, brow creasing with a hint of longing, loosely gesturing to his predicament.

that’s how you end up in the cramped bathroom of the bau jet, spencer awkwardly lifting your leg up as you sit on the edge of the sink, watching him fumble with himself to get into a workable position.

“dragged me in here just to watch you struggle with where to put your dick, baby? seriously?” - “hey, i’m trying! but it’s cramped and you’re- just, give me a second, i’ll get it, i will,” he’d whisper shout back, his voice on the brink of a whine when he finally gets the both of you comfortable enough to slide in, his hips angled slightly awkwardly but it works. one hand is holding the back of your knee, keeping your leg up whilst the other presses against the wall behind you, slowly dragging his hips backwards before plunging back in, his puppy dog eyes rolling heavenward.

he hasn’t done this in days, been too busy with cases, being given separate hotel rooms because nobody knows yet. nobody knows how desperate this man is for you, and nobody knows how he’s fucking you in the bathroom because he couldn’t last another second watching your face as you did that puzzle, afraid he’d spill into his pants at the mere sight.

he’s burying his face in your shoulder to muffle his grunts as he fucks into you, his cock nudging almost where you need it to be, but you know he needs to be set straight, to be snapped out of his desperation. “need to make both of us feel good, spence, don’t be greedy.”

a whimper escapes him at the reminder, trailing one hand down to your hip instead so he can switch up the direction of his thrusts by just a few millimetres, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, a sparkle dancing within them as he silently questions his new method. you grin and bite your lip as his cock finally meets your cervix deliciously, your eyes fluttering at the new sensation.

now it’s perfect, his cock driving into you at a desperate pace whilst he sinks his teeth into the skin just above your collarbone. his slacks, once just below his waist, slowly slip to the floor with the force of his thrusts, his hands grasping at your flesh, feeling nothing other than you, the clench of your pussy, and the fire burning deep in his abdomen.

your own hands are clinging to him, one in his hair and the other down at his ass, scraping blunt nails against the cleft. your moans are breathless and quiet, better at controlling yourself than he is, acutely aware of your sleeping bau members on the tiny jet, just metres away, with only a door and four walls separating you.

spencer’s reaching a hand down between the two of you, letting the skin of your shoulder loose as he gazes down, drawing out a long moan at the sight of his cock sliding into your entrance, covered in your slick, and he’s never been more grateful for his eidetic memory. he presses his thumb against your clit, circling with nothing less than the intention to feel you implode around him.

‘need you to come’, ‘please, please, please, need to feel it around me,’ ‘i can’t come if you don’t, i can’t, i can’t,’ he whines quietly into your ear, a string of eager words to edge you on. it’s almost amusing how much he yearns to be exactly like this, to spend every waking minute inside of you, feeling you unravel at his doing. if he could quit the bau and survive simply by fucking you, he might just consider it.

he’s finally coming when you do, hips stuttering and faltering as he grips you, fingertips deep but touch somehow still gentle, pushing you against him as he unloads his desire deep into your belly. your legs tremble, skirt bunched up around your waist, head tilted back against the wall.

“god, oh my god, thank you…needed that so much,” he pants, pressing a tender kiss to the underside of your jaw, breath hitching as his hips slowly move against yours once more, just one last time to ensure he doesn’t forget the feeling before he can have you like this again.

when you’ve finally cleaned up, after spencer whispering to you something about making sure he smooths out his hair again because you tousled it, you’re both leaving the bathroom, trying to be stealthy.

though, stealth wouldn’t even save you. you creep out first, gaze landing on emily, her expression skeptical and her eyes narrowed as your partner in crime appears behind you, zipping up his fly. nobody is about to very quickly become everybody.

ty for the love on the last drabble lolll spencer fans are serious huh? love you guys though, feel free to send in drabble/blurb requests <3 mwah!

[mimikyusrealform]

globalization

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 3703. Summary: Three times you leave Spencer speechless, and one time he leaves you speechless. Notes and Warnings: Set during S1 at the beginning, and then at S2. Mention of Somebody's Watching and North Mammon. There's a misogynistic comment, but it's quickly dealt with.

1.

The rivalry started innocuous enough. Three months after Dr. Spencer Reid joined the BAU, you were recruited as well. Fresh out of the academy and without a prebuilt rapport with the rest of the team, you felt out of place. They listened to your suggestions, but after a week and a half, it was like they were still teaching you the ropes, coddling you. Hotch didn’t even let you go out in the field. This piling dissatisfaction reached its culmination without warning.

“C’mon now,” Morgan said one day. You didn’t even remember what led to the following statement, but you remembered the phrase that started the domino effect. “Robberies have been declining since last year.”

“The robbery rate declined last year,” you corrected him as you skimmed through your oddly small workload for the day. They weren’t working on any cases. “It’s been declining since 1986, but it’s possible that the rate will increase this year in comparison to last year’s, which was at an all-time low, at 137.”

“136.7,” Dr. Reid corrected you from his own desk. He had already finished half of his work. “That is given a population of 293,656,842.” He looked at you and Morgan. “Did you know that the U.S Census Bureau estimates the population as of July 1 for each year? Except when it's a decennial census count, like 2000.”

It took Dr. Reid a whole minute to notice your glare. What a genius. He looked as if he was panicking a bit, and his gaze drifted between you and Morgan. He seemed to be begging with his eyes for Morgan to, somehow, reveal to him the secrets of the universe and what he should do to stop your glaring. But Morgan was not a pious entity, and he turned around, suddenly blind. It took Dr. Reid another minute to figure out why you were killing him in your head.

“I—I mean, you round up from 5, so 137 is accurate,” he rectified, staring back at you, like you were the abyss and he, the hero who needed to face it.

You stayed silent for a while. And then, you said, “That's dumb. The rate was 136.7. Sigh. I thought you were a genius, Dr. Reid, how could you even suggest that the rate was 137? Maybe you should check if you need to reinstall the eidetic memory package.”

Morgan made a sound that was between a dog barking out a laugh and a dog choking on its bone. But it was Dr. Reid's perplexed expression what you burned in your memory.

It wasn't your fault, really, that your antagonistic nature decided to pursue a war with the resident genius of the team. If you were to bluff in case of being questioned why you were so adamant in aggravating Dr. Spencer Reid in any way you could, you would say, “complacency is the enemy of natural selection and I'm truly benevolent—so I'm making the Doctor a favor by keeping him on his toes.” The truth was, Dr. Spencer Reid's geeky enthusiasm and nerdy rambles had charmed you. While you weren't on the same level as him when it came to intelligence—your latest IQ test had put you around 137, and that was knowing the common patterns the test tended to use—you had a knack for deconstructing things. When you were 8, you couldn't finish a Rubik cube for the life of you, but when you broke it down to its simpler parts, you found a way to solve it after learning how the core mechanism worked.

Antagonizing was how you dealt with your crushes. All the crushes you ever had, you actively treated them as if they were your mortal enemies. In a sense, they were. Understandably, none of them ever liked you, and you couldn't blame them. But, for some reason, the idea of Dr. Spencer Reid not returning your affections was—troubling, to say the least. And that only made you pricklier.

2.

Lila Archer was not an enemy but a victim with very poor timing. You draped a towel around her febrile shoulders, and patted her back in an ode to comfort. Then, you went out of the house to deal with your real foe. Dr. Spencer Reid was still trying to dry himself with a pathetically small cloth. In another occasion, it would have made you laugh. But you were, at loss of a better word, jealous. How shameful was that? You hadn’t been jealous since Nathaniel Sterling, your crush in tenth grade, started dating Rose Harding, the cloistered girl who ruined your straight-A-record in Math because you were paired with her during one assignment.

You had the bad habit of swallowing the acid that dripped from your own soul and regurgitating it when you were alone. For now, you compartmentalized. Weirdly enough, you found yourself feeling tired, instead of murderous. You understood, then, how having a crush on someone didn’t compare to being in love.

A crush was a candle in the wind; being in love was a fire in a forest.

The color of the night sky, that reflected on the blue water, covered the world of depth and beyond all bounds. Even the air was blue; it bit your skin. Or maybe it was your own feelings that prickled down your spine. If porcupines did mate for life, they would be the most tender lovers in the world, you thought. The prickliest beings loved carefully and purposefully.

Only after Elle left his side, did you approach. Though the look she gave you was too perceptive for your liking. “I didn’t know kissing with the girl you’re supposed to be protecting from her stalker was part of the protocol. Please, forward me the exact article that describes the effectiveness of French kisses as a method of protection against erotomaniacs.”

He tried to ignore your wording, but his ears were red, and so were his cheeks, despite the fact the air had cooled the water clinging to his clothes. “I, uh, I fell in,” was all he could muster given the fact you had a gun, a motive and a cold heart.

“I see,” you nodded. “That’s what tends to happen when you pool your women.”

“I don’t pool my women! I-I don’t even—I don’t even have women.”

“Relax, Doctor, you won’t drown. If you know how to two-stroke, two-timing should come naturally to you.”

Dr. Reid made a pitiful sound when he realized there was no winning against you.

“She kissed me first,” he said.

“Maybe you deserved it.”

“Don’t make it sound like a punishment.”

“I’m not.” You were sincere.

3.

You were pretty good at remaining unmovable, and you were proud of that. But—this guy. This guy.

“All I did was show them who they really are,” he was saying with that stupid self-satisfied smile. “What they were truly capable of. People pretending to be decent. When it came down to it, they… They reacted just the way I knew they would.”

“Is that so,” you couldn’t help but interrupt his little monologue. Gideon looked at you from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t try to stop you. “Congratulations. Be proud of discovering the sky is blue for the rest of your life, I commiserate you; it must have been so hard for you. Do you really think you’re a mastermind for this?” His smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a glare directed towards you. “If you starve a dog, are you a genius for knowing the dog will end up becoming aggressive? But then, that’s a Nobel-worthy dissertation for someone so simpleminded like you.”

He started to say something, voice shaking from barely contained rage, but you were already leaving the basement. He yelled after you. You couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

In the plane, you were shutting down the world around you by pretending to read a Russian Copy of The Brothers Karamazov. You didn’t speak Russian. That was��until Reid sat in front of you. He didn’t speak for a moment, just observed you. You flipped five pages before he finally said,

“Are you okay?”

“What an unpleasant question,” you replied. He kept looking at you, which annoyed you because it made your stomach twist. “I suppose. That guy got on my nerves.”

“I thought you didn’t have nerves,” he said. “I mean… you always act as if you’re untouched by the world.”

“I try my utmost not to be perceived. The world is a scary place, after all.”

“It is scary,” he agreed. “But, scary—how? How does someone like you find the world to be scary?”

You put your book down on your lap. “Full of people.” You twirled a strand of hair around your index finger. “And what I hate most are the people who lie to themselves. That guy—lied to himself that he was right. He decided to believe other people were his enemies instead of realizing… realizing he was his own worst enemy.”

It wasn’t without tact—though it startled you all the same—when he said, “Sounds a bit like you.”

“Oh, right.” You supposed it was a fair assessment; you never gave him any indication that you actually didn’t see him as enemy. You acted like you did, after all. Maybe he really believed you hated him. So, “I don’t hate you. If I was smart, I would go as far as to say that I like you.”

You watched him freeze for a split of a second before his face turned red, like a M-class star. It gave you terrible ideas and horrible impulses. You couldn’t help but reach for his glasses, and—gently push them up the bridge of his nose. Your index finger brushed against his skin. His face went a class up in the Morgan-Keenan classification.

“But you are smart,” he managed to choke out. “Very smart.”

“What are you implying?”

He couldn’t answer, and you returned to your book, a bit disappointed, maybe. You had thought he was ready to give in. You still couldn’t read a single word. Reid must have noticed because he ended up prying the book from your hands, and began reading out loud, just for you, just for your enjoyment. It was enough.

+1.

“Kid,” Morgan called as he slid in the seat next to him. “Seriously, when are you gonna ask her out? Save the rest of us from her pining.”

Spencer frowned. “Ask who out?”

He was only half listening, but when Morgan said your name, he spluttered. “What?!” He lowered his tone after that voice break. “Morgan, are you crazy? She hates my guts.”

Morgan looked incredibly amused. “No, she doesn't. She's just pulling your hair. And, if she actually hated you, well, I don't think I need to remind you what happened to Officer Harrison. I really wish I had been there to see it.”

Spencer almost smiled at the memory. A few months back, a case had brought them to Texas when the local police discovered two independent pairs of hands scattered across their state line. The second in command, Officer Harrison, had been a flagrant misogynistic and a stereotypical macho-man.

“But what does cutting the hands-off mean?” Officer Harrison had asked.

JJ, you and him were the only ones from the team still in the bullpen.

Hotch did trust you with fieldwork, but he found that you and Spencer were an especially good match, so he mostly paired the two of you together. You bounced off each other’s ideas with an uncanny synergy.

Before he could ramble off, you beat him to it, “The ancient Greek sometimes mutilated the body of their victim. There's a theory that says that the mutilation of the body corresponded to the mutilation of the soul, so that the shade, without limbs, couldn't enact vengeance over the killer. Maybe the Unsub’s superstitious and believes that by cutting off their hands he’s saving himself from their ghosts.”

Officer Harrison had looked at you, before dragging his gaze up and down your body. He had mainly interacted with Morgan and Hotch, sometimes himself; and almost none with you, JJ and Emily. Then, he whistled sarcastically. “That's very impressive, darlin'. I didn't take you for the smart type. No offense, but you don't look like it.”

Rage was born in the pit of the stomach, Spencer found out that day. It rendered him immobile for a moment, and before he could tell the officer off, you beat him to it, again. Intelligence wasn’t quantifiable, he knew this. But you always managed to prove it to him. Some tests might say he was several points smarter than you, but you were two steps ahead of him, every single time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see JJ’s appalled expression. He wondered how his own face looked.

“Oh,” you had said. “Looks can be deceiving. It's alright. No offense taken. I myself was deceived by your looks—I thought you were a conventionally ugly man, maybe even a rare ugliness, but you're actually a piece of shit in human form. Tell me, did the doctor perform a colonoscopy on your mother to find out if she was pregnant, as opposed to an ultrasound?”

JJ's lips were pulled inwards in a tight, flat grimace, as if she was trying and failing to stifle her laughter, and Spencer found himself playing side-eye ping-pong between you and Officer Harrison.

“Why, you bit—” Officer Harrison stammered, face growing a tint of red and fists comically clenched.

“Jonathan,” Sheriff Mendoza had interjected then, sternly. “Why don't you take a walk? Go on, get some air.”

Officer Harrison looked as if he was going to self-combust from how ruddy his face was and how sweat accrued on his temple. His shoulders were trembling when he attempted to storm out. He seemed ready to shoulder-check you, but you put a hand on his chest and held him in place.

“Officer Harrison. Harrison. Jonathan? Johnny? Johnny, by all means, please underestimate me again,” you told him lowly. “It'll make the look on your face when I ruin your life funnier.”

With that, you finally let him go, and he bulldozed his way out of the bullpen. You could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“... I'm sorry for him,” Sheriff Mendoza had offered awkwardly, a deep sigh pulled out of his chest.

You had shrugged. “Natural selection will do its work.”

Spencer thought you had never looked lovelier than in that moment.

He shook his head to clear the memory away. “Maybe she doesn't hate my guts,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I'm still his least favorite person here.”

“Wow,” Morgan said exaggeratedly. “For a genius, you can be stupid sometimes. She clearly likes you, man. Look, tell you what, the next time she picks up a fight with you, tell her this: ‘you are hot when you're talking about statistics’.” He was laughing by the end of it while Spencer choked with his own saliva. “She'll love it, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?” he replied. “She's so emotionally repressed and so unapologetically herself, I don't think anything I do will ever get a real reaction out of her.”

“Trust me on this one, kid,” was all Morgan said with a pat to his back.

Spencer spent the rest of the day thinking about his words. When he first met you, you had offered him a handshake like most other people. He rambled his well-practiced explanation, “A study shows that the number of organisms, both pathogenic and non-pathogenic, that are passed during handshakes is staggering. Kissing is actually more sanitary than handshakes.” But instead of looking at him like he was a weirdo, you had stared at him, unshakeable, and replied,

“I can say ‘a study shows that shooting yourself in the head is an efficient way to de-stress’, but if I don't say what study it is, then does the study really exist?”

That was the first time his heart lurched in your presence. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit breathless, “Uh, it's a study published in The Public Health Journal, by H. W. Hill and Helen M. Matthews. Volume 17, number 7, July, 1927, I-I mean, 1926. It's titled Transfer of Infection by Handshakes. Pages 347 to 352. I-I can get you a copy of it.”

You blinked at him, but he didn't feel as if you thought he was a freak. He felt like you were amazed by him. It brought his heart to his throat.

“Is that so,” you had said. “Then, I expect it to be delivered at my doorstep at 5 o'clock sharp, tomorrow. Military time.”

He had been stunned into silence for a few seconds. “That's... unreasonable. I don't even know where you live.”

You said, “It's quite standard.”

“Then you have unreasonable standards.”

“I've been told.”

Spencer had thought you and him would become something like best friends. For the first week and a half, you had been quite friendly with him, and often listened to his rambles. But then, then he had made the terrible mistake of correcting an innocuous error you made regarding a statistic, and the look you had shot at him could have curled water. From that point on, you seemed to have made it your life mission to fight him at any chance.

And yet—he never got the feeling you did it out of malice. He thought you did hate him on some level, but when you argued against his points during a case, there was a glint in your eye. Like you were still amazed by him. Sometimes, you even finished his rambles when he couldn't land them. Sometimes, you were the only one who listened to him when he sidetracked. To him, you defined the wonder of globalization. When you were there, it was like talking to the stars, and having the stars answering him back in perplexing, secret ways. He kind of figured this out when you smiled at his existentialist joke. You told him it wasn't funny, but your eyes were bright.

Maybe trying Morgan's advice wouldn't go so bad.

If only you weren’t so prickly. And clever and quick, he added in his head, just in case you were hearing his thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past your abilities. For three weeks, Spencer hadn’t managed yet to seize a situation in which Morgan’s advice worked at his favor. It wasn’t until the team, you and him included, obviously, went out for drinks that he finally got his chance.

“You aren’t drinking?” he asked you. You were cradling a Virgin Margarita in your hands, and for a moment he wished your fingers were curled around his own instead of the glass.

“No,” you said. “You’re clearly the best in the profiling game. Take pride on this display of your observational skills for the rest of your life.”

He sighed. You were impossible. Still, he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he said, “You don’t have to be so defensive with me.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, and he arched an eyebrow. “I have to be especially defensive with you.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Why do you have to, uh, be ‘especially’ defensive with me?”

You didn’t answer him. But he knew you couldn’t go without having the last word, so he patiently waited for you to gather a satisfactorily poignant response. In the meantime, he took the time to examine your face; there was a quality to it he would never find a perfect word to describe it. Maybe it was your supraorbital ridge, or your posterior zygomatic arch, or even the vertical length of your forehead. He just knew you were lovely. He had never been comfortable with not knowing something, but with you, he didn’t need to know. He would rather discover you, if you would let him. If you were full of secrets, he would work them out; if he only found hatred for him, he would press his mouth to it and relish in it.

“Because you have a BA in Psychology,” you ended up saying, stoic as ever, “and I’m a soft girl with mental health issues.”

He laughed. It took him a lot of time to figure out that—the more matter-of-factly you said something, the less serious you were. Your lips quirked up in a little smile, and you sipped your drink. The rest of the team—besides Hotch—hadn’t yet realized your tell-tale sign.

The words escaped him before he could think them over, “You’re cute when you pretend to be emotionless.”

Your facial expression didn’t change, and that was alright, because when you turned your head to the side—he could clearly see the faint blush on your cheekbones. “Fool.”

Ah, he realized. I won. You were at a loss of words. Because of him.

“You know, the word ‘fool’ comes from Old French fol, which means ‘madman, insane person’ and ‘idiot, jester’, and fol is from Medieval Latin follus, adjective for ‘foolish’. The evolution of its meaning can probably be attributed to the use of follis in a sense of ‘empty-headed person’. The word was also used in Middle English for ‘sinner, rascal, impious person’. It actually must have been passed to the English language via its borrowing in the Scandinavian language of the Vikings. And did you know that the association between April 1 and foolishness in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales could have been a copying error and...”

You didn’t look at him as he continued going on his tangent, but he knew that you were listening intently. Because your body was angled towards him, even if you kept your face away from his gaze, and when he took a pause to breathe, you hummed in acknowledgment only for his ears.

Globalization was saying hello and someone answering hola from miles away.

But you didn’t need to answer him for Spencer to understand you were in love with him and he was in love with you.