applereid

[applereid]

— COOKIES, SPENCER REID.

“No. Sit.”

The single word cuts through the low murmur of movement in the briefing room like a command from a gavel. Everyone freezes. Agents who had just stood up to gather their go bags instinctively pause mid-motion. The sudden finality in Hotchner’s voice is unmistakable. He slams a case file down in front of Dr. Spencer Reid with a sharp thwack, the sound echoing against the walls of the conference room.

Reid blinks up at Hotch, furrowing his brows in confusion or the best version of confusion he can muster. “What’s that?” he asks, voice carefully neutral. But he knows. They all do.

The last case hadn’t ended cleanly. During a tense standoff in an abandoned textile warehouse, Reid had taken a bullet to the leg. Though the injury had been deemed non life threatening, the doctor’s orders had been unambiguous: no flying, no fieldwork, and absolutely no stress to the healing joint.

But Reid, stubborn as ever and fiercely unwilling to be benched, had ignored the medical directives. Worse, he had lied about them directly to his unit chief.

Unfortunately for Reid, Aaron Hotchner had resources. More specifically, he had you one of the FBI’s most capable technical analysts. Brilliant, meticulous, and irritatingly thorough, you didn’t miss a thing. When Hotch had asked for the official clearance files, cross-checked against internal systems, it hadn’t taken long for you to confirm that Reid’s fit-to-fly report had been altered. By Reid himself.

“You’re staying here,” Hotch says firmly, his gaze steady on Reid. “Thanks for lying to me about your flight clearance, by the way.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence as the rest of the team makes a quick exit, some offering a half hearted shrug or sympathetic glance, clearly eager to avoid becoming collateral damage in the exchange. Reid doesn’t say anything. He just exhales sharply through his nose and leans back in his chair, the tension settling in his shoulders.

“So what am I supposed to do while I’m here?” he finally asks, voice laced with reluctant defeat.

Hotch doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ll be working with y/n in the tech room. Assist where needed. Help with behavioral analysis from here.”

Reid blinks. “I’m what?”

But Hotch is already gone, the click of his shoes disappearing down the hall.

With a resigned huff, Reid retrieves his crutches and slowly makes his way down to the tech division, every step punctuated by the quiet thud of rubber against tile. When he reaches your door, he knocks once then, opting for flair, kicks it open with his good leg.

“Guess who’s your new co-analyst until further notice?” he says with a lopsided smile, stepping in as the door swings shut behind him.

You glance up from your monitors, a smile painting your face as you watch Spencer pull out a chair for himself, leaning the crutches against the wall as he sits. “Someone who… falsifies medical records and lies to his boss?”

“Touché,” Spencer murmurs, folding his arms casually across his lap as his gaze shifts to the overwhelming number of tabs and open case files displayed across your multiple screens.

“So, what’s your plan for me? Since I don’t really know how any of this works.” He chuckles, wheeling his chair a bit closer to yours. “Gonna drown me in spreadsheets?”

“Not exactly,” you reply, opening a live surveillance feed on your second monitor. “You’re here to watch for anyone who matches the unsub’s description.. white male, late thirties to early forties, curly brown hair, mustache. Think of yourself as my second set of eyes while I handle the technical work.”

He doesn’t look thrilled at the idea of being reduced to a lookout, but he leans in anyway, eyes fixed on the screen. If nothing else, he’s engaged.

In the days that follow, a quiet routine begins to form between you and Spencer. What starts as him sitting idly beside you becomes something more collaborative. He starts picking up on patterns in your workflow, asking questions, and gradually learning pieces of your process. You find yourself explaining things, at first out of necessity, but eventually because he genuinely wants to understand.

Still, there are unmistakable “Spencer” moments. Like when he pulls out a deck of cards to kill time during lulls only to lose repeatedly and insist he’s just “warming up.” Or when he critiques your coffee making skills with dramatic flair, claiming you never use enough sugar. And, of course, the times he interrupts your deep concentration with some completely unrelated observation, earning a weary sigh every time.

Yet beneath the sighs and dry remarks is something else. Mutual respect. A slow but steady bond taking shape between two colleagues who hadn’t worked this closely before. Over time, the friction turns to familiarity, the eye rolls to inside jokes.

What began as an inconvenient pairing becomes something more.. a quiet, genuine camaraderie.

You walked into the BAU one morning, the familiar weight of your bag slung over your shoulder, already mentally reviewing the mountain of reports waiting on your desk. But when you reached your office, you paused. The door was already ajar, light spilling out into the hallway. That alone was enough to raise an eyebrow.. your mornings usually started in solitude.

Curious, you pushed the door open fully and peered inside.

Spencer Reid sat at your desk, carefully placing a round Tupperware container right in the center as if its positioning were a matter of national security. His lips moved in quiet concentration, muttering something under his breath.

“Spencer?” you said softly, stepping inside with a bemused smile, gently closing the door behind you. “You’re here early.”

He startled slightly but recovered quickly, swiveling in your chair to face you. His cane, now replacing the crutches he’d used last week, leaned against the wall beside him.

“Hi. Yeah I, uh, good morning,” he added, offering a small smile. His gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, his eyes warm and wide, the corners crinkling as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

You walked over to your seat, dropping your bag and setting your coffee down. “What’s this?” you asked, gesturing to the container.

Inside were perfectly golden-brown chocolate chip cookies, still slightly soft in the center. You looked over at him with raised brows, half-expecting a note or some explanation. This wasn’t exactly typical behavior for Spencer Reid, not that you minded.

“Me and my mom made them,” he admitted, chuckling shyly as he scratched behind his ear. “They’re for you.”

Your expression softened, surprised. “Really?” You picked one up and took a bite, and your eyes widened. “Spencer, these are actually— really good. I didn’t know you could bake.”

“I can’t,” he said quickly, chuckling. “That’s why I had to call in some reinforcements. My mom helped. I just… I wanted to thank you. For putting up with me basically living in your office last week. I know it probably wasn’t convenient for you.”

“It really wasn’t a big deal,” you said, smiling. “Honestly, I kind of liked having you around. It’s nice to not be alone for once.”

The room fell into a warm silence for a moment as the air shifted between you. Something tender passing unspoken. His eyes found yours again, a little more boldly this time, like he was ready to say something he’d rehearsed in his head a hundred times. He opened his mouth to speak before freezing, watching you.

You reached across the desk, brushing your fingers over his hand where it rested on the tabletop. His hand turned slightly, his fingertips grazing yours, and it was so soft, so deliberate, that you almost forgot to breathe.

“I really liked having you around, Spencer,” you said quietly interrupting him.

He only nods at first, clearly overwhelmed, his brain struggling to catch up with the feeling of your hand in his.

“I— yeah. Me too,” he stammers, breath hitching. “I really enjoyed being here. With you. That’s…what I meant.” His eyes flicker down to your intertwined fingers, as if trying to ground himself.

You lean in slightly, your voice soft but laced with amusement. “Spencer.” His gaze returns to yours. “You were going to say something a minute ago. What was it?”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his mind drifting somewhere else.

He’s back in the kitchen, mixing cookie dough while his mother’s face glows from the screen of his laptop, propped up by a stack of books. She watches him closely, warmth and gentle curiosity in her expression.

“You said you liked this woman, right?” she asks with a knowing look. “Ask her out, Spence. Don’t just bring her cookies and then disappear.”

He sighs, muttering, “Easier said than done,” as he shapes the dough in his hands.

“She’s really pretty,” his mother continues.

He glances up, brow furrowed. “I haven’t even shown you a picture of her, Mom.”

But then he follows her line of sight, over his shoulder, to a photo displayed on the kitchen shelf. It’s the one he always keeps close: the two of you in your office, him seated on your lap with his arms thrown around you, your face mid-laugh, somewhere between amusement and surprise.

He quickly steps in front of the frame, embarrassed, and returns his focus to the tray of cookies. “Yeah… whatever.”

Now, standing in front of you, he exhales slowly, summoning the courage from that memory. There’s a flicker of something more certain in his eyes.

“I really, really enjoyed being in here with you,” he says, smiling. “Honestly, if it meant I got to stay in here a little longer, I’d get shot in the other leg, too.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief, and then in barely contained laughter.

“And I know we’re technically not supposed to date coworkers,” he continues, more serious now, “but let’s be honest.. that rule hasn’t stopped anyone else around here. I don’t think Hotch would mind that much. So… if you’re up for it, I’d really like to take you out. On a real date.”

A soft smile spreads across your face, and you nod, your voice gentle. “Yeah… I’d like that too.”

“Great.” He lets out a small chuckle, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear before standing. “I’ll, uh… take you out after work then.”

“Looking forward to it, Spencer,” you say, still seated, your expression glowing.

With a slightly awkward yet confident huff, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your cheek. There’s a nervous smile, a tiny bow, and then he’s gone, stepping out of your office with a newfound lightness in his stride.

You turn back to the box of cookies he brought and spot a small sticky note tucked between them. Curious, you pull it out and read the quick, scribbled message:

“— See you tonight ;D”

[applereid]

— SAVED BY THE BELL, PATRICK ZWEIG.

scenemo!patrick x popular!reader . the scenemo patrick character belongs to @pittsick !! i love him so much and i watched challengers because i was so interested in his character. lol! i hope you like it!

A sharp thud hits the back of your head, causing you to mutter under your breath, “What the hell…”

You turn around slowly, already knowing who the culprit is. And right on cue, there he is. Patrick Zweig, slouched in his seat with that infuriating smirk tugging at his lip ring. The smudged eyeliner around his eyes only seems to make his icy stare more deliberate as he tilts his head and gestures with his brows toward the crumpled paper that hit you. His lips silently shape the words: read it.

With an exaggerated sigh, you lean down and pick up the offending note. You unfold it beneath your desk, your brow arching as you squint at the glittery green ink scrawled across it.

:: skip lunch with me? :P

You glance back at Patrick, unimpressed. He’s already watching you. Slowly, deliberately, he forms a circle with his fingers and pokes his tongue through it, giving you the most immature, suggestive grin imaginable.

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. And when you open your mouth, ready to deliver a biting remark, the teacher’s voice slices through the classroom like a whip.

“Mr. Zweig. Do you two have something you’d like to share with the class?”

Patrick sits up straighter, feigning innocence with wide eyes. You follow suit, turning back around in your seat.

“No? Then perhaps pay attention.”

You both nod in silence, and the rest of the class resumes without incident, except for the crumpled note still in your hand, clenched tighter now.

When the bell rings, you don’t even glance back at Patrick. You grab your bag and stride out. The hallway is buzzing with students rushing toward lunch, laughter and conversations echoing off the lockers. But you don’t head toward the cafeteria.

Instead, you follow the quieter path you both know too well. Down the side hall, through the unmonitored stairwell, and into the vacant classroom you’ve claimed more than once.

The door clicks shut behind you, followed by the sound of the lock turning.

“Okay, okay. Listen, i’m sorry,” Patrick says with a laugh, just as your hand comes down in a slap to the back of his head.

He winces dramatically, rubbing the spot. “Ow! I said sorry! I didn’t know she’d actually catch us!”

“You’re lucky she didn’t make me read that note out loud, dumbass,” you snap, letting your bag fall with a thud as you cross your arms and lean against the teacher’s desk.

Patrick pouts, stepping forward and bracing his hands on the desk beside you, trapping you in that familiar, charged space between his arms. His voice softens.

“I mean it. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond, but the look in your eyes challenges him to try harder.

He brushes a lock of hair from your face, and his touch lingers as his fingers trail down to your side. Slowly, he sinks to his knees in front of you, his hands finding your hips.

“How can I make it up to you?” he murmurs, thumbs circling gently over your jeans. He’s impossibly close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your body, even through the denim.

You remain still, defiant even now. But he only chuckles under his breath. “I like when you act tough,” he says, voice husky.

He leans in, pressing soft kisses to the front of your jeans, eyes never leaving yours. It’s maddening. And it works. Your breath catches, your fingers weaving into his hair almost instinctively.

“Patrick-” you whisper, voice tight with warning… or something else. Desire, maybe?

But the moment shatters with a bang on the door.

Your heads snap toward the sound. And right on cue, there she is. Your teacher, face pressed to the small window, eyes wide with fury as she yells through the glass, demanding the door be opened.

Patrick groans and rises to his feet, exasperated but amused. He snatches up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder as he gives you one last look.

“Saved by the bell,” he smirks, licking his lip before pulling the door open.

The teacher storms in. You barely register the chaos that follows. You’re still standing by the desk, untouched, heart racing, thoughts a mess.

And Patrick? He’s already halfway down the hall, grinning like he’s won something. He knows you’ll both more than likely get detention for this. And he plans to do just what he did to get you in trouble in the first place. Cause he’s Patrick. But he’s yours.

[applereid]

— MAKEUP, RAFE CAMERON.

this is kind of a nothing burger but i wanted to show that i write for more than criminal minds! and maybe attract more obx fans to come over and request something! enjoy.

“Rafe?” you call out softly, stepping into your boyfriend’s room. The familiar sight of him stretched across his bed, reclined against the headboard, greets you. His eyes are glued to his phone, the faint sound of a fishing video playing in the background.

“Yeah, baby?” he replies absentmindedly, not looking up.

You linger near the foot of the bed, your voice quieter now. “You love me, right?”

That gets his attention. His thumb freezes mid-scroll before he quickly switches off the screen and tosses the phone to the side. He sits up, brows furrowed, reaching out to take your hand and gently tugging you closer.

“Of course I do,” he says, his tone suddenly serious as he searches your expression. “Where’s that coming from?”

His concern makes you hesitate for just a second, guilt bubbling up at what you’re about to ask.

“So… you’d let me do your makeup?”

Rafe stares at you blankly. Then, dramatically, he lets go of your hand and leans back against the headboard again, deadpan. “Get the fuck outta here, baby.”

“Rafe! Come on!” you laugh, climbing onto the bed and practically throwing yourself into his lap. You grab at his hands before he can pick his phone back up. “If you love me, you’ll let me do your makeup!”

He exhales, long and dramatic, but you can see the softening in his eyes. He was always a goner when it came to you. And he knows it.

“…Fine,” he groans, defeated. “But you better not post this shit anywhere.”

You grin triumphantly and get to work, perched on his lap with your kit in hand, the flashlight on your phone shining in his face like a tiny spotlight. He lies back, arms flopped at his sides, enduring the process with theatrical pouts.

You’re gentle as you dab bronzer across his cheekbones, blending with focused care. A soft smile curls your lips as you lean back, admiring your work.

“Honestly? I think you should wear makeup more oft—”

“Absolutely not,” Rafe cuts you off, sighing with all the drama of a man being forced to walk the plank. “Just finish, sweetheart. No sweet-talking. I’m already regretting this.”

You chuckle and reach for the eyeliner. “Alright, alright…”

As you twist off the cap, Rafe opens one eye suspiciously. “What the hell is that?”

“Liquid eyeliner,” you reply innocently.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“Rafe,” you whine, sticking your bottom lip out.

“Nope. Not happening.”

You huff, overdramatically tossing the eyeliner aside, and pick up the eyelash curler instead. “Okay, then close your eyes.”

He reluctantly complies, his lashes brushing against the curve of the curler. You gently press down.

His brows twitch, and he murmurs, “Fuck, baby—”

“Stop moving!” you scold, giving his cheek a light pat. “You’re gonna ruin it!”

With some effort (and a few more dramatic sighs on Rafe’s part), you manage to get his lashes curled and coat them with mascara. You finally sit back, admiring the finished look, your head tilted in consideration.

“So? Do I look pretty?” he asks, one eyebrow raised, clearly bracing for your reaction.

You giggle, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. “So pretty,” you whisper, smiling against his lips.

He kisses you back, his hands resting on your waist as he chuckles into the kiss. When you pull away, he notices the subtle shine of your lip gloss now shimmering on his own lips.

“Is this the part where we start matching outfits too?” he teases, grinning at you.

“Don’t tempt me,” you reply with a chuckle, grabbing your phone and pretending to take a photo. “You’d look so cute in pink.”

He groans, flopping dramatically onto the pillows as he pulls you down with him. “I swear to God, if any of this ends up on Instagram…”

You rest your head on his chest, smiling as you trace circles along his shirt. “It won’t. Maybe.”

“Baby.”

“Okay, okay. It won’t.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying tangled together in peaceful silence, his lashes still glittering with mascara under the light.

“…But seriously,” you mumble, hiding your smile, “you do look kinda hot in makeup.”

[applereid]

— WORK WIFE, AARON HOTCHNER.

this is my favorite hotch fic i’ve ever written! husband hotch i love u

“You’re married?” Emily blurts out in disbelief, standing beside your desk in the bullpen. Her brows shoot up as she takes a step closer, eyes locked on your left hand.

She gently grabs it, tilting it toward the light to get a better look at the ring on your finger. Her fingers hover like she’s afraid to touch it. The ring, gorgeous yet very obviously expensive, shines under the office lights.

“How have I never noticed this before?” she asks, laughter spilling into her voice. She glances at your face and back to the ring, thoroughly entertained by her own obliviousness.

You give a small shrug from your chair, leaning back slightly as you glance at the ring yourself. “It’s not really an oversized ring, I guess. Subtle enough to not be flashy— unless you’re actively staring at my hands.”

Emily snorts at that and settles down on the edge of your desk, her curiosity now fully piqued. Her eyes drift from your hand to the desk surface, scanning it for any signs of personal life.

Her smile falters slightly as she takes in the minimalistic setup— neatly stacked files, a couple of pens, your badge, but no photos. No hints of the mysterious spouse she’s only now just discovered.

“No picture of your husband anywhere?” she asks, clearly surprised.

You let out a soft laugh, fingers still tapping away at your keyboard. “Nope. I see him every single day. I don’t exactly need a reminder of what he looks like while I’m working.”

Emily cocks her head, pretending to be shocked, though the sparkle in her eyes gives her away. “Wow. Cold. At least tell me you have a photo of him on your phone. I want to see what this mystery man looks like.” She shifts forward slightly, elbows on her knees like a kid in gossip mode, the grin on her face growing.

Before you can respond, her eyes flick over your shoulder, drawn by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She watches as Hotch makes his way down from the upper level, coffee in hand, moving with his usual composed stride. He crosses the bullpen and stops at your desk, setting a to-go cup next to your keyboard.

“Did you know she’s married?” Emily grins up at him, her tone light and teasing.

Hotch doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he says plainly. “I married her a couple of years ago.”

He glances down at you, his expression unreadable to anyone but you, and casually adds, “They were out of hazelnut creamer, so I got you caramel.”

Emily blinks and there’s a pause— one of those silences where time seems to stutter. Her eyes dart between you and Hotch, her brain clearly trying to process what she just heard. Then she laughs, shaking her head.

“Okay, very funny,” she scoffs. “Good one, Hotch.”

“I’m not joking,” he says, his brow slightly furrowed as he lifts his left hand and shows her the plain gold wedding band resting comfortably on his finger.

Emily’s laughter dies immediately. “Wait. What?”

“There’s no way in hell she would marry you,” she exclaims, half-laughing again, though the disbelief is starting to sound a little forced.

Hotch glances down at you with a look that’s equal parts amused and wounded, eyebrows raised as if to say Did she really just say that? You shake your head, already laughing as you push your chair back and rise to your feet.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you murmur affectionately, stepping toward him and looping your arms around his neck. You pepper kisses across his cheeks, offering exaggerated sympathy. “That was so mean!”

Hotch stands stiffly for a second, sighing as you shower him in affection. But the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement, and his hand comes to rest gently on your lower back, anchoring you to him even as he rolls his eyes.

Emily just stares, jaw hanging open slightly, her expression slowly morphing from incredulity to full on horror as the reality sets in. “Oh my God,” she breathes, shooting to her feet. “I am so sorry, Hotch. I didn’t know— I thought you were kidding! You’re not the kind of person who jokes like that!”

Hotch glances at her, unimpressed but not angry. He doesn’t bother responding— he’s far more preoccupied with your continued affection as you nuzzle his cheek again, giggling softly.

“Poor baby,” you coo, hands coming up to gently squish his face between your palms as you press one last kiss to his lips. “Don’t listen to her. I’m very happy to be married to you.”

Hotch hums in quiet agreement, still avoiding Emily’s wide-eyed stare as she blurts out a stream of apologies, her hands flying in every direction like she’s trying to physically take the words back.

He finally looks from her to you, amusement flickering in his eyes. Then, with a mischievous smirk that’s rare but undeniably real, he leans down and gives your backside a light, playful swat before placing a kiss on your forehead.

“Put a picture of me on your desk by tomorrow,” he murmurs low enough for only you to hear. “Please?”

You smile up at him, eyes warm and full of fondness as you nod. “Promise,” you say softly, reaching up to kiss him once more— quick and sweet— before sitting back down at your desk, already mentally selecting which photo to frame.

[applereid]

— MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND, AARON HOTCHNER.

sorry if this is bad i needed to churn something out today, the next one will be better i promise!!

No one truly knew much about Aaron Hotchner’s personal life following his divorce from Haley. He was notoriously private, reserved even among close colleagues.

Unlike Morgan, who wore charm like cologne, Hotch never flirted, never hinted at a workplace crush, never so much as entertained office gossip.

The general consensus was that he simply went home— to an empty apartment and a quiet, solitary routine. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Each evening, Aaron returned home to you— his radiant, warm-hearted girlfriend. You met him at the door with that bright, effortless smile, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, grounding him in a peace he rarely found elsewhere.

It wasn’t something he broadcasted. His relationship with you was his own— private, meaningful, and not something he felt compelled to share with coworkers. Especially not Morgan.

That privacy, however, came crashing down on a rare paperwork-heavy day. The team was still at their desks, buried in reports, when the elevator doors opened and you walked confidently into the bullpen. All heads turned as you made your way over to the first familiar-looking face— Emily Prentiss.

“Hi,” you greeted with a kind smile, a paper bag in hand. “I was looking for Aaron? I’m dropping off his lunch.”

Emily blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Hotch?” she repeated, brows raised. “His office is just over—”

But before she could finish, Hotch was already descending the steps from his office, eyes only for you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hand settling instinctively on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away from the now very curious stares of his team.

“Not so fast, Hotch!” Morgan called out behind him, followed closely by Emily, JJ, and Reid. “You’re not going to introduce us?” Emily added, a playful glint in her eye.

“No,” Hotch replied without missing a beat, smoothly guiding you into his office and closing the door behind you, shutting out the murmurs from the bullpen.

You laughed softly, leaning against his desk, still holding the lunch bag. “Work got you all grumpy?”

“Not work,” he said, stepping closer with a faint smile. “Just them.” He took the bag from your hand, setting it aside before pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

You giggled against his mouth, looping your arms around his neck as he steadied himself with a hand on the desk behind you.

“Thank you for lunch,” he whispered.

“Of course.” You reached up to wipe a smudge of your lip gloss from his mouth, making him chuckle as he playfully nipped at your finger.

“There’s pasta, some greens, and I slipped in a snack cake. Just in case,” you added with a grin.

“A snack cake?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “What am I, ten?” Still smiling, he moved around to his chair and sat down. “Why don’t you stay with me while I eat?”

You followed, walking around the desk and settling onto his lap. His arm wrapped securely around your waist, hand resting warmly against your stomach as he tilted his head to press a kiss just beneath your ear.

You smiled at first— until the kiss lingered, deepened, his mouth moving deliberately against your skin. You squirmed slightly, breath catching.

“Aaron?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer with words— just a hum of affirmation as his other hand pulled you closer.

“Turn around,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing.

You obeyed, as you always did, shifting to straddle his lap. His hands found their place on your hips, then lower, as his lips sought yours once more with increasing urgency.

Outside the office, Spencer's voice broke the stunned silence. "Guys... maybe we should get back to work."

The rest of the team stood frozen, eyes wide and cheeks red, as they quickly realized that Hotch had, for once, forgotten to close the blinds.

All of them staring just long enough to see Aaron’s hand slip somewhere it definitely shouldn’t have in a federal building.

"I didn't see anything," JJ said quickly, turning around.

"Yep, back to work, back to work," Morgan muttered, practically jogging away.

Emily just blinked, then slowly followed, shaking her head. "Well. That explains the mystery girlfriend."

[applereid]

— VOICE NOTES, AARON HOTCHNER.

inspired by this. these don’t take place in the same day btw!

[ ronnie ♡ ] — 9:24 am.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ ၊|• 0:23

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says with a soft sigh, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder while sifting through a stack of papers. “I left before you woke up— I didn’t want to disturb your sleep just to say goodbye.” A quiet chuckle escapes him. “I just wanted to tell you I love you. I’ll give you a call whenever I get a free moment today, yeah?” He pauses, then adds with a warm tone, “I made you some pancakes— chocolate chip, just how you like them. They’re on the stove, still warm. Alright… I love you. Talk soon.”

[ ronnie ♡ ] — 12:38 am.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ ၊|• 0:47

“Hi, baby. I’m sorry I missed your call earlier— it’s been an unbelievably busy day.” He exhales softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the weight of the day in his voice. “I miss you… like always.” A faint chuckle follows, tinged with fatigue. “I hope you and Jack are doing well at home. I don’t think I’ll be too late tonight— probably back around ten— so try not to fall asleep on me, okay?” “We finally caught the guy, and I called as soon as I had a moment. Now it’s just a matter of getting on the jet and heading home to you. I love you. I miss you more than I can say. I’ll bring something to eat on my way back, just in case you’re still up. Talk soon. Bye, sweetheart.”

[ ronnie ♡ ] — 5:00 pm.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ ၊|• 1:58

“Hey, baby,” he says with a soft sigh, settling back onto his hotel bed as he stares up at the ceiling. “We’re in New York for this case, and I can’t stop thinking about you… about that trip we took here a couple of years ago.” His voice trails off, caught in a memory, his thoughts clearly drifting. “I know this must be really hard on you. Me being away so often… and now this New York assignment? It’s been what— two weeks already? God. I’m sorry, baby. I hate being away from you for this long.” There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion, and it’s clear he’s holding back tears. “We’re actually staying at the same hotel we stayed at during our trip. I borrowed Reid’s camera and took a few pictures— I thought you might like that. I can’t wait to show them to you when I get back.” “You know I love you, right?” he continues, voice shaking. “I know this life isn’t easy. I’m gone more than I’m home, and when I am home, I’m barely present because of how drained I am. But I love you— deeply— and I’m so damn grateful for how patient and understanding you are. I know you deserve more… and yet, you stay.” He pauses again, a small laugh escaping him, fragile and a bit self-deprecating. “Guess I’m getting a little too emotional. I just really, really miss you.” “Call me when you get the chance, okay? I love you, sweetheart. Talk soon.”

[applereid]

I’d like to request a dog hybrid Spencer fic! Maybe coming home from work to see him waiting at home for you? Super fluffy please!

— PUPPY, SPENCER REID.

puppyhybrid!spencer, just spencer with dog ears and a tail, cathybrid!garcia briefly mentioned. i love hybrid au’s!

“Please don’t go.” Spencer’s voice is quiet, almost pleading, as he stands beside you. His hands clutch your shirt tightly, his drooping puppy ears and tucked tail revealing more than his words ever could.

You offer a soft smile, letting out a gentle laugh as your fingers rise to scratch behind one of his ears. He leans into your touch instinctively, his grip on your shirt loosening just a little.

“You know I have to,” you murmur, your voice tender. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. You know that.”

Spencer’s brow furrows, a slight pout forming on his lips as his eyes flick up to meet yours again. “Those cases always take forever,” he says, frustration slipping into his tone. “You spend more time at the BAU than you do with me.” His head dips to nuzzle into the curve of your neck, the soft jingle of his collar tags filling the silence.

“I know,” you whisper, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “But like I said, I’ll come back to you. I always do. Safe, sound, and in one piece.”

He hesitates before lifting his head at your gentle nudge under his chin. His lashes brush his cheeks as he looks up at you, eyes wide and shimmering with emotion.

“I have to go, baby,” you say more firmly this time. Spencer nods slowly, stepping back though reluctance weighs heavily in his posture. “Alright,” he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly.

You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing a firm hug into his chest. “You know you can call me anytime, right? Doesn’t matter what I’m doing— I’ll always pick up.”

His hands drift to your hips, still hesitant. “I know,” he mumbles. “I’ll be waiting.”

You place a kiss on his forehead, watching as his tail flicks upward and begins to wag softly behind him. “Have fun at work,” he adds quietly.

“Bye, Spence.” You smile, blowing him a playful air kiss as you finally head out the door.

Later that morning, after arriving at the BAU and settling at your desk in the bullpen, you find yourself directly across from your closest work friend— Derek Morgan.

He glances up the moment you sit down, his grin wide and knowing. Propping his elbows on his desk, he teases, “Let me guess— Spencer’s the reason you’re running late?”

You lean back in your chair with a resigned sigh. “He practically glued himself to me. Nearly broke down when I said goodbye.”

Derek chuckles, shaking his head. “I get it. Penelope does the same thing every time I leave. She’s got me wrapped around her finger.”

You smile at the mention of his feline hybrid. “How is Pen, by the way? I really wish she and Spencer got along better.”

“He’s just… I don’t know,” Morgan says with a smirk. “Secluded? Introverted? Permanently attached to your hip?”

You let out a soft laugh. “I would’ve said ‘shy’— but yeah, all of that too.”

Before the conversation can continue, JJ approaches from the hallway, nodding toward the briefing room.

“Let’s go,” she says, and you and Morgan both rise, your thoughts already shifting to the case ahead.

“I’m home, pup,” you call softly as you step through the door, locking it behind you. The sound of your keys clinking as you set them on the kitchen counter echoes in the quiet house.

You pause, brow furrowing. The silence feels unfamiliar— too still. There’s no jingle of collar tags, no eager paws rushing to greet you. The absence of Spencer is oddly loud.

“Spencer?” you call again, a little louder this time, concern lacing your voice as you begin making your way upstairs.

You find him in your bedroom, sprawled across the bed. His head rests on a pillow, his body tucked beneath your blanket. His fluffy ears are flopped over his eyes, and his glasses sit askew, evidence of restless sleep.

A smile gently tugs at your lips as you sit beside him. You reach over, carefully brushing his ears back to reveal his face and adjusting his glasses. Your hand lingers on his chin, thumb stroking his cheek.

“Pup,” you whisper softly.

His eyes flutter open, sleep-heavy and warm as they meet yours. “Hey, baby. Sorry I’m home so late,” you murmur.

Spencer stirs, attempting to sit up, but you ease him back down with a gentle nudge. He settles beneath your touch, gazing up at you with a quiet whine. “Missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby,” you reply, leaning in to press a tender kiss to his forehead.

Without a word, his arms wrap around yours, pulling you down into his embrace. His legs follow, locking around you as he nestles his face into the crook of your neck.

“Goodnight,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Spencer, I need to shower and change out of my work clo—”

“I said goodnight.”

You sigh, helpless against his warmth. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

[applereid]

— KITTY, AARON HOTCHNER.

MDNI, just a small smut scene, use of the nickname kitty, sexually.

It began playfully— Hotch had glanced down at you one afternoon, a rare smile tugging at his lips as he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. With a quiet chuckle, he murmured, “You look just like a cat.”

What started as a joke gradually evolved into something more personal. Before long, your name in his contacts changed— simple and unassuming— now replaced by “Kitty.” It didn’t go unnoticed. Morgan, Reid, and the others exchanged curious glances whenever your name flashed on his screen, though he’d answer without explanation, unfazed by their questions.

The nickname began to slip into daily moments, small yet deliberate. Each morning, as Hotch passed your desk in the bullpen, he’d pause just long enough to run his hand gently over the top of your head, like a pet— a brief touch accompanied by a soft, “Hey, Kitty,” spoken just for you.

But the name truly cemented itself one late evening when the office had emptied, leaving only the two of you behind. Alone in the quiet of the BAU, the tension between you ignited.

Bent over his desk, your dress bunched at your waist and his pants around his ankles, he moved with intensity, each thrust sharp and deliberate. His breath was hot against your ear as he growled, “That’s it, Kitty. Just like that. Bein a good girl for me, huh?” His words, rough and low, sent shivers through you as the two of you unraveled in each other.

Afterward, he settled you gently on the desk, the same one that had moments ago fucked you on. With surprising tenderness, he wiped the smudged mascara from beneath your eyes using a cotton swab, his other hand lifting your chin so your gaze met his.

A quiet smile played on his lips as he whispered, “Just like a little kitten.”

[applereid]

— SLEEPOVER, SPENCER REID.

You lie in bed, the silence of your apartment pressing in around you after returning from yet another harrowing case— one of the more disturbing ones you’ve encountered lately. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, you hope that sleep might eventually find you.

But, as with every case before, it doesn’t. You’re left alone with the images replaying in your mind: the victims, the brutality, the unimaginable suffering they endured.

With a quiet sigh and a slow shake of your head, you turn to your nightstand and reach for your phone. The screen lights up in the dim room, casting a pale glow across your face as you swipe through your contacts, hesitating briefly at each familiar name.

Eventually, your thumb hovers over one in particular—Spencer Reid. Or, as he’s affectionately saved in your phone: Dr. Genius. A small, tired smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you tap his name, unsure if you’re seeking comfort, distraction, or simply someone who might understand.

You: you awake?

Dr. Genius: Yes… Why are you?

You: can’t sleep. just lying in the dark.

Dr. Genius: Same here.

You: wanna come over? since neither of us can sleep, i mean. just to hang out.

Spencer stares at the message for a moment, brows knitting together in hesitation. Without replying right away, he exits the chat and dials a number.

Morgan groans as his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He grabs it, barely opening his eyes as he answers, “It’s two in the morning, Reid. This better be important.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Spencer says quickly, his voice a little uncertain. “I just… I have a question. You seemed like the right person to ask.”

Morgan rubs a hand over his face. “Alright. Go on.”

“I was texting y/n just now,” Spencer begins, faltering slightly. “She said she couldn’t sleep and asked if I wanted to come over. I know it’s late, and maybe it’s nothing, but… what does that mean?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Morgan exhales audibly.

“It means she’s trying to make a move, Reid,” he says, matter-of-fact. “She’s flirting. She wants to see you. So go. Take the essentials.”

“That’s all I needed—” Spencer starts, but the line goes dead. “—to know,” he finishes under his breath, frowning at the abrupt hang-up. “Rude,” he mumbles as he taps back into your chat.

Dr. Genius: Yes. I’ll be there soon.

Fifteen minutes after you text him, there’s a soft knock at the door. You open it to find Spencer standing there, a pillow under one arm. Slung over his shoulder is his bag— packed with exactly what he’d need for a night away from home.

Toothbrush? Check. Hairbrush? Check. Extra change of clothes? Check. Condoms? Chec— condoms??

You see the slight flash of red on his face when he sees you glance at the zipper pouch half-unzipped, trojan plastic shining from inside the bag.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little quiet.

“Hey,” you echo, stepping aside. You’re in gym shorts and an old, soft T-shirt, hair tied back, barefoot on the hardwood. He steps inside, and you close the door behind him with a soft click.

He sets his things down beside the couch and gives your space a quick once-over like he’s trying to take everything in without looking too curious. You follow him, sitting down on the couch and pulling your knees up under you.

“So,” you start, aiming for a casual conversation. “What kept you up?”

Spencer shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t really focus on anything. I read for a bit, then tried to meditate, and then— I called Morgan.”

You nod. “That makes sense. You called Morgan?”

He glances at you, head tilted. “He said… you invited me over because you were flirting with me.”

You pause. The words hit the air like a dropped pin. Your face warms instantly, and you glance down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of the throw blanket beside you.

“Was he right?” Spencer asks.

You sigh, cheeks hot. “Yeah. Kinda hard to be subtle around someone who remembers literally everything I’ve ever said.”

There’s a short silence before he says, “So you were… flirting?”

You glance at him, raising a brow. “Spencer, I literally asked you to spend the night.”

“Right, but people do that platonically.”

“Sure, but they don’t usually pack condoms for platonic sleepovers.”

His eyes widen a little. “You saw that?”

You grin, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “I’m observant too, y’know.”

He groans quietly, covering his face with one hand. “This is why I don’t do this.”

“Do what?” you laugh, reaching out and nudging his knee with your knuckles. “Be normal?”

“Flirt. Date. Whatever this is.”

“Well, lucky for you,” you say, your voice softer now, “you’re doing just fine at it.”

He lowers his hand, meeting your gaze. “So… if I kissed you right now, it wouldn’t be out of nowhere?”

You shake your head slowly, eyes still on his. “No. But I kind of like talking to you like this first.”

There’s a pause, then a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Okay. What should we talk about?”

You laugh, stretching out a little. “Why don’t you tell me why you packed condoms for a ‘platonic’ sleepover?”

He blushes, and it’s honestly kind of adorable. “Just… in case. Statistically, being prepared reduces anxiety.”

“Totally,” you tease, biting back a grin. “Very practical.”

“I didn’t want to assume anything,” he adds quickly, “but I didn’t want to be unprepared either. I don’t like unknown variables.”

“Well,” you say, your voice low and teasing now, “what if I told you I was kind of hoping you’d be prepared?”

Spencer shifts a little closer, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second before darting back up to your eyes. “I’d say… that’s a very encouraging variable.”

The air between you shifts— warm, quiet and heavy in the best kind of way. Spencer’s hand finds the space between you, his fingers curling loosely against the couch, not quite touching you, but with the thought of holding your hand.

You lean in just slightly. “You gonna kiss me, or run another risk analysis first?”

Spencer chuckles under his breath, the sound soft and nervous. “Still calculating.”

You smile, giving him a moment— and then he finally closes the distance.

His lips meet yours slow, careful at first like he’s afraid of getting it wrong. But the second you respond— kissing him back, fingers reaching up to graze the side of his neck— he deepens it. The nervousness fades, replaced with something bolder.

The kiss grows steamier, breath hitching, hands roaming. By the time you pull back, just for air, your bodies are pressed close and your heart’s pounding, having you ending up on his lap.

“So,” you whisper, breathless against his lips, “you still think this is a platonic sleepover?”

He just shakes his head, already leaning in again.

[applereid]

— ‘MOMMY’, SPENCER REID.

MDNI. smut, sub!spencer, handjob, mommy kink, cum eating.

Spencer leaned back against the edge of his desk, fingers gripping the cold metal as his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. His eyes found yours— wide, flushed with tension— before quickly darting away.

A soft, high-pitched whine escaped his throat, embarrassment tinting his ears red. His pants were bunched around his thighs, and you sat between his legs on the floor, your hand moving slowly, deliberately along the length of his cock.

"Baby— please," he gasped, voice cracking. "Faster."

And instead of indulging him, your hand stilled. His eyes flew open, seeking yours in a quiet panic.

You stayed silent, an unreadable expression on your face, hands now resting in your lap-close enough to tease, but intentionally distant. "Baby?" you prompted, arching a brow.

He glanced away, lip caught between his teeth before he whispered, "...Mommy. I meant Mommy. I'm sorry."

A soft laugh escaped your lips. Amused, you reached back up to wrap your fingers around his cock, your gaze never leaving his face as you resumed your torturously slow rhythm.

"Look at you," you murmured, smiling. "So wound up... so sensitive-and l've barely done anything."

Spencer moaned again, tossing his head back, hips twitching with effort as he fought to keep still.

"Fuck... fuck..." he muttered, overwhelmed.

"Such a beautiful mess," you purred. Your hand tightened at the base before quickening, and you leaned forward to press a teasing kiss to the tip. "How do you feel, baby?"

"Close," he choked out. "I-I'm so close. Please."

You chuckled, voice low and laced with approval. "See what happens when you use your manners, sweetheart? Just like I taught you."

Then, softly, commandingly: "Go on, baby. Cum for me. Make a mess for Mommy."

A broken gasp tore from his lips as his hips bucked into your hand. His arm flung up to cover his face, and he came hard— thick spurts coating your fingers as a chorus of groans poured from him.

You stroked him gently through it, coaxing every last wave of pleasure until his body began to relax. His chest heaved as he glanced down at you, dazed and flushed.

"Good job, baby," you whispered with a soft smile, rising to your feet. You raised a cum-slick finger to his lips, and without hesitation, Spencer opened his mouth, obediently sucking it clean.

"So pretty," you breathed. "So perfect for me... aren't you?"

He nodded, eyes hazy with affection.

"I love you, Spence," you said quietly.

He pulled back from your finger with a soft pop, smiling up at you. "I love you more."

[applereid]

— MORNING KISS, SPENCER REID

“Hey… wake up,” you murmur softly, voice still laced with sleep as you lie pressed against Spencer’s bare chest beneath the warm tangle of his dorm room blankets.

He stirs beneath you, one arm curled protectively around your waist while the other lazily drapes across his face. A low, muffled groan escapes his throat as he starts to wake.

You smile and lean in a little closer. “Hi, pretty,” you whisper, brushing a tousled lock of hair from his forehead and tucking it gently behind his ear. Your fingertips trail to his cheek, settling there with affectionate stillness. “Sleep well?”

Spencer nods faintly, shifting just enough to nuzzle into your touch. The action pulls a quiet laugh from your lips.

“What time is it?” he murmurs, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss into your palm.

“It’s only ten,” you whisper back, your nose brushing the side of his face in a silent plea for his attention. “We’ve got time. No need to rush yet.”

He turns his head to face you fully, eyes still heavy with sleep but soft as they take you in. A pout forms on his lips. “Then why’d you wake me?” he asks, voice barely more than a breath.

You lean down, pressing a light kiss to his lips. “Just wanted to talk a little,” you say quietly, “before we go all day without seeing each other.”

Spencer hums in acknowledgment, his hand sliding up your back with lazy ease as he settles more comfortably into the bed. “I’ve got class at two,” he murmurs, letting his gaze drift over your face.

You shift above him, drawing the blanket up as you straddle his lap. The movement earns his full attention. His hands instinctively find your hips, fingers tracing the familiar curves of your skin.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice hoarse with confusion.

“My first class is in thirty minutes,” you admit, a note of regret curling your expression.

He blinks. “Baby. Go get ready!” he laughs, his voice lifting slightly with amusement.

You tilt your head, letting your smile soften into something more mischievous. “I was thinking… I might skip.”

Your voice dips lower, quiet but undeniably suggestive. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist in response, a flicker of something waking behind his eyes.

You lean down, lips grazing the corner of his mouth as your hair spills over his shoulders, forming a curtain between you and the soft morning light filtering through the dorm blinds.

Spencer exhales slowly, eyes locked onto yours now, fully awake. “You really want to skip for me?” he asks, voice low and warm, laced with a quiet disbelief that never seems to fade no matter how many mornings like this you share.

“I really want to stay,” you whisper back, brushing your lips along his jawline, pausing just below his ear. “Just for a little while longer.”

His hands slide up your sides, fingertips gliding over the dip of your waist and resting just beneath your shoulder blades. The blanket shifts with you as he lets out a quiet sigh, equal parts affection and surrender.

“You know I can’t say no to you,” he murmurs, and there’s a smile in his voice now— sleepy, adoring, a little wrecked already. One of his hands moves to cradle the back of your head, guiding you down as his lips meet yours, slower this time. More deliberate.

You melt into the kiss, your hands braced on either side of his chest. It deepens naturally, wordlessly, as his thumb strokes the base of your spine, coaxing you even closer.

Spencer’s breath hitches when your hips shift slightly above his, and the sound of it— quiet and involuntary— draws something deeper out of you.

You kiss him again, harder this time, your fingers tangling in his hair as he lets his hands wander freely now, mapping familiar territory like he’s learning you all over again.

And when you finally lift your head, lips parted, pupils blown wide, Spencer’s voice cuts through the silence, barely above a whisper.

“Stay.”

You smile, letting your forehead press against his.

“I was never planning to leave.”

[applereid]

— HIS CAMGIRL, DEAN WINCHESTER.

MDNI smut, camgirl!user, male masturbation

Was Dean the type of man to indulge in something like this? Absolutely. More than anyone else he knew, Dean was aware— unapologetically— that this was exactly his kind of thing.

He sat alone in a dimly lit motel room, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath him as he leaned back against the headboard. Sam was out— running errands or maybe chasing a lead— and Dean knew he had time. Time to unwind in his own way. With one hand he began to unbutton his jeans, the other deftly maneuvering the mouse of his aging laptop until he landed on a site he knew far too well.

BecomeACamGirl.com

His preferred distraction. His favorite money sink. Hundreds of dollars funneled through fraudulent credit cards, all to indulge in moments of digital intimacy that felt far too real. He justified it easily— if the money wasn’t theirs to begin with, then why not spend it on something that made him feel something?

And then there was you.

Or rather, Sugar— your screen name, sweet and simple, but with a bite that matched your smile. You were his weakness. The way you spoke to him in chat, the way you said his name— moaned his name—it drove him to the brink every single time. It wasn’t just lust. It was obsession, tangled with the illusion of connection.

He clicked through to your profile. You were live. Thank God.

It had been weeks since he’d had the chance. Sam had been glued to his side lately, and solo moments like these were becoming rare. But now— now he had you.

“Dean,” your voice purred through the speakers, sultry and teasing. You sat on the floor of your softly lit bedroom, framed by plush carpet and shadows. Lingerie hugged your curves like a second skin. “Nice of you to join. Was starting to miss my favorite boy.” You smiled, biting your bottom lip just enough to make his heart race.

Dean let out a breathless chuckle, jeans and boxers shoved down in one practiced motion. He typed with one hand, the other already gripping the base of his aching cock as he sent a $50 tip along with a message.

Dean: Missed you, sweet thing.

You glanced to the side to read it, your smile widening as you spoke. “You remember the last time you were here? Bought me something off my wishlist?” You leaned off camera for a moment.

Oh, he remembered. A white lace lingerie set— soft, delicate, almost innocent. He’d imagined you in it for days. Then, he imagined it crumpled on your bedroom floor.

You returned, holding the set between two fingers like a promise. “Should I go put this on for you guys?” you asked, your voice light with a playful lilt. You giggled as you scrolled through the chat.

Dean didn’t hesitate. His body moved on instinct, fingers flying over the keys as the tension in him built higher.

Dean: Fuck yeah.

After stepping off-screen for a few moments, you return to view— Dean’s white lingerie hugging your curves, your hair now loose around your shoulders. With a coy, knowing smile, you sit back down, settling gracefully as you flash a bashful grin to the camera.

“Do you like it?” you murmur, your voice soft and teasing. Leaning back on your palms, you subtly adjust your posture, striking a few flattering poses to show off your body in all the right angles.

On the other side of the screen, Dean exhales sharply. Without hesitation, he spits into the palm of his hand and rewraps it around the base of his cock, slicking himself up slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen.

You reach off camera and return with a pastel pink dildo, bringing it into view with a lazy smile. You drizzle lube into your free hand, the bottle making a soft sound as you apply it, then start stroking the toy with practiced ease.

“God, baby… you’re so big,” you whisper breathlessly, eyes flicking up toward the camera, every word dipped in desire.

“Let me taste you. Please? Want you in my mouth,” you plead softly, your lips forming a pout as you lean in, giving the silicone tip a slow, deliberate lick while holding eye contact with the lens.

Dean lets out a low groan, whispering as if you could actually hear him. “Yeah… you can,” he mutters, nodding to himself, immersed entirely in the illusion that you’re in the room with him.

His breath catches as he watches you take the toy fully into your mouth, lips stretched around the shaft until you reach the base. When you pull back, a glistening string of spit connects your lips to the toy, and his grip tightens reflexively.

Dean’s imagination runs wild— wondering how your throat would feel around him. Could you handle all of him? Would you gag? Would you moan around him, tears in your eyes as you took every inch?

You moan softly, your free hand rising to cup your chest as you begin sucking on the toy once more, slow and sensual.

“Fuck, sugar,” Dean groans, closing his eyes for a moment, hips jerking upward into his own hand as pleasure courses through him.

“Cum for me, baby,” you whisper sweetly, pulling off the dildo and stroking it slowly, resting your cheek against it as you gaze into the camera with wide, pleading eyes.

“I’m cumming, sugar… fuck,” he gasps, his voice low and broken. With a series of quiet grunts, Dean finishes into his hand, his body tensing as he rides out the wave, breath stuttering in his chest.

You smile softly, reading through the flood of chat messages and generous tips rolling in. One by one, thank-you notes and donations appear— until Dean’s $300 tip pops up, rocketing him from second place to the coveted top spot: your highest tipper of the night.

Dean: Until next time, sweet girl.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. Thank you, Dean.” you say gently, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You were amazing. I’ll see you next time, yeah? And don’t forget, there’s a new $20 chat option if you ever want to talk one-on-one.”

Dean’s eyes narrow with interest at that last line, watching as the camera clicks off and your profile reappears on screen. He grabs a towel from beside the bed, cleaning himself off as he scans the new feature you teased.

A direct message option—private access to you, his favorite camgirl. For $20, he could talk to you directly, one-on-one.

He smirks.

He just might have to give that a try.

[applereid]

— THE FIRST KISS, SPENCER REID.

It had always been more than clear— Spencer harbored feelings for you. From the moment you joined the BAU, his attention often drifted your way. You were close to him in age— perhaps a year or two younger— but enough to remind him that he wasn’t the youngest on the team anymore.

You arrived like a breath of fresh air— wide-eyed, curious, and eager to prove yourself. Even in the face of the team’s often grisly work, you brought light with you. No matter how dark the case, you wore a smile and tackled every task with unwavering dedication. Spencer noticed. More than that— he admired you. Maybe more than anyone else on the team.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that you were beautiful. Radiant, even. Your warmth and optimism were exactly what Spencer hadn’t realized he needed after years of emotional strain and trauma. One glance in your direction, and his famously sharp mind felt like it dropped a hundred IQ points. His thoughts scrambled, palms sweating, heart racing.

But what truly captivated him was the way you listened. You didn’t dismiss his endless streams of data or theoretical tangents. You didn’t roll your eyes like Morgan often did, or cut him off like Hotch. You waited. You listened. You smiled.

You weren’t annoyed by his quirks—you were intrigued. And for the first time in a long while, Spencer found himself genuinely curious, not about facts or statistics, but about you. What made you laugh? What did you love? What did you see in him?

It gave him just enough courage to act.

The jet was quiet as it cut through the night sky on its return to Quantico. After a grueling case, most of the team had dozed off or buried themselves in reports. You were bent over the small pull-out table, scribbling something in a worn leather journal. Spencer approached silently and slid into the seat beside you, gently tugging the pen from your fingers.

Startled at first, your expression quickly softened. “Can I have that back?” you whispered, amused.

Spencer hesitated before handing it back, offering a nervous smile. “I just… wanted to check in. Are you okay?”

You tilted toward him, placing the pen aside. “I’m okay,” you replied gently. “Are you?”

He nodded slowly, eyes on you but unsure what to say next.

“You sure?” you asked again, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

“I’m fine,” he said, exhaling with a slight laugh. “I’ve been doing this a long time. It’s… second nature now. But I know this was one of your first field cases. I didn’t want to leave you alone with everything we just saw.”

Your giggle was soft, but it lit him up. “I’m alright, Spence. Really.”

He looked down, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. You leaned closer, your hand resting lightly on his thigh for balance as you pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you for checking in,” you whispered near his ear.

Spencer remained still, his face burning red, too flustered to speak. You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“Spencer?” you said softly, prompting him to look up. He did so with hesitation, face flushed, lips parted in nervous anticipation.

Without another word, you kissed him— briefly, softly— watching him carefully as you pulled away.

But before you could retreat fully, he leaned forward again, capturing your lips once more, this time with quiet confidence. His hand came up to cradle the side of your neck as he deepened the kiss, tender and sincere.

Across the aisle, Morgan, who hadn’t missed a beat, glanced down at his lap and smiled to himself. “Atta boy,” he muttered under his breath.

[applereid]

supernatural masterlist

— dean winchester:

his camgirl nsfw

[applereid]

criminal minds masterlist

— aaron hotchner:

kitty nsfw

voice notes

mystery girlfriend

work wife

— spencer reid:

the first kiss

morning kiss

mommy nsfw

sleepover

puppy req

[applereid]

masterlist.

— criminal minds

— supernatural

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