monzabee

[monzabee]

[monzabee]

omg ali thank you so much and i love that you immediately caught the gilmore girl reference (i wasn't trying to hide it one bit, but still)😭❤️ the domesticity of it all was really fun to work on and i'm so glad you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

mr work dork and miss work dork lover - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: spending an early morning with Spencer before both of you need to go to work.  

Pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

Word Count: 0.9k 

Warnings: kissing, gilmore girls reference (we can be friends if you caught that)   

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

“Look who’s awake, sleepyhead.” You hear his voice before you open your eyes. How he knows you’re awake, you’ll never know, but you imagine it has something to do with the fact that he profiles people for a living.  

You whine out intelligible words that Spencer can’t quite comprehend, but then he manages to understand between your whines, “I’m still sleeping, stop making conversation with me.” 

Spencer chuckles, his voice warm with amusement. “Technically, if you’re still sleeping, you wouldn’t be talking.” 

You groan in protest, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Stop using logic against me.” 

You hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you, and then the unmistakable weight of an arm draping over your waist. He’s warm, the kind of comforting warmth that makes it even harder to want to leave the bed. “I read a study once that said waking up to a familiar voice can make the transition from sleep to consciousness much easier,” he muses, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your hip. 

You peek an eye open, glaring at him half-heartedly. “I hate that you make everything sound like a lecture.” 

Spencer grins, unfazed. “And yet, you still keep me around.” 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, finally turning toward him. “That’s because I tolerate you.” 

His smile softens as he leans in slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. “Oh? Just tolerate me?” 

You hum, feigning deep thought. “Well… tolerate, like, adore—same thing.” He laughs, and the sound is so light, so full of something fond, that you can’t help but smile, too. His fingers continue their lazy movements against your skin, lulling you into that perfect space between wakefulness and sleep again. “Five more minutes?” you mumble, already snuggling closer. 

Spencer presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “We really need to get up for work, angel.” 

“But Spence,” you drag out his name, whining, “I thought you loved me.” 

“I do love you.” He says, chuckling as he presses a kiss onto your pouty lips, “But our bosses won’t be too happy with us if we’re late now, will they?” 

You scoff, “Hotch loves me.” 

Spencer huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Hotch tolerates you.” 

You gasp, scandalized, finally prying your eyes open to glare at him. “That is not true. He has a soft spot for me.” 

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. “Hotch has a soft spot for Jack. Maybe for Rossi’s cooking. But you?” 

“Yes, me,” you insist, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Remember that one time I brought him coffee before a case, and he actually smiled?” 

Spencer tilts his head, pretending to consider. “That was more of a… mild decrease in his usual frown.” 

You roll your eyes, flopping dramatically back onto the mattress. “You just don’t want to admit that I’m his favorite.” 

Spencer hums, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “You are my favorite,” he murmurs, voice softer now. 

You feel your heart stutter at the sincerity in his tone. He always does that, throws out some offhanded, devastatingly sweet comment like it’s nothing. Like it’s the easiest truth in the world. Smiling, you reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Well, you’re mine, too. Even if you do use statistics against me before I’ve had coffee.” 

Spencer grins, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll make you a deal—if you get up now, I’ll grab us coffee on the way in.” 

You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Fine. But only because I love you more than sleep.” 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around you. “I’ll take it.” 

“Can I at least get a kiss first before you make me leave our warm bed?” Spencer smiles, leaning in, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, the warmth of him so close, and you tilt your head slightly in anticipation. Just as his lips are about to brush yours, he suddenly pulls away, smirking. You blink, momentarily stunned. “Spencer Reid, did you just—” 

He’s already rolling off the bed, stretching like he didn’t just completely leave you hanging. “We’re going to be late,” he teases, heading toward the dresser. 

You throw a pillow at him, groaning in frustration. “Work dork!” 

He laughs, catching the pillow mid-air and tossing it back onto the bed. “Work dork lover,” he calls back, grinning at you. 

You narrow your eyes. “Not anymore. You’ve lost your privileges.” 

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. “Oh, really?” 

“Yep. No forehead kisses, no hand holding, no cuddles—” Before you can finish, he’s already moving back toward the bed. In a blur of long limbs and mischievous intent, he cages you in beneath him, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your head. 

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, tilting his head as he studies you. 

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. “M-maybe…” 

Spencer’s smirk deepens. “Maybe?” 

Your resolve crumbles when he dips down, lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—but not quite kissing you. “You’re the worst,” you whisper, your fingers gripping his shirt. 

He finally presses a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and teasing, before pulling back just enough to grin at you. “Still the worst?” 

You exhale, dazed. “I take it back. Work dork lover is acceptable.” 

Spencer laughs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before standing up. “Come on, angel. Coffee’s waiting.” 

And, as much as you hate to admit it, he wins this round. 

[monzabee]

MONTREAL, QUEBEC - JUNE 13: Lando Norris of Great Britain and McLaren prepares to drive in the garage during practice ahead of the F1 Grand Prix of Canada at Circuit Gilles-Villeneuve on June 13, 2025 in Montreal, Quebec.

📸: Photo by Glenn Dunbar/LAT Images.

[monzabee]

mr work dork and miss work dork lover - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: spending an early morning with Spencer before both of you need to go to work.  

Pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

Word Count: 0.9k 

Warnings: kissing, gilmore girls reference (we can be friends if you caught that)   

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

“Look who’s awake, sleepyhead.” You hear his voice before you open your eyes. How he knows you’re awake, you’ll never know, but you imagine it has something to do with the fact that he profiles people for a living.  

You whine out intelligible words that Spencer can’t quite comprehend, but then he manages to understand between your whines, “I’m still sleeping, stop making conversation with me.” 

Spencer chuckles, his voice warm with amusement. “Technically, if you’re still sleeping, you wouldn’t be talking.” 

You groan in protest, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Stop using logic against me.” 

You hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you, and then the unmistakable weight of an arm draping over your waist. He’s warm, the kind of comforting warmth that makes it even harder to want to leave the bed. “I read a study once that said waking up to a familiar voice can make the transition from sleep to consciousness much easier,” he muses, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your hip. 

You peek an eye open, glaring at him half-heartedly. “I hate that you make everything sound like a lecture.” 

Spencer grins, unfazed. “And yet, you still keep me around.” 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, finally turning toward him. “That’s because I tolerate you.” 

His smile softens as he leans in slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. “Oh? Just tolerate me?” 

You hum, feigning deep thought. “Well… tolerate, like, adore—same thing.” He laughs, and the sound is so light, so full of something fond, that you can’t help but smile, too. His fingers continue their lazy movements against your skin, lulling you into that perfect space between wakefulness and sleep again. “Five more minutes?” you mumble, already snuggling closer. 

Spencer presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “We really need to get up for work, angel.” 

“But Spence,” you drag out his name, whining, “I thought you loved me.” 

“I do love you.” He says, chuckling as he presses a kiss onto your pouty lips, “But our bosses won’t be too happy with us if we’re late now, will they?” 

You scoff, “Hotch loves me.” 

Spencer huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Hotch tolerates you.” 

You gasp, scandalized, finally prying your eyes open to glare at him. “That is not true. He has a soft spot for me.” 

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. “Hotch has a soft spot for Jack. Maybe for Rossi’s cooking. But you?” 

“Yes, me,” you insist, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Remember that one time I brought him coffee before a case, and he actually smiled?” 

Spencer tilts his head, pretending to consider. “That was more of a… mild decrease in his usual frown.” 

You roll your eyes, flopping dramatically back onto the mattress. “You just don’t want to admit that I’m his favorite.” 

Spencer hums, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “You are my favorite,” he murmurs, voice softer now. 

You feel your heart stutter at the sincerity in his tone. He always does that, throws out some offhanded, devastatingly sweet comment like it’s nothing. Like it’s the easiest truth in the world. Smiling, you reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Well, you’re mine, too. Even if you do use statistics against me before I’ve had coffee.” 

Spencer grins, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll make you a deal—if you get up now, I’ll grab us coffee on the way in.” 

You groan, burying your face in his chest. “Fine. But only because I love you more than sleep.” 

He laughs, wrapping his arms around you. “I’ll take it.” 

“Can I at least get a kiss first before you make me leave our warm bed?” Spencer smiles, leaning in, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips. You can feel his breath against your skin, the warmth of him so close, and you tilt your head slightly in anticipation. Just as his lips are about to brush yours, he suddenly pulls away, smirking. You blink, momentarily stunned. “Spencer Reid, did you just—” 

He’s already rolling off the bed, stretching like he didn’t just completely leave you hanging. “We’re going to be late,” he teases, heading toward the dresser. 

You throw a pillow at him, groaning in frustration. “Work dork!” 

He laughs, catching the pillow mid-air and tossing it back onto the bed. “Work dork lover,” he calls back, grinning at you. 

You narrow your eyes. “Not anymore. You’ve lost your privileges.” 

Spencer raises a skeptical brow. “Oh, really?” 

“Yep. No forehead kisses, no hand holding, no cuddles—” Before you can finish, he’s already moving back toward the bed. In a blur of long limbs and mischievous intent, he cages you in beneath him, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your head. 

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, tilting his head as he studies you. 

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is. “M-maybe…” 

Spencer’s smirk deepens. “Maybe?” 

Your resolve crumbles when he dips down, lips ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—but not quite kissing you. “You’re the worst,” you whisper, your fingers gripping his shirt. 

He finally presses a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and teasing, before pulling back just enough to grin at you. “Still the worst?” 

You exhale, dazed. “I take it back. Work dork lover is acceptable.” 

Spencer laughs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before standing up. “Come on, angel. Coffee’s waiting.” 

And, as much as you hate to admit it, he wins this round. 

[monzabee]

bee! smut/suggestive oscar headcanon please that vid you rebloged is making me feral 😫

f1 masterlist || oscar piastri x reader || +18, smut, mdni

okay wait why do i love this so much (also, i've never written headcanons before so please be kind):

so here it goes:

— to start things off kind of lightly, he might be a quiet guy, but this man is not shy. nope. not at all. like i feel like he is not shy to get creative (and freaky) in bed, and he is the literal embodiment of 'it's always the quiet ones'. he is also not afraid to try new things both of you might come across, which is certainly a big plus. — this man has a praise kink. like he full-on melts when you praise him. "you feel so good," "you’re so good to me," “no one else touches me like this”—his hands get firmer, and he starts moving faster, and he is all around rougher + bonus points if you say it while looking up at him or tugging on his hair. — i also think he would love to have you on his lap? like i don't necessarily think it's a possession thing (or is it?👀), but i feel like he would just love to have you on his lap in a casual dominance kind of a way. althoughhh, it may look innocent, at first, but his fingers always end up playing with the hem of your skirt or sliding between your thighs. — we all know oscar is not the most expressive guy in public (enter his post-race win/podium radio here), but i feel like he loves the idea of marking you—not necessarily in a place that might show like your neck or collarbones, but someplace where only he knows it is there, like your thighs or your chest. — speaking of thighs, oscar piastri is a thigh guy🫵 he loves your thighs. he loves to lay his head on them (and the scalp scratches that come with them), and he also loves to tease you by fucking them, instead of giving into what you want. i also think he would love the feeling of them being wrapped around his head when he is going down on you OR how they feel wrapped around his body when he is fucking you into the mattress. he isn't too fussy when it comes to which he loves the most. — we've all seen those mclaren videos of lando of him, and we all know he is the messy one... as he is in bed, of couse. i feel like he's not necessarily too pressed about being all that neat, and he does appreciate a bit of a mess—he's also especially a big fan of how fucked up you look after he's done getting his way with you (it means that 'he's done his job well', not my words, his).

+ plus

— he is painfully aware of the voice kink you have for him, and boy does he use it to his advantage! there’s something about his voice when he’s wrecked—low, rough, breathy moans that only come out when he’s close. hearing him curse softly in your ear? lethal. he doesn’t say a lot, but the noises he makes do stay in your head for days, and he is not afraid of being vocal.

[monzabee]

Guys stop posting bangers I can't like everything

[monzabee]

mclaren Fit check for the @F1Movie red carpet 🎬👌

[monzabee]

GIVE IT TO ME 😩

[monzabee]

SHUT UP MY SUMMER SERIES IS HERE WITH A NEW CHAPTER!!🥳

the plot is getting thick and i am here for it!! this is amazing world building ali and i'm so excited to read about their dates and everything!! i would actually die for them both and i love them so much already😭🩷

_____confessions cookies

pairing. Aaron Hotchner x media liaison!reader (part of the dating game)

summary. after your conversation, Aaron needs answers: would you consider him, your boss, to start your dating game?

words count. 2 308

a/n. thank you everyone for the nice feedback on the first part, I'm so happy you enjoy this series as much as I do!! I promise the dates are starting in the next part 👀

___the dating game masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

Aaron had a problem. You.

Well, not you. But the fact you had been on his mind non-stop these past days.

“Can you just imagine how much easier it would be if we could just discover the dating world again with someone we know? Someone we trust?” 

He had learned to know these 26 words by heart. The intonation, the way you paused after your first question. The little sigh at the end, like you had been desperately trying to say these things for so long. How you sounded like you believed no one could understand your feelings.

But that wasn’t the worst part, no.

The worst part was that he felt like you didn’t care as much as he did. He felt like you didn’t care at all.

When you came back to the office on Monday, you greeted him with a very professional “Hotch.” 

The team knew you used a different tone for each one of them. You sounded protective with Spencer and in a constant private joke with Emily. 

As for Aaron, there was always this sweet and encouraging smile, telling him you would have his back no matter what. And if he could taste your tone when you said his name, Aaron would notice some vanilla hint: a safe bet, sure, but something reassuring. That was how he liked to picture it. Maybe it was indeed reassuring that nothing had changed after your conversation. You still treated him as your chief with the same kind attitude. He could count on you, even with you being two desperate lost souls. 

Yet, he couldn’t stop imagining what could have happened if you had five more minutes. Just five more minutes to end this conversation and not be left disappointed.

So now a whole week had passed, a case had been resolved, and Aaron needed answers.

Everyone had left the office except for the two of you. No surprise that this was happening very often. With the number of new files and case requests piling up every day on your desks, you could probably build a new wall. 

Needless to say, your personal life also had something to do with that. You had no one to go home to. And if Aaron was being honest, sometimes his guilt was taking over, and he couldn’t find the strength to go home early and face a disappointed Jack. Even if his son, being the angel he was, would never say anything about that.

“You should really take a break,” you heard him say when he walked in your office. 

You were so focused on your last case file that you didn’t even hear the knocks on the door. You’d like to think he maybe didn’t even knock. Your office was just a kind of extension of his, and you kept telling Aaron that he could walk in as much as he wanted. You loved to say you could always feel him coming.

The truth was that you could usually see him, from the shadow through your window to the fact the door was right in front of you.

The other truth was that, indeed, you felt like you had some kind of sixth sense letting you know when he was near you.

The final truth was that in case you missed Aaron’s presence, Blossom couldn’t. Even if right now, your dog was more interested in the little treat you gave her and didn’t move from her bed.

“You, Aaron Hotchner, are the one saying that?” You laughed, lifting your head up to watch him. “That’s a bit hypocritical.” 

More than once tonight, you considered leaving and coming back earlier tomorrow morning to finish your work. But just for the simple view of the lazy smile growing on Aaron’s face, the one he had when he got so tired he couldn’t control his facial expression nor had the strength to give a proper smile, staying late was worth it. 

You had barely seen him today. The days after the team came back from a case were always full of paperwork, and you didn’t even leave your office to eat lunch. Not even when the girls took turns to convince you to take a break and instead took Blossom with them.

You really wanted to get up, leave your office for a few minutes, and forget about the atrocity you were reading. But some other people couldn’t take a break, and their pictures were lying on your desk. So no, your propriety truly wasn’t your appetite. 

However, was it weird that seeing your chief right now was lifting a weight off your mind?

“At least I ate today.”

“Who are you?” you replied in a fake shocked tone, watching as he walked to your desk and sat in front of you. 

Yes, hearing his short and spontaneous giggle definitely made the whole staying late worth it. 

“I thought you might need some of these,” he said, finding just enough space on your desk to put down the plate he had been carrying.

One of the agents had brought some cakes and cookies from their child’s birthday. Aaron knew what it was to see the big picture, to compensate for their absence and make sure their children aren’t mad at them. Turns out, at the end, it was the Bureau who could enjoy all the leftovers.

And he was making sure that you got your daily sugar dose too.

“Don’t be too nice to me, Aaron, or I could cry,” you laughed, taking a cookie in hand before biting into it. 

You couldn’t care less about the little moan that escaped your lips when you felt the sugar melt in your mouth. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine a little paradise, peacefully away from the FBI. You clearly needed this more than you thought. 

Blossom was quick at jumping off her bed after hearing you. She ran and tried to charm you into giving her a piece of cookie too. She was absolutely not interested in the caress you gave her in exchange and even granted you a judgmental look. One that you didn’t even bother noticing. 

You were so focused on your own pleasure that you didn’t think Aaron could hear too. Or noticed the little change in his posture. How he moved his thighs on the chair, clearly not as comfortable as he was a few seconds ago. Or how he played with his tie to keep his hands occupied on something else. Something that wasn’t, well…you.

Not even Blossom was nice enough to help him, going back to her bed in a lazy and disappointing walk. 

He cleared his throat, looking for his composure back. “You deserve some kindness,” he then said.

You tilted your head to the side and pouted slightly. The simple thought of someone thinking about your own good was touching. And not only was it a man, it was your boss. More than your boss, it was Aaron. That was more than what your heart could handle at 8 p.m. on a Friday night. 

You grabbed another cookie from the plate and handed it to him. “Have some too.”

Aaron looked at it and considered refusing your offer. He already ate some earlier, and the ones he picked were for you, not him. But the sweet look in your eyes made him think that you could actually cry if he said no. 

He chose the safe option and took it from your hand. His fingers brushed yours softly, and he let that moment last longer than he should have.

The view of the two of you sharing cookies in your little office made you laugh. “This is, like, the closest to a date I’ve been to in months.” 

This was enough to remind Aaron why he was there in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night.”

Your eyes grew big at the sudden thought that you might have said something controversial or problematic. You remembered the conversation—or at least you thought so. Did you say anything inappropriate to your chief? You sure had inappropriate thoughts in the past—and I, in a not-so-far-away past—but you were secretly praying none of them escaped your mouth.

To be honest, even now, totally sober, you weren't 100% sure you could trust your mouth. It wasn’t your fault his rolled-up sleeves made his arms and his veins so visible you were dying to look at them. 

Thankfully, Aaron was quick at putting a hand on your arm to stop your overwhelming thoughts. 

“About wanting to start dating again with someone you know and ttrust, he completed in such a serious tone you could forget the context of the conversation in the first place.

Your lips formed an O for a few seconds before you replied with a soft laugh: “Yep, sounds like something I said.” 

It didn’t sound like something you said. You said that, and you knew it. 

You knew it just because your brain made sure to perfectly memorize Aaron’s face when he heard those words. His confused but also relieved expression, telling you he had been working hard to express his own feelings. But also the expression when he asked if you had someone in mind. Like it was a need for him to know. Like a part of him expected an answer you weren’t sure you were allowed to give.

“I still mean it,” you said. “I still think this could be a good solution. The whole thing now is…”

“Finding that person.” Aaron completed it, and you simply nodded.

And soon the room fell into silence again.

If you were in a movie, you would yell at the characters to speak the obvious. Because it was obvious to both of you.

How Aaron, as your chief, didn’t feel like he had any right to speak his mind and feared being accused of harassment—even though he trusted you enough to not do it. 

How you, as his agent, were scared you might lose the job of your dream for a fantasy—even though you trusted him enough to not fire you for this.

But how you both had the same idea in mind.

“Do you think…” Aaron started.

But you spoke at the time. “...Want to do it?”

Another silence. Then a shared laugh that lightened up the mood.

“This would stay between us?”

You could tell how important it was for him. The low voice he used, like he was sharing some secret. Like a child asking for something he shouldn’t be. Like a part of him still wasn't sure this was the right thing. 

It was easy to start it; it would be harder to face the consequences if anything went wrong. And the list of possible consequences was already long enough in his head. 

Starting from professional procedure for going on dates with a member of his team to potential unsub taking advantages of this. To broken hearts. Yes, broken hearts were the worst scenario, even for Aaron Hotchner.

“I didn’t plan on adding a new slide on my case presentation about this, no,” you replied, taking another cookie from the plate. 

Your sarcastic remark kind of worked when he rolled his eyes and let out an amused sigh. But this wasn’t enough.

“The only person aware of this is Blossom right here,” you said, pointing to your dog. Blossom, who apparently couldn’t care less about whatever you were talking about. But still got up from her bed and walked to Aaron.

Either she was still mad at you for not giving her any treat, or she finally noticed Aaron’s presence. In any way, it didn’t take her long to jump on his lap and get some new caresses.

You found it funny how she had a very different relationship with the members of this team, especially the men of this team. She knew she could easily get treats from Spencer, who couldn't resist her sweet face. She went to Derek when she wanted to play, and you didn’t have the time. 

And Aaron was kind of her safe place. Sometimes, she would disappear in the middle of the afternoon just to rest on his lap. Not even asking for any cuddle or anything, just like she needed to be with him.

“Can we trust you, Blossom?” He whispered in a very serious tone that you actually heard him use once with Spencer. 

And the only answer Aaron got was a cuddle against his hand and a peaceful sight from your dog. Something he seemed very pleased about from the smile that grew on his lips.

He then looked up at you, who were on the verge of freaking out from the cuteness of the situation. “I guess we’re good,” he said, making it sound like he made an agreement with your dog about you. Without you.

If it meant seeing a softer look on his face, you could accept being sidelined from this. 

“I won’t say anything, Aaron.” You finally replied for good, giving him his long-awaited answer.

“I just don’t…” he started before sighing. “You’re very important to the team. I don’t want to make things weird here because I…you know.” 

Aaron had to fight hard to not add you were important to him too.

“We don’t have to make things weird, you know.” You smiled. “We could start with a simple coffee…date, and if we find it too awkward, we call it a day and laugh about it at David’s next dinner.” 

The smile he gave you was probably the most sincere of the night. It was a thank you.

Thank you for understanding his fear and validating his feelings.

Thank you for accepting to take care of his old and still broken heart.

“Thank you," he then said. For being you.

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife@winyourheartemma @aaronhotchnersgf @averyhotchner @liilysblog @storiesbynova@lemoncee@mayhills @deeninadream @sillymuffintrashflap @alediao @jsjcue @marina468 @violettablackwood @yasministration

📬FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[monzabee]

i would actually give my life for hazel and her pancakes because she is a little icon and she deserves the world🫵

also i love this sooo much because fınally spencer gets his happy ending with his little family and you have no idea how special this is to me

hii athenaaa!! i have a request for uuu that has been on my mind for a little.. could you do a spencer reid x fem!reader in which they’re both parents of a little boy or girl you could pick im fine with any!! and it’s basically just like a normal day with them? does that make sense? i hope it does! im not so good at explaining, i really tried to do my best here though. you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to i would fully understand!! okay that’s it’s byebyeeee

- 🌷

routine — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: girldad!spencer , just cute fluff a/n: i might've been gotten carried away with this </3 this is my first dad!spencer fic ever, sooo please keep that in mind while reading <3

You shifted slightly in bed, your leg draped lazily over Spencer’s hip. "Spence," you mumbled, nudging him gently. "Get up. It’s your turn."

Spencer groaned into his pillow, burying his face deeper as if that alone could shield him from responsibility. Your leg slipped away from him as you rolled slightly onto your back, but before you could fully retreat, his hand shot out, fingers curling around the back of your knee and tugging it back over his hip. You huffed a laugh, eyes still stubbornly closed. If you opened them, you’d officially be more awake than he was.

"Hazel is expecting pancakes," you reminded him, voice muffled by the pillow you’d half-smothered yourself with.

Spencer finally cracked one eye open, squinting at you. "You do them, then," he yawned, stretching slightly, watching your face for any sign of surrender. You didn’t budge.

He sighed, already picturing the inevitable scene, Hazel’s big, hopeful eyes, the way her little feet would patter impatiently against the kitchen tile, the dramatic sigh she’d inherited from him when her breakfast wasn’t magically ready the second she woke up. With reluctance, he peeled back the covers. Before getting up, he lifted your hand, the one that had been resting on his chest and pressed a sleepy kiss to your knuckles before letting it drop back to the mattress. You smiled, just a little, still pretending to be asleep.

Spencer paused in the doorway of the bathroom and shot over his shoulder, "I saw that smile." You didn’t answer. By the time he finished brushing his teeth, you were already asleep again.

Thirty minutes later, the scent of pancakes filled the kitchen. Spencer stood at the stove, his sleep-mussed hair sticking up in every direction, as he flipped another pancake onto the growing stack beside him. He’d even arranged a few into a smiley face on Hazel’s plate, his little tradition whenever he was on breakfast duty.

You shuffled into the kitchen, your socked feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. A yawn escaped you as you leaned against the counter, watching Spencer. You swiped one of the neatly cut bite-sized pieces meant for Hazel, popping it into your mouth before he could protest. The sweetness melted on your tongue, and you hummed in satisfaction.

Spencer squinted at you, his brow furrowing. “Those were Hazel’s.”

You grinned, unrepentant, and stepped closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his stubbled cheek. “Thank you for making pancakes,” you murmured, your voice still rough with sleep.

He huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he poured another circle of batter onto the pan. “It’s your turn next time, by the way.”

You smiled as you turned toward the hallway. “We’ll see about that.” Spencer’s grumble followed you out of the kitchen, but you knew he didn’t really mind.

Down the hall, Hazel’s door was slightly ajar. You nudged it open further, stepping into the chaos of her room, stuffed animals piled in one corner and crayon drawings taped proudly to the walls.

“Hazel,” you called softly, sitting on the edge of her bed and brushing a curl away from her face. “Time to wake up, sweetheart. Daddy made pancakes.”

A tiny groan. Then, one bleary eye peeked out from under the covers.“…With smiley faces?” she mumbled, already fighting a smile.

You tapped her nose. “With smiley faces.” That was all the convincing she needed.

Hazel shot out of bed. Her bare feet hitting the floor before you could even remind her to wash up. You didn’t bother trying, some battles weren’t worth fighting this early, especially when Spencer’s pancakes were involved. Rules like "wash your hands first" or "don’t run in the house" tended to dissolve the second she caught sight of her dad in the kitchen.

By the time you made it back down the hallway, Spencer already had her scooped up in one arm, his other hand flipping a pancake. Hazel clung to him like a koala, her cheek smushed against his shoulder, her wild bedhead curls tickling his jaw.

“Mommy, look,” Hazel mumbled around a yawn, lifting her head just enough to point at her plate on the counter. “A smiley.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and grinned. “I can see that,” you said, stepping forward to pluck her out of Spencer’s grip. He relinquished her with a theatrical sigh of relief, though the way his fingers lingered on her back betrayed him.

Hazel wiggled in your arms as you carried her to the table, her excitement barely contained. You set her down in her usual chair and handed her the plate of smiley-faced pancakes. She immediately grabbed the pink plastic fork you offered (the "good" one, because the purple one was "too pointy", according to last week’s very serious declaration) and speared a syrupy bite.

The morning passed by quickly and playtime officially began and in the Reid household, that often meant music time.

Spencer had unearthed the old keyboard from the corner of the living room, the model he’d bought after a case years ago. Now, it was Hazel’s favorite "toy", though toy might have been too generous of a term for the expensive instrument currently being subjected to the enthusiastic button-mashing of a four-year-old. Today, she perched on his thigh, her legs swinging idly as he adjusted the keyboard’s stand to her height. You settled beside them, close enough to feel the warmth of Spencer’s shoulder against yours, as Hazel reached out and smashed a cluster of keys with both hands.

Spencer didn’t even flinch.

“Okay, maestro,” he said, gently guiding her fingers to a gentler octave. “Let’s try something less… experimental.”

Hazel wrinkled her nose but humored him, watching as his long fingers danced over the keys, playing a simple melody. She mimicked him, pressing one key at a time, her brow furrowed in concentration. You bit back a smile as Spencer’s eyes lit up, the way they always did when Hazel showed even a passing interest in something he loved.

“That’s it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re a natural.”

Hazel beamed, then immediately ruined the moment by elbow-dropping the keyboard. Spencer sighed. You burst out laughing.

Playtime eventually turned into the soft scratch of crayons on paper as Hazel settled at the table, her tongue poking out in concentration. You and Spencer drank your coffees, content to simply watch her. Both of you smiling as you noticed her inner dilemma between choosing purple or pink.

Spencer took a sip of his coffee, his free hand absently tapping a rhythm against the mug. “Do you think we need to go grocery shopping today?” he asked, his voice low so as not to disrupt Hazel.

You hummed, considering. The fridge was running low on essentials. “We don’t have many berries left,” you admitted, just as Hazel’s head snapped up at the magic word, her eyes wide with hope. You shot her a knowing smile, and she immediately ducked her head back down, though the corners of her mouth twitched. Busted.

Spencer chuckled, but his amusement faded when he caught your yawn, your hand lifting to cover it a second too late. His brow furrowed. “Have you not been sleeping lately?” he asked, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm before letting it rest on the table, your fingers lacing with his. “No, no, don’t worry,” you reassured him, lowering your voice so Hazel wouldn’t get distracted. “Hazel just took a long time to fall asleep last night.”

Spencer’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, his expression softening with understanding. Hazel was at that age where her sleep schedule seemed to change daily.

“How about I take her to bed tonight?” he offered, squeezing your hand. “You could use the extra rest.”

You opened your mouth to protest, because of course you would, but the look in his eyes stopped you.So you just smiled and squeezed his hand back. “Deal.”

Hazel, oblivious to the negotiation happening above her head, held up her drawing triumphantly. “Look! It’s us!”

The stick figures were lopsided, the colors bleeding outside the lines, but there was no mistaking the three of you, tall Spencer with his wild hair, you with an exaggerated smile, and Hazel right between you, holding both your hands.

"Oh look at you - you're an artist," Spencer cooed, his voice warm with pride as he carefully released your hand just long enough to accept Hazel's offered masterpiece. The paper trembled slightly in her tiny grip, her wide eyes darting nervously between you both, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Hazel, this is wonderful," you murmured, leaning across the table to gently tuck a curl behind her ear. Your fingers lingered, tracing the soft curve of her cheek.

"Thank you," she replied automatically, the words polite in the way Spencer had patiently taught her through countless reminders at playgrounds and playdates. Her nervousness disappearing at your delighted reactions.

Spencer remained utterly mesmerized by the drawing, his fingers carefully avoiding the still-damp crayon marks as he held it up to the light. You could see him committing every uneven line to memory. His throat worked slightly as he swallowed.

"This..." he began, then had to clear his throat. "This might be my favorite work of art in the entire world, Hazel. We should frame it."

Hazel's feet kicked excitedly under the table. "Can we put it on the fridge?" she asked, already scrambling down from her chair, knowing full well the answer. Asking the question with a confidence of a child who knew she was loved. The fridge was already a gallery of her creations.

"Of course," you said, pushing back from the table just as Spencer did, moving in sync toward the kitchen.

You reached for a magnet, a souvenir from some case Spencer had worked months ago, brought back from a different state just because it had a cartoon dinosaur on it and Hazel loved dinosaurs. Spencer pressed the drawing to the fridge, right in the center, where it would be the first thing anyone saw when they walked in. Hazel clung to his leg, her cheek pressed against his thigh.

"Perfect," Spencer murmured, brushing his hand through her hair, soft, just like his yet wild and untamed no matter how many times you tried to tame it into a ponytail.

Then, Hazel looked up, eyes bright with a new idea. "Can we go to the playground?" Home playtime had officially lost its appeal. The crayons were forgotten; the real world beckoned.

Spencer’s gaze flicked to you, one eyebrow lifting in silent question. He didn’t have to say it, you knew what he was asking. Are you up for it? You smiled. "Sure."

Spencer loved playground time. It was one of those little things you never would’ve guessed about him before Hazel. He loved seeing her make friends, loved the way she’d come running back to you both, breathless with stories about the kids she’d met.

Hazel bolted for her room, likely to change into an outfit that defied all logic. Spencer turned to you, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. His touch was gentle, but his expression was serious, brows knit together as he studied you.

"You sure you’re not too tired to go?" he asked, voice low.

Your dark circles were barely visible, at least, you didn’t think they were, but Spencer noticed everything.You caught his wrists, holding them there for a second, letting the warmth of his skin seep into yours. "Yes, Spencer. I’m fine."

He searched your face for another second, then sighed, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. "Okay," he murmured against your skin. "But if you need to leave early, just say the word."

You smiled. "Deal."

Somewhere down the hall, Hazel yelled, "I’m ready!"

Spencer chuckled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Somehow, I doubt that."

Spencer had been right, of course. Hazel was decidedly not ready. It was actually a neon rainbow explosion of clothes. You exchanged an amused glance with Spencer over her head.

"Sweetheart," you began gently, kneeling to her level, "how about we save the super bright outfit for when Grandma visits this weekend?" You held up a soft green sweater. "This one has dinosaurs on the sleeves, see?"

Hazel's lower lip jutted out in protest, but Spencer swooped in with perfect timing. "And look," he added, producing her favorite blue rain boots from the closet, "you can wear these and jump in every single puddle between here and the playground."

The negotiation worked. Three minutes later, Hazel was bundled in weather-appropriate layers (though she'd won the right to keep one neon pink sock and one neon green sock peeking out from her boots, a compromise you could live with).

The walk to the park was its own little adventure, Hazel swinging between you both, her small hands warm in yours. Every few steps, you and Spencer would lift her simultaneously, sending her into peals of laughter that echoed down the quiet neighborhood street.When the playground came into view, Hazel's grip on your fingers tightened with excitement. "Slide first!" she declared, already squirming to be set free. The second her feet touched pavement, she was off like a shot, her ponytail bouncing behind her.

You and Spencer settled onto a weathered wooden bench. The moment your head found its place on his shoulder, his arm came up automatically to wrap around you, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. True to form, Hazel had already befriended half the playground. Within minutes, she'd organized a game of tag. You watched as she paused to help a smaller child up the climbing wall, her little face serious with responsibility before breaking back into a grin.

You and Spencer sat on the bench, shoulders pressed together, chatting idly as you watched Hazel. You tilted your head up, still resting on his shoulder, and smiled. "I’m so glad you haven’t had a case in ages."

Spencer looked down at you, his eyes soft. "Me too," he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. You scrunched your face in delight.

"Hazel’s happy too," you added, nodding toward where she was now attempting to conquer the monkey bars. "Though I’m not sure if that’s because of you or the pancakes." Spencer chuckled, his chest vibrating against you. He knew what the real answer was.

Suddenly, Hazel came running toward you, her footsteps kicking up wood chips as she skidded to a stop in front of the bench. "Mom, look," she announced, holding up a crumpled hair tie. Her once-neat ponytail had completely unraveled, leaving her hair a wild, wind-tangled mess.

"Aw, we can fix that quickly," you said, beckoning her closer. "Turn around, sweetheart."

Hazel spun obediently, her back to you as you gathered her hair in your hands, smoothing out the knots with gentle fingers before weaving it into a braid. Spencer watched over your shoulder, his expression fond as you worked.

"There," you said finally, letting the braid fall against her back before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "All done."

Hazel turned back around, but instead of darting off again, she paused, her big eyes flicking expectantly to Spencer. You bit back a smile. She always did this, had somehow developed an unshakable sense of fairness when it came to affection. One kiss from Mom? Obviously Dad had to even the score.

Spencer didn’t need prompting. He tugged her closer, guiding her to stand between his knees, and pressed a loud, exaggerated kiss to her forehead. "Mwah! There. Balanced." Hazel giggled, scrunching her nose.

Spencer took the opportunity to fix her jacket, zipping it back up where it had fallen open. "Are you having fun?" he asked, brushing a stray wood chip from her sleeve.

Hazel nodded vigorously. "Yes!"

"Good," he said, tapping her nose. "Now go show those monkey bars who’s boss." With a grin, Hazel took off again, her braid bouncing behind her.

The afternoon consisted of you pushing Hazel on the swings until your arms ached, Spencer patiently spotting her as she conquered the monkey bars, both of you playing an elaborate game of tag. But then reality set in, the grocery stores would be closing soon, and you were still dangerously low on Hazel's beloved berries.

"Time for a grocery run," you announced, brushing wood chips from your jeans. To your relief, Hazel didn't put up her usual protest about leaving the playground. At the magic word "berries," her head snapped up from where she'd been examining a particularly interesting rock.

"Blueberries?" she asked hopefully, already scrambling to her feet.

"And strawberries," Spencer added, tapping her nose. "But only if we leave now."

That was all the motivation she needed. However halfway to the store, her steps began to drag, her eyelids growing heavy. When she lifted her arms in silent request to be carried, you didn't hesitate, scooping her up and settling her against your hip. She immediately tucked her head into the curve of your shoulder.

Spencer's hand found the small of your back as you walked. Every few steps, he'd lean in to press a kiss to Hazel's wind-tousled hair, his lips lingering just a moment too long each time. You could feel Hazel's smile against your neck whenever he did, her little fingers tightening slightly in your shirt.

"Sleepy girl," you murmured, adjusting your hold as you approached the store's entrance.

"'M'not sleepy," Hazel protested, even as she nuzzled deeper into your shoulder, her breath already evening out.

Spencer chuckled quietly, reaching out to smooth a stray curl behind her ear. "Of course not," he humored her, holding the door open as you stepped into the produce section. "But just in case, maybe we should get extra berries. For...energy." Hazel peeked one eye open at that.

You lifted Hazel into the grocery cart, settling her in the child seat, her legs dangled awkwardly over the edge, but she didn’t complain, too busy blinking sleepily. You pushed the cart forward, walking through the produce section, tossing in berries (blueberries, strawberries, and, at Hazel’s insistence, one container of blackberries because they were pretty).

But as the cart filled, milk, eggs, the cereal Spencer pretended he didn’t eat straight from the box at 2 AM, it grew heavier, the wheels sticking stubbornly every few feet. You barely had to glance at Spencer before he was stepping in, his hands covering yours on the handle.

"Too heavy," he murmured, nudging you aside gently.

You rolled your eyes but let him take over, falling into step beside him as Hazel slumped further in the seat, her chin dipping toward her chest before she jerked herself awake again. Guilt prickled at you. She was exhausted, and dragging her through the store just for berries felt almost cruel. But you knew her well enough to predict the meltdown that would follow if she woke up tomorrow to no berries with her breakfast.

Then, suddenly, Spencer was gone. You didn’t even notice at first, too busy debating between two brands of yogurt, until Hazel perked up, her drowsiness momentarily forgotten as she craned her neck to look down the aisle.

"Daddy’s back," she announced, just as Spencer reappeared, his hands behind his back in a terrible attempt at subtlety.

You sighed. "Spencer." He ignored you, leaning down to Hazel’s eye level with a grin. "Haze," he said, revealing the small collection of toys. "Which one would you like to have?"

Hazel’s head shot up, all traces of sleep evaporating. You shot Spencer a look. He knew this was a problem. Every. Single. Time. Without fail, he’d wander off and return with something, a stuffed animal, a puzzle, once even a miniature telescope. His weakness for spoiling her was both endearing and mildly infuriating.

"You’re enabling her," you muttered under your breath.

Spencer didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. "It’s basic reinforcement theory," he said, straight-faced. "Positive rewards for good behavior, like not complaining about grocery shopping."

"She did complain. She whined the entire way here."

"Quietly," he countered. "That counts."

Hazel, oblivious to the debate happening over her head, pointed triumphantly at a small plush bunny wearing a detective’s hat. "This one!"

Spencer beamed, handing it over. "Excellent choice. Very Sherlock Holmes of you." Hazel hugged it to her chest. You sighed, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Spencer caught your expression and smirked, bumping his shoulder against yours as he took the cart again.

On the way home, Hazel fell asleep in Spencer's arms, her cheek smushed against his shoulder and her new detective bunny still clutched in one hand. You'd offered to carry the grocery bags, but Spencer, stubborn as ever, had shifted his grip on Hazel and taken them anyway, leaving you to walk beside them, your fingers intertwined with Hazel's even in sleep.

Now you leaned against Hazel's bedroom doorframe, watching as Spencer set her to bed. His fingers made quick work of her mismatched socks (definitely his influence), peeling them off before tucking her feet under the covers. The raincoat came next, then the careful extraction of the stuffed bunny from her grip just long enough to prop it beside her pillow. When he smoothed her wild curls back from her forehead, Hazel sighed in her sleep, nuzzling into the touch. Spencer's expression softened impossibly further as he pressed a kiss to her temple. He turned to find you watching, and his face lit up. The door clicked shut behind him, his fingers finding yours automatically as you both made your way to the kitchen.

"She's going to keep you up all night," you observed, leaning against the counter and nodding toward the clock that read 5:30 PM.

Spencer mirrored your posture across the kitchen island, already rolling up his sleeves in preparation for dinner. "That's fine. I don't mind."

"Of course you don't," you laughed softly, shaking your head. He reached across the space between you, his hand warm against your waist as he drew you closer. Your head tilted back automatically to meet his gaze, and his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone.

"I want you to sleep through the night," he murmured, his other hand coming up to frame your face. "I'll take care of her. Don't get up, okay?"

" Mhmm. Okay." You leaned your head against Spencer’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. “We should probably make dinner,” you murmured after a while, though neither of you moved.

“Soon,” Spencer mumbled, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your spine.

Eventually, you managed to drag yourselves upright long enough to put a pot of water on the stove for pasta before collapsing onto the couch, too tired to do anything more than wait for it to boil. You settled half on top of Spencer, your head tucked beneath his chin, his hands drifting lazily up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes. The conversation meandered, work, the grocery list, Hazel, until you found yourself grinning against his neck.

“I’m pretty sure she’s befriended the entire city by now,” you said, thinking of how Hazel could strike up a conversation with anyone, from playground kids to grocery store cashiers.

“Definitely,” Spencer agreed, shifting slightly to accommodate your weight, his arms tightening around you. “I saw her talking to an elderly couple last week. By the time I caught up, they were showing her pictures of their grandchildren.” You laughed into his sweater, imagining the scene, Hazel, tiny and serious, nodding along like she’d known them her whole life.

Then, you heard the soft patter of little feet padding into the living room.

You sat up just enough to peer over the back of the couch, Spencer doing the same, as Hazel’s sleepy figure appeared in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes with one fist, her hair even wilder than usual from sleep, her detective bunny dangling from her other hand.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you said softly.

Without a word, she shuffled forward and climbed into Spencer’s lap, yawning so widely her whole body shook with it. Spencer’s arms wrapped around her automatically, his chin resting atop her head as she curled into him, her bunny squished between them.You watched, your heart impossibly full, as Spencer’s lips quirked into a smile.

First you draped over him, now Hazel. His lap had officially become the family’s favorite place to be.

He caught your gaze over her head, his eyes soft with a happiness so profound it made your breath catch. Your fingers lingered in Hazel’s sleep-tousled curls as you tucked a particularly stubborn strand behind her ear. Spencer shifted beneath her weight, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head as he murmured, “Did you sleep well?”

Hazel nodded, her cheek still smooshed against his shoulder. The detective bunny, now slightly crumpled from being clutched all afternoon, was pressed securely to her chest, its little hat askew.

“Did you give him a name yet?” you asked, tapping the bunny’s paw lightly. Hazel blinked, her grip tightening momentarily as she processed the question. Her gaze flickered down to the toy, then up to you, then to Spencer, clearly having forgotten to give her new friend a name. Spencer usually helped her with things like these.

He brushed a curl from her forehead and said, “Remember the book we read together last night?” You leaned your head against the couch, watching them with fondness.

Hazel’s nose scrunched as she thought. “Peter… Rabbit?” she tried, the title coming out slow but sure.

“Exactly,” Spencer said, grinning. “Do you want to call him Peter?”

Hazel looked down at the bunny, tilting its hat back into place with consideration. Then, she nodded. “Peter the Detective,” she declared. Spencer’s smiled. “Perfect.”

You reached over, straightening Peter’s miniature coat lapels. “A very distinguished name for a very distinguished bunny.”

Hazel beamed, tucking Peter back against her chest as she settled more firmly into Spencer’s lap. Spencer’s arms tightened around her, his chin resting atop her head as he met your gaze over her curls with a smile.

Dinner passed in a blur. Hazel narrated every bite of her pasta, swinging her legs under the table until Spencer gently stilled them with his hand. When the last dish was dried and put away, Spencer turned to you with that look , the one where his eyebrows did that concerned little dip they'd perfected over years of worrying about you.

"Bed," he said simply, already steering you toward the hallway as Hazel zoomed past with Peter the Detective clutched in one sticky hand.

"But I'm fi-" you started to protest through a yawn that betrayed you, rubbing at your eyes. Spencer's hands settled on your shoulders, turning you gently toward your bedroom.

"You're swaying," he murmured, lips brushing your temple. "And you only rub your eyes like that when you're about thirty seconds from face-planting into the nearest flat surface."

You wanted to argue, but another yawn overtook you, your body sagging back against his chest.

Spencer's arms circled your waist, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "I've got Hazel," he promised, his voice vibrating through your back. "And I'll be in soon. Just...stay horizontal until then, okay?"

You sighed in reluctant agreement as you turned to your daughter. Kneeling beside her, you smoothed back her wild curls. "Goodnight, my little detective," you whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Peter says goodnight too!" she announced, thrusting the bunny in your face with all the subtlety of a four-year-old. You dutifully kissed its fuzzy head, making Hazel giggle again.

Spencer's hand found the small of your back as you stood, steadying you when your knees protested. "Go," he said softly. "I've got cleanup. And bedtime."

You turned in his arms. "Fine," you relented, your smile gentle as his lips brushed your temple. "But don’t let her convince you to read more than two stories."

The last thing you remembered was the weight of the blankets being carefully tucked around your shoulders, and the brush of lips against your forehead that might have been real or might have already been a dream.

[monzabee]

THE TENSION, THE FEELINGS, THE FACT THAT THEY ARE EXES?? i have 0 notes for you, i want to be buried with this!!

HANDS WHERE THEY SHOULDN'T BE

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: it was supposed to be sangrias in the shade, but somehow you ended up wet....in rossi's bathroom....with your ex….based on this request. warnings | an: smut 18+ MDNI, tension relief via hands.... aka fingering, mutual pining, mirror kink making an appearance AGAIN!! use of the iconic ‘it’s nothing you haven’t seen before’ line🙂‍↕️ word count: 1.4k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

You hadn’t planned on actually getting in the water. When Rossi sent out a group invite for a ‘pool party,’ you assumed it was code for day drinking in expensive shade, not full submersion. You wore sunscreen, not swimwear, which, really, was poor planning on your end. And on Morgan’s, who elbowed you mid-sip, accidentally sending you plunging into the deep end of Rossi’s pool.

To be fair, you probably needed the cool-down. Rossi’s extra-strong sangria had been heating your body and face at an alarming rate, your skin prickling with that telltale flush of warmth that showed up whenever you were too hot or thought too hard about your ex-slash-boss in a navy polo (both of which were happening currently, all at once.)

Still, you could’ve done without the saturated walk to the bathroom, waterlogged, dripping, and tasting chlorine behind your teeth, your flip flops letting out a series of humiliating squelches that echoed like applause for your misfortune. 

Rossi’s guest bathroom was absurdly nice. Bigger than your first apartment and, if you were being honest, not miles off from beating your current one which you considered an upgrade. Though now, standing in the gleaming expanse of marble and mood lighting, your so-called upgrade felt more akin to the BAUs printer room.

Your reflection was…questionable. Your hair clung to every piece of skin it could claim and your eyeliner left faint bruises beneath your eyes. You grabbed a cotton pad from one of those silly little acrylic containers, and began undoing the damage to your makeup which stood no chance against Morgan’s clumsiness. 

A soft knock on the door interrupted your ministrations. 

“Better be a bottle of wine from Rossi’s cellar in your hand,” you called out, “because that’s the only form of apology I’m accepting from you.”

There was a pause.

“I can offer a towel.”

Definitely not Morgan.

“Hotch?”

“Are you decent?” he asked, tone infuriatingly polite. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you blurted out, way too quickly.  “Sure.”

You reached for the door handle and opened it a few inches. He stood there, holding a neatly folded towel with both hands like the six perfectly rolled ones already stacked on the shelf somehow weren’t up to par. 

He handed the fluffy thing over wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours in the exchange.

“Thanks,” you murmured, using it to blot the water beading at your neck.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He took a step closer. “Did you hit your head?”

You shook your head, showing him that it was still attached and mobile. “No. Just slipped in gracelessly, that’s all.”

He nodded, his eyes cataloguing you. You dabbed the towel along your collarbone, suddenly aware of the movements you could control and use to deceive him. Control the hands, control the nerves. Keep your eyes low, keep your breathing even. Pretend you’re not trying to remember what it felt like to have his mouth on your shoulder instead of cotton. 

“Could you, um…” You cleared your throat, setting the towel aside. “Undo the back of my dress? The knot’s too tight.”

He looked like he was considering your request with caution. His eyes dropped briefly to the damp straps clinging to your collarbones, trailing upward in dainty lines to the knot at your nape, fabric embedded gently in skin.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” The phrase tumbled out carelessly, making you cringe a little.

“Turn around,” he said softly. 

You turned like he asked, gathering your hair to one side and exposed the knot at the back of your neck. In the mirror, you caught him stepping closer, his warmth already bleeding into your skin, a feeling that pulled you straight back to all the times he’d sneak up behind you mid–morning coffee, or in the evenings when you were taking off your makeup.

Your hands dropped to the counter, trying to keep the memories at bay. His fingers touched your shoulders first. Almost tracing the straps of your dress, as if remembering where they used to lead.

You held your breath. 

He worked on the knot with the same precision you’d watched him exude in everything he did, a reminder of how deeply it lived in him, spilling into even the most simple tasks. The fabric loosened quickly under his fingers, the damp straps slipping free from the bow. You felt the front of your dress begin to slide—not all at once—peeling away in the more precarious places, clinging stubbornly to the rest.

Your hand shot up to your chest, clutching the fabric against you. 

Hotch stilled. 

His hand hovered near your shoulder, caught between choices with vastly different outcomes. Then, slowly, he let his fingers brush the curve of your arm. His touch traced up, settling at your shoulder. 

He stepped closer, and then his lips were on your skin, just below your neck.

A kiss. Then another, lower.

It might’ve seemed unlike him, if you hadn’t already seen every side of him. Words could’ve been cleaner than this, less complicated, but they’d never come easy to either of you. So you chose to believe that this was his way of speaking, of saying I missed you, without letting it tremble in his throat. 

You let your hand fall, the dress slipping completely. The air got to your skin before he did, a cool breath across your chest, followed by the warmth of his palms as he cupped one of your breasts, the other sliding around your waist and pulling you to him until there was no space left. 

Your head tilted back, resting on his shoulder. You reached one hand behind you, finding his cheek, holding him there as his mouth worked its way down your neck. He leaned into the touch, into you, his hips pressing forward.

The hand at your waist shifted, gathering damp fabric in his fist, and then he was lower. Sliding between your thighs like he’d never unlearned you. His fingers found your clit and began to move in circles. You pressed your palms flat against the counter while the rest of you burned. Your eyes fluttered shut, not from modesty, but from the overwhelming feeling of being touched like this again. 

“Look,” he murmured against your ear, his breath brushing your neck. “Open your eyes.”

You obeyed just as your other hand reached for his thigh, gripping him as he began to pick up the pace. 

“Still know what you like.”

“Yeah,” you managed, tilting your head to the side, giving him more of your neck, your shoulder, whatever he wanted. “You never forgot.”

“Not once.”

Your eyes flicked back to the mirror, to the image of yourself, the image of him working you over and through. “You always did like watching.” 

“Only when it’s you.”

You would’ve scolded him for that comment, because he wasn’t allowed to say things like that anymore. But clearly neither of you were great at following boundaries, your current predicament becoming your prime example. You felt his fingers grab your waist a little tighter, like he couldn't believe you were his again, even if it was only for now. 

Then your balance wavered as he slid his fingers inside you, one, then another, your mouth conjuring a moan before you had the chance to stop it. You could feel yourself getting close, the release edging up fast after months without anything that didn’t start and end with your own hands. 

“Right there, isn’t it?” he asked, fingers curling in a way that made it impossible to answer. All you could do was nod, over and over again until his name tore from your lips as you came. 

His palm braced against your stomach, keeping you upright as your body bowed forward. He didn’t say anything, just gave you a minute to collect your bearings. And when your breathing started to even out, you felt him reach around you, gathering the straps of your dress that had fallen before he retied the knot at your neck. The same one you’d asked him to undo. Go figure.

A knock at the door brought the two of you back to reality, causing you both to stiffen.

“Everything okay in there?” Emily’s voice called.

“Yeah,” you answered, mid cough. “All good. Be out in a sec!”

There was a pause, just long enough to think she’d walked away, before you heard her add, “Will that be both of you?”

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[monzabee]

alina you are the only one who can make me read a smut fic about david rossi and i'm feeling so many mixed feelings?? WHY AM I INTO IT? what is happening to me and more importantly.... HOW DO WE GET MORE?? it's safe to say i'm obsessed and it's all because of you🤭

BEHAVED FOR SEVEN

pairing: david rossi x reader summary: you’ve got a tradition for every red light stop, but a few cocktails in, you’re thinking it might be due for an upgrade, based on this request. warnings | an: p in v car sex, age gap, several old man jokes, light praise kink, viagra mention, umm dats it me thinks? word count: 1.3k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Your heels clacked—dragged, really—against the scruffy pavement. The concrete had long given up on clean lines, curving beneath your steps like it was trying to guide you somewhere. Home, maybe. Or, for now, to your boyfriend’s car.

You hadn’t even noticed the sleek, overpriced thing at first, its tinted windows looking wildly out of place on the sticky street littered with drunken aftermath, until it flashed its headlights twice. You perked up like a cat, grinning as Rossi stepped out behind the wheel. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” you teased, voice syrupy as your eyes shamelessly dragged over him, like you hadn’t been texting him your location the entire time. 

“I see you indulged in the fruity cocktails?” he chuckled, his hand already finding your waist.

“You know me,” you hummed, curling into him a little more than strictly necessary. “I only had four… five? Who’s counting?”

“Clearly not you,” he muttered, more amused than disapproving. “Come on, let’s get you in the car.”

He guided you towards the vehicle, though you didn’t exactly make the short distance easy. Your hand kept trailing up and down his chest, while your body leaned in just close enough for your hardened nipples to brush against his side with every other step.

“You always this bossy, or is it just when I’m a little tipsy and wearing heels?” you asked sweetly as he opened the door. 

“You’re impossible.”

“But charming,” you countered eagerly, brushing your fingers along the line of his collar. “And incredibly hot.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother arguing. “Get in the car, dolcezza mia.”

You slid in with a smile that promised trouble, letting your dress shift just enough to tease. He closed the door behind you with a heavy exhale and made his way around to the driver’s side, slipping in beside you.

You behaved for all of seven minutes, right until the car stopped at a red light. 

You rested your hand on his thigh, turning slightly in your seat so the streetlight caught the shimmer of your dress, the one he had insisted on buying. “We’re at a red light,” you said softly, tapping a finger against your lips, lipstick smudged from your last drink. “Pay up, handsome.”

His eyes zoned in on your delicate mouth. “You never forget, do you?”

“Tradition is important. And so is kissing me.”

He didn’t need any more prompting. 

Rossi leaned in, one hand still on the wheel, the other cradling your jaw. Usually, you’d work up to tongue, but not tonight. Tonight, you wanted him guessing exactly which cocktails had passed your lips.

So you darted your tongue in, sighing against him as he matched your efforts, deepening the kiss like it had been his idea in the first place. And your hands, so pretty and polished, found their lawful place at his belt, the embossed leather familiar under your fingertips, the buckle practically begging to be undone. Amongst other things. 

“Pull the car over,” you murmured against his mouth.

You were met with a rocky “Seriously?”

“Deadly, baby,” you whispered, palming him through his chinos. “Unless you think it’s past your bedtime. Need to check your blood pressure first? Or should I grab the viagra from the glove box?”

“You’re such a brat, you know that?” 

“Only because you let me be one. Now come on, are you gonna pull this thing over, or am I going to have to do this while you drive? Don’t think Hotch would be too thrilled getting a call this late to bail us out of jail.”

He cursed under his breath, something in Italian you were far too preoccupied to translate. The second the light turned green, he took a sharp left, pulling into a side street where there were—hopefully—no prying eyes. Not that you’d mind an audience.

He barely killed the engine before you flung off your seatbelt, already climbing over the console. Your dress hiked up past your thighs as you slid into his lap, rolling your hips into him under the pretense of getting comfortable.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes dragging down to the bare skin of your legs, the hem of your dress bunched obscenely at your waist. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Why would I? We’re on a timer, old man.” Your hands were back on his belt buckle now, actually undoing it this time and within seconds, you confirmed that, no, viagra would not be needed on this occasion. You glanced up at him with a smirk. “Huh. Guess you’ve still got it.”

“Glad we’ve established I’m not completely past my prime.”

You huffed a laugh, slipping a hand into his boxers and wrapping your fingers around his cock, pulling him free with an appreciative hum. “Well,” you said airly, “they really don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

His response stalled on the tip of his tongue and transposed into a hiss as you lined him up and dragged his length through your wet folds. Rossi’s hand clamped down on your hip, leaving pretty little bruises to remember this night by in the morning. 

“You keep that up and this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”

“Oh, well we wouldn’t want that—” you shifted forward just enough to glide his tip over your clit, “—would we?”

He didn’t answer, just inhaled sharply through his nose, knuckles pale where they gripped you. You lowered yourself onto him bit by bit, letting out a shaky breath as your body took him in. His head dropped back against the seat, eyes shutting for a second before he looked back up at you. You weren’t smug anymore. You were too full for that.

“You alright?”

You nodded, hands coming to rest on his shoulders for balance. “Yeah. Just–jesus.”

“That’s about right.” 

His hands began guiding your hips and you eased into his touch, matching his efforts, reveling in the feeling of him being exactly where you’d been craving all night. This wasn’t your usual setup, no candles, no soft sheets, no expensive wine. Sure, the car was expensive, but everything else about this was messy and a little chaotic. Your back rocked against the steering wheel with each thrust, probably leaving leather burn as another admiration piece for later, and your hand kept slipping against the fogged-up window, the cool condensation coating your palm.

“Atta’ girl,” he muttered, so low you almost missed it.

You swallowed hard around the praise. 

“Yeah,” be breathed, “right there.”

You nodded—at nothing, really—too far gone to form a proper thought, the tension blooming low in your stomach, your thighs already starting to shake. Your dress was sticking to your skin in all the worst places, fingers curling tightly in his shirt, doing what they could to keep you upright. But all of those efforts were dismissed the moment his mouth latched onto the curve of your breast, teeth grazing the skin.

“Fuck, baby–I’m c-close,” you gasped, tipping your head back.

You let him take over, feeling your body begin to seize up. And you’d feel bad—if you weren’t seconds from coming—because this, all of this, trying to manoeuvre you in a cramped car definitely couldn’t be good for his back, knees, arms… neck? But you’d save the guilt for tomorrow, let him groan about what a spoiled brat you were while you pressed a heat patch to whatever sore muscle needed it most.

Your body clenched around him, thighs bracketing his as you slowed your pace considerably just as your orgasm hit. Your limbs went limp and loose and all you could feel was Rossi gripping your lower back, pushing you down onto him, as deep as he could go, groaning as he spilled inside you.

You were still slumped against him, chest to chest, catching your breath when he finally spoke. “Well, there goes my spine.”

You laughed, leaning back to try and sort your dress. “We could’ve waited.”

“Could’ve?” He raised his eyebrow at you. “You told me to pull the car over or you’d climb into my lap while I was driving. Not really the same thing, sweetheart.”

“Details,” you shrugged, attempting to smooth your hair. “Think you can go for round two?”

“You want to call an ambulance now, or wait until I’m unconscious on the floor?”

[monzabee]

spencer reid

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WHY IS UNC POSTING THIRST TRAPS ON A RANDOM WEDNESDAY

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hugo_official The ultimate statement piece The HUGO x RB leather jacket has landed, ft. an embossed Bull logo, blue piping, and pure attitude

[monzabee]

Hotch in Fisher King part II

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🫦🫦🫦🫦