reidology13

[reidology13]

i hate these fucking assholes

Hotchreid when it comes to looking at the other while they are not looking

[reidology13]

You belong with me. 💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤

Letter on my site :)

[reidology13]

emily prentiss being hot as fuck 1/?

3.04 children of the dark

[reidology13]

They look so married here

[reidology13]

YOU say its a "father-son" dynamic I say, imma make them fuck

[reidology13]

save a horse, ride a cowboy

[reidology13]

I love u babyyy tysm ur literally my idol it means sm when u like my writing <333

A House In Nebraska

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

cw: angst, references to sex, very mild and metaphorical cannibalism, depression, no happy ending wc: 1.4k a/n: wrote this in like two days after having literally no motivation for monthsss and I'm actually so proud of it. a little different to my usual stuff, but probably one of my favourite pieces that i've ever written!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

As the sun set below the horizon, memories slipped in alongside the shadows, filling the cracks in the foundation of your mind. Most nights you still thought about him, the soft and sweet boy from your reckless youth.

It was a sweltering summer the year you moved to California for university, made worse by the fast shift from East to West Coast. Friends hadn’t been high on your list of priorities, and by the end of your first semester, the window had passed, your peers dividing easily into their social groups. You existed comfortably on the edge, too overwhelmed by schoolwork for the ever-present loneliness to take hold, merely a vague sensation contributing to your exponentially pessimistic worldview. It haunted your empty dorm that first year, that room you never let become a home, caught up in all the wrong things and refusing to admit that you were stuck. 

And then you saw him, a scrawny little thing lingering around one of your professors during the first days of your second year. Her TA, he said, and you pulled him aside after the lecture to interrogate him, chest tightening when he laughed at your reaction to his age. The same age as you, starting his third doctorate, you thought he was the most amazing person you’d ever met. You told him as much, revelling in the gentle flush that spread across his cheeks, that you had brought out of him.

His eyes found yours during every class, his hand found yours in the courtyard afterwards, fingers intertwined over lunch. 

The night you snuck him into an old abandoned building on the outskirts of the campus, dragging him behind you through the gap in the chicken wire fence. He complained, droning on about the legal repercussions, although he never once tried to stop you. That seemed to be how he coped, if he spoke through every possible scenario, he would be prepared for the absolute worst. The way your first kiss had been preceded by what seemed to start as a question, unravelling into a tangent about consent. You’d ended up kissing him, partially to shut him up, mostly because rambling looked far too good on him.

You kissed him again that night, in that old house while he tried to explain the potential health and safety risks—from unsound infrastructure to rot and germs—until he lost the ability to talk at all. He didn’t seem to care much about any hazards after that, in that quiet room of easy movements and confessions.

As the chill of fall grew, the draughty old remains were nothing against even the mildest of winds, and you were pushed out of your makeshift home. You found small cafes with cozy corners where you could pretend there was no one else. And when the sign flipped to ‘closed’ you trudged through the yellowing leaves or rain to your dorm, thankful for the single-room setup that had caused you such isolation that first year.

It took you three months to find the right birthday present for him, a skinny purple scarf whose thread seemed to be woven from his essence. You wrapped it around his neck and told him that the colour brought out the green flecks in his eyes while he tried to kiss you in thanks. You let him, and you let him promise that he would never get rid of it, that he would wear it until it fell apart, and you promised that if that day ever came, you would find him an even better one.

You split the Halloween celebrations, the evening reserved for a costumed horror reading at a local library, followed by a Halloween party in a warehouse. He made it five steps inside before the loud music and pathogen-infested landscape had you taking him back to your dorm for a Halloween movie marathon and caramel corn under warm blankets that you both agreed was far better.

Then there was the first Christmas, gifts traded between soft kisses and whispers of a future you were so sure was yours to keep.

Winter gave way to spring, flowers sprouting on the lawn, handcrafted for him to weave through the strands of your hair and tuck behind your ear. You migrated back to your vacant house that was quickly filled with life—memories, moments, experiences, two heartbeats bound by one rhythm—and nothing more.

When you were evicted from your dorm that summer, he offered up his university-funded, off-campus apartment. There was little about him that managed to surprise you by then, but you did find yourself disconcerted by the realisation that in a year of knowing each other, you’d never seen where he lived. Not that it mattered for long, toothbrushes resting side by side in his bathroom, reminiscent of two figures curled up on the couch and tangled in pristine sheets that smelled like him.

He’d finished his doctorate in engineering halfway through the year, you’d ordered chicken tandoori from his favourite Indian place down the street and watched Doctor Who reruns in celebration.

In the midwinter chill, you snuck back under the chicken wire fence, his old jacket wrapped around you where you stood on the edge of the world you’d built. There was no complaining voice in your ear, no spindly hand in yours, no soft breath on the back of your neck, only icy wind brushing through your hair. The silence was eerie, no long-winded rambles that should have been boring, would have been, if they’d come from anyone else’s lips. 

Sat on the frigid concrete floor until your legs went numb—whether from the cold or the lack of movement, you didn’t know—and only then did you move to that dirty mattress in the middle of the floor. You lay on his side, and you swore you could feel the outline of his body under you, the impression he had left sticking to your skin. Tears fell, spreading as they hit the fabric, forming dark circles to match those that stained the skin under your eyes. You pulled his jacket tighter around you, breathed in the smell of him that was fading all too quickly.

You’d moved back home after finishing your Master’s four years ago, found a scrawny little studio apartment in D.C. that you could barely afford the rent for, but at least you could say you were independent. That seemed to be your measure of success these days—how little you needed anyone else. 

Over the years, you’d spent too much of your time thinking about him, where he was, what happened after he was taken away. Him and his stupid layers in the West Coast heat, you doubted he would survive the winters in the East. He’d probably ended up as a researcher, one day his name would show up in some important paper alongside a possible cure for schizophrenia, he’d always wanted to find one.

Sometimes, you’d open up the box under your bed, empty it piece by piece, and pack it away again. There was no logical reason for it, it was a ritual of what had to be self-harm, reliving every moment and contemplating how you lost it. It was less common now, but you still pulled the jacket on over your pyjamas when the winters grew especially cold. Flicked through the polaroids of you he’d been obsessed with taking that first spring, the pictures of him few and far between. A camera shoved in his face while he complained that he never looked good in them, the rare candid shots that he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

It felt like a dream, a year and a half of peace jutting out awkwardly from everything that came before and afterwards. An anomaly only proven real by the visual documentation of those photographs. Maybe he had taken them for the sole purpose of never letting you forget, and maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe you didn’t want to use a flimsy glue stick of amnesia to fruitlessly seal the cracks in your heart that he’d left you with. 

Maybe you wanted to carefully split it into each little segment with delicate fingers, laugh on a picnic blanket as you fed it to him piece by piece until you were a part of him he wouldn’t be able to leave behind.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast - Comment to be added <3

[reidology13]

A House In Nebraska

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

cw: angst, references to sex, very mild and metaphorical cannibalism, depression, no happy ending wc: 1.4k a/n: wrote this in like two days after having literally no motivation for monthsss and I'm actually so proud of it. a little different to my usual stuff, but probably one of my favourite pieces that i've ever written!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

As the sun set below the horizon, memories slipped in alongside the shadows, filling the cracks in the foundation of your mind. Most nights you still thought about him, the soft and sweet boy from your reckless youth.

It was a sweltering summer the year you moved to California for university, made worse by the fast shift from East to West Coast. Friends hadn’t been high on your list of priorities, and by the end of your first semester, the window had passed, your peers dividing easily into their social groups. You existed comfortably on the edge, too overwhelmed by schoolwork for the ever-present loneliness to take hold, merely a vague sensation contributing to your exponentially pessimistic worldview. It haunted your empty dorm that first year, that room you never let become a home, caught up in all the wrong things and refusing to admit that you were stuck. 

And then you saw him, a scrawny little thing lingering around one of your professors during the first days of your second year. Her TA, he said, and you pulled him aside after the lecture to interrogate him, chest tightening when he laughed at your reaction to his age. The same age as you, starting his third doctorate, you thought he was the most amazing person you’d ever met. You told him as much, revelling in the gentle flush that spread across his cheeks, that you had brought out of him.

His eyes found yours during every class, his hand found yours in the courtyard afterwards, fingers intertwined over lunch. 

The night you snuck him into an old abandoned building on the outskirts of the campus, dragging him behind you through the gap in the chicken wire fence. He complained, droning on about the legal repercussions, although he never once tried to stop you. That seemed to be how he coped, if he spoke through every possible scenario, he would be prepared for the absolute worst. The way your first kiss had been preceded by what seemed to start as a question, unravelling into a tangent about consent. You’d ended up kissing him, partially to shut him up, mostly because rambling looked far too good on him.

You kissed him again that night, in that old house while he tried to explain the potential health and safety risks—from unsound infrastructure to rot and germs—until he lost the ability to talk at all. He didn’t seem to care much about any hazards after that, in that quiet room of easy movements and confessions.

As the chill of fall grew, the draughty old remains were nothing against even the mildest of winds, and you were pushed out of your makeshift home. You found small cafes with cozy corners where you could pretend there was no one else. And when the sign flipped to ‘closed’ you trudged through the yellowing leaves or rain to your dorm, thankful for the single-room setup that had caused you such isolation that first year.

It took you three months to find the right birthday present for him, a skinny purple scarf whose thread seemed to be woven from his essence. You wrapped it around his neck and told him that the colour brought out the green flecks in his eyes while he tried to kiss you in thanks. You let him, and you let him promise that he would never get rid of it, that he would wear it until it fell apart, and you promised that if that day ever came, you would find him an even better one.

You split the Halloween celebrations, the evening reserved for a costumed horror reading at a local library, followed by a Halloween party in a warehouse. He made it five steps inside before the loud music and pathogen-infested landscape had you taking him back to your dorm for a Halloween movie marathon and caramel corn under warm blankets that you both agreed was far better.

Then there was the first Christmas, gifts traded between soft kisses and whispers of a future you were so sure was yours to keep.

Winter gave way to spring, flowers sprouting on the lawn, handcrafted for him to weave through the strands of your hair and tuck behind your ear. You migrated back to your vacant house that was quickly filled with life—memories, moments, experiences, two heartbeats bound by one rhythm—and nothing more.

When you were evicted from your dorm that summer, he offered up his university-funded, off-campus apartment. There was little about him that managed to surprise you by then, but you did find yourself disconcerted by the realisation that in a year of knowing each other, you’d never seen where he lived. Not that it mattered for long, toothbrushes resting side by side in his bathroom, reminiscent of two figures curled up on the couch and tangled in pristine sheets that smelled like him.

He’d finished his doctorate in engineering halfway through the year, you’d ordered chicken tandoori from his favourite Indian place down the street and watched Doctor Who reruns in celebration.

In the midwinter chill, you snuck back under the chicken wire fence, his old jacket wrapped around you where you stood on the edge of the world you’d built. There was no complaining voice in your ear, no spindly hand in yours, no soft breath on the back of your neck, only icy wind brushing through your hair. The silence was eerie, no long-winded rambles that should have been boring, would have been, if they’d come from anyone else’s lips. 

Sat on the frigid concrete floor until your legs went numb—whether from the cold or the lack of movement, you didn’t know—and only then did you move to that dirty mattress in the middle of the floor. You lay on his side, and you swore you could feel the outline of his body under you, the impression he had left sticking to your skin. Tears fell, spreading as they hit the fabric, forming dark circles to match those that stained the skin under your eyes. You pulled his jacket tighter around you, breathed in the smell of him that was fading all too quickly.

You’d moved back home after finishing your Master’s four years ago, found a scrawny little studio apartment in D.C. that you could barely afford the rent for, but at least you could say you were independent. That seemed to be your measure of success these days—how little you needed anyone else. 

Over the years, you’d spent too much of your time thinking about him, where he was, what happened after he was taken away. Him and his stupid layers in the West Coast heat, you doubted he would survive the winters in the East. He’d probably ended up as a researcher, one day his name would show up in some important paper alongside a possible cure for schizophrenia, he’d always wanted to find one.

Sometimes, you’d open up the box under your bed, empty it piece by piece, and pack it away again. There was no logical reason for it, it was a ritual of what had to be self-harm, reliving every moment and contemplating how you lost it. It was less common now, but you still pulled the jacket on over your pyjamas when the winters grew especially cold. Flicked through the polaroids of you he’d been obsessed with taking that first spring, the pictures of him few and far between. A camera shoved in his face while he complained that he never looked good in them, the rare candid shots that he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

It felt like a dream, a year and a half of peace jutting out awkwardly from everything that came before and afterwards. An anomaly only proven real by the visual documentation of those photographs. Maybe he had taken them for the sole purpose of never letting you forget, and maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe you didn’t want to use a flimsy glue stick of amnesia to fruitlessly seal the cracks in your heart that he’d left you with. 

Maybe you wanted to carefully split it into each little segment with delicate fingers, laugh on a picnic blanket as you fed it to him piece by piece until you were a part of him he wouldn’t be able to leave behind.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast - Comment to be added <3

[reidology13]

User reidology13 found writing a fic in less than three months... reidology13 found posting twice in three days. There must be something in the air (new fic out in like an hour)

[reidology13]

meet me in the hallway - chapter two

Spencer Reid x fem victim!reader

cw: fluff, angst, drug addiction, non-graphic depictions of injury, insecurities, really fucking bad parenting, pain medication, r almost has a panic attack lowkey, we start teasing r's trauma wc: 3k a/n: So this took... a lot longer than I thought it would. I'm so sorry to anyone who read the first part in January and thought you would get a quick update. I thought so too, but here we are!

Chapter 1

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

After Spencer left the room, you fell back asleep quickly, the exhaustion taking over you as you turned over the interactions in your head. The sleep was restless, waking up often to pains or nurses stabbing you with needles and asking you ridiculous questions that they clearly already had the answers to. But eventually, the hints of morning light started to filter through the curtains, sixteen hours of drifting in and out of sleep finally over. It wasn’t long after that things started to pick up around your bed.

It started when you saw Hotchner outside of your room, talking to one of the nurses. Then JJ arrived, an ominously large stack of forms in hand, luckily only one of them landed in your lap when she entered the room.

“You need to fill this out, it’s just a written agreement to everything that you’ve already verbally agreed to. I promise there aren’t any weird clauses, but you can read through it if you want to be sure.” You were too tired to care all that much whether there was some odd trap in the margins as you skimmed over it, although you couldn’t imagine why the FBI would do that to you of all people. You quickly signed on every dotted line before handing the paper back to JJ, gesturing to the large stack in her arms.

“Where are all of those going?”

“A lot of people in this hospital have seen you alive, these are my personal nightmare.” She gave you a tired smile, tapping the stack as if to show it off before she hurried out of the room, a bounce in her step as she headed off to deal with people who likely wouldn’t sign papers as easily as you had.

After another hour of watching out of the window, you saw Spencer walk up to Hotchner, a small bag in hand, glancing over at you every few moments. You caught his eye, and he waved to you, saying something short to Hotchner before taking a few steps to the doorway, poking his head into the room.

“We should be leaving pretty soon now, I brought some clothes from your apartment. I wasn’t sure what you would like to wear, so I brought three tops, two bottoms, a pair of shoes…” He faltered, trailing off for a moment as he tried to figure out how to say whatever he was going to say next, “I also, uh, brought some underclothes, sorry for the invasion of privacy.”

“It’s fine, Spencer, thank you for bringing my stuff.” You smiled at how needlessly uncomfortable he was, adorably unnerved about something so normal. You sat up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and taking the bag from him, choosing some of the items and standing up, “I’m just gonna head to the bathroom.”

He nodded silently, seeming relieved at the fact you hadn’t started screaming at him, or whatever he was scared you would do. You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you and shedding the itchy hospital gown. You hissed with each pull of your stitches as your skin stretched over your ribs when you pulled your shirt over your head. The movement was more than you were used to from the past few days in hospital, only moving to go to the toilet or for short walks around your room to help with recovery.

You heard his voice coming through the closed door, even from the muffled sound you could hear the urgency in his tone. Opening the door, you saw him standing exactly where you left him, phone to his ear, hunched over in that way people did when they were trying to hide whatever they were talking about.

“Thanks, JJ.” He hung up, snapping shut the phone and placing it in his pocket, starting what could only be described as a frantic pace around the room.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a leak, you are officially alive and well. We need to get you to the safe house now.” He almost murmured the words under his breath, like he was talking to himself more than to you.

You didn’t respond, you didn’t have the words to, just followed him out of the room as the realisation settled over you that according to FBI profilers, you were now at the top of the killer’s hit list. You spared a thought for JJ, how much work she had put into keeping your survival a secret, only for it to be too late.

Being moved undercover from a hospital to a safe house wasn’t exactly a common occurrence for you. Overall, it was unenjoyable, but that was mostly to do with the fact that curling up in a janitor’s trolley is not comfortable when you have a healing stab wound. The apartment was large, nice, exactly what you would expect from the area, bending in perfectly, although you had no idea what it looked like from the outside. You would have explored further, but your stitches were pulling, you were tired, and the thought of lying down in an actual bed was too tempting to turn down. Getting dibs on the bigger of the two rooms, you employed Spencer to help move your things from the living room to your new abode for the next… while.

Once everything had been moved, you paid him back by carrying the few light bags and boxes you could into his room. Spencer offered you a glass of water for your hard work, and you thanked him with a tired smile, one he had seen many times during your short acquaintance. You were exhausted after the moving, practically collapsing onto your new bed, except that would have been agonising, so instead you very carefully laid yourself down on the pristine sheets. It almost felt wrong after the week spent on the hard bed with scratchy sheets, but despite your initial rejection the blankets embraced you, taking you into their soft arms. In a matter of moments you were fast asleep, lying vaguely nestled amongst the covers.

.*☆¸•

The next morning, the untouched glass sat on your bedside table.

You went through the motions, it took you somewhere between five minutes and half an hour to drag yourself out of bed, the blankets doing their best to pull you back down into the blissful abyss of sleep. You were forced to brush your teeth with your non-dominant hand—a habit you were picking up very slowly—to keep your stitches from pulling, making the ordeal take significantly longer than it should have. It gave you time to think, as if you hadn’t had plenty of that in the past week, practically tied to the hospital bed. You wondered how on earth you ended up there, supposedly at the top of a serial killer’s hit list, in a safe house with an FBI agent that you were growing increasingly fond of by the day. Five days clean—well, apart from the pain meds you were on, but even those were at a low dosage. Speaking of,

“Hey, are you up?” Spencer’s voice called from the other side of your bedroom door, “You should take your medication now.”

“Just a moment.” You put down your tooth brush and exited the ensuite, opening the bedroom door to let him in.

“Thanks.” He skirted around you awkwardly, stepping into the room, which he didn’t really need to do, since he was just giving you your meds, but you didn’t really mind. You were starting to think that he could get away with a lot of things around you.

“Why’s it so important I take them now? Are there, like, side effects? Or…” You trailed off, not really sure what else it could be. You’d been fed the medication through an IV in the hospital, so you hadn’t needed to pay much attention to when the nurse added them. Maybe if you took them five minutes late you would shrivel up and die.

“It’s not really, I just calculated when would be the most efficient time to take them, factoring in variations of metabolism throughout the day.” You had to admit, whatever mathematical equations he had going in his head, it was kind of cute how much he cared.

“Oh.” The clinical approach he had to your health had the potential to be either very useful or very annoying, probably both.

“Neat, huh?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, despite having absolutely no idea what he was talking about, he sounded certain enough that you trusted him.

“Are you okay to take them with the water?” He gestured to the cup on your nightstand before glancing up at you again, those soft brown eyes clearly worried about making your situation as pleasant as possible, “I could get you some milk, if you want.”

“Babe, you don’t get to where I am without knowing how to dry swallow.”

“You’re not funny.” Rolling your eyes at his lack of humour, you plucked the little cup of pills out of his hands.

“I’m a little funny.” You pinched your fingers together in front of his face, huffing as he pushed your hand away from him. You took the pills he gave you, swallowing them all without water, as if to prove a point that certainly didn’t need proving.

“Please drink some water now, if one of those pills gets stuck in your esophagus it could have inflammatory effects.”

“Anything for you.” You winked, handing him back the now-empty cup before walking over to your nightstand to grab the glass, taking a few sips of water.

“O-kay… You should have breakfast now.” Spencer dodged your gaze nervously, ever the stereotype of the awkward nerd, although you supposed that to end up in the FBI he had to have some hidden edge.

“Why?” You groaned, not quite ready to force yourself out of your room.

“To make sure your stomach can handle the medication.” He started back towards the door, clearly expecting you to follow him.

“Can I at least change first?” You were still in your clothes from the day before, you hadn’t showered, you felt disgusting.

“Oh, of course, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise.” You laughed as he rushed out of the door.

You headed back to the bathroom, quickly showering before getting dressed in the easiest thing for you to put on—a loose dress with no zips or buttons that would complicate your movements. Holding the neck open, you stepped into it, pulling it up over your hips and slipping your arms into the sleeves before shrugging it into place with a wince.

As you slunk into the kitchen, you breathed in the smells of breakfast with a sigh, your stomach rumbling with the fervour of someone who hadn’t eaten in days. Which wasn’t that far from the truth, having not eaten since lunch the day before.

“Whatcha making?” You leaned forward, your forearms resting against the kitchen island as you watched Spencer standing over the stove.

“Eggs, how do you like them?” He made a face when you told him that made it obvious the two of you had very different tastes. You snickered at that, this man who was so pretentious about eggs, of all things.

“You could at least pretend not to judge me.”

“I’m not!” He raised his hands in surrender, his voice pitching up defensively as you circled around the bench and walked towards him, as if your movement was a threat to his safety.

“You’re quite skittish for an agent, aren’t you?” You teased, wincing slightly as you hopped up to sit on the bench behind him.

“I’m also making you breakfast, so maybe try to be nice.” He said, serving the finished eggs onto a piece of toast on a plate, and held it out for you to take from him. You placed it down on the bench beside you, pulling out the drawer right next to your knees and finding the cutlery, taking out a knife and fork.

“I wasn’t being mean, I was making an observation.” You cut a piece from your toast, stabbing it with your fork and bringing it to your lips as he cracked a few more eggs into the pan for his own breakfast.

“Sure.” He murmured, distracted by his cooking efforts, seemingly not the most practiced chef.

“Fuck, these are good.” You praised, mouth still full of eggs and toast.

“Not so rude now, are we?” If you were writing a list of words to describe Doctor Spencer Reid, it would be becoming increasingly contradictory: Annoying, sweet, analytical, dense, awkward, smooth, nervous, and now smug.

You didn’t say anything in response, deciding to forego a spat in favour of enjoying the food he’d made, although maybe part of its deliciousness was that you hadn’t eaten anything but hospital food for a week. The two of you sat in silence as he cooked his eggs, plated them, and sat on the bench next to you, your knees knocking into each other as you both ate. When you were both finished, Spencer took your plates to the sink, and you watched in silence as he washed up. Before you could start to feel guilty, he passed you a hand towel and pressed a plate into your hand. Only once everything was washed, dried, and put away, did he speak.

“We’re gonna have to start working soon.” He helped you come down from the bench, holding your weight in just the right places to keep your pain as minimal as possible, “The unsub could take another victim any day now.”

“Yeah, about that. What am I supposed to do?” The way he talked about it, it was like he expected you to be more than the witness you were. Which, given the fact that you’d never been part of a murder investigation before, and that you weren’t exactly the brightest, didn’t seem like it was going to be very useful for the case.

“You have a specialised knowledge of the world we—and likely our unsub—are working in.” He gestured to the penthouse you were in, which really wasn’t that fancy, if you were being honest.

“That’s not going to help you much, I don’t know what to look for.”

“You’ll learn, I’ll teach you.” You’d been told by countless people that you were an impossible student, you doubted his efforts would work, but resisting was only going to make him push harder. Better to let him figure it out himself.

“Cool, so when do we start?” Stepping away from him slightly—needing to put some distance between you and your lie by omission—you walked to the fridge, pouring yourself a glass of water. You let the cold liquid slip down your throat, soothing it, freezing it for a moment, silencing you.

“First, you’re just going to do your job as a witness. Ideally, we would’ve taken your statement once you were conscious in the hospital, but you were coming down hard and any statements would’ve been unreliable. So, make yourself at home, and I’ll take your statement after lunch, does that sound good?”

“I think I can do that.” You weren’t sure you could do anything else, though.

Drifting away from Spencer, you set off to explore the apartment, a modest three bedrooms with an ensuite for each, a guest bathroom, a dining room—no chandelier—a large study, a living room. Nice, not too fancy. There was a grand piano in the living room, you’d taken lessons as a child, but it had been a long time since you’d cared to play. You looked away from it quickly, feeling your breath speed up uncomfortably at the memories that came with playing it. You weren't a fan of the living room.

The study was much nicer, you decided, a small couch in one corner of the room, you noticed your violin in another. Crossing the room, you gently plucked it from its stand. The instrument you’d continued to play throughout the years, it came to you naturally.

Lifting it to your shoulder, you placed your chin on the rest, your fingers already in place. Your breathing calmed, mind quieting at the feeling, at the sound as you slowly dragged the bow across the strings. Music filled the room as you tapped your foot to the familiar beat in your head. Your fingers danced along the strings instinctively, with a careful, delicate precision.

You played until your fingers hurt too much to continue, the melody dying with one final tremor.

“You're good.”

“Thanks.” You placed the violin back down on the stand with a smile, your voice shaking slightly with surprise, having not noticed your audience of one.

“It's good to have a hobby, a distraction.” He crossed his arms over his chest, as if shielding himself from the world.

You nodded, “Yeah, helps a bit.” It didn't help enough, you could only play for so long before the ache of your fingers brought you back to reality. And once you were back in reality, unfriendly memories slipped through the cracks. You had the urge to ask him what he did, his distraction, but that would be overstepping.

“I play chess.” He answered your unasked question, using his ridiculously accurate mind reading skills, “If you ever want a match.”

“I’ve never played before.” You’d never been inclined to learn, the general consensus between your friends and family was that it wasn't exactly your pace, a little too complex.

“I can teach you?”

“Sure, yeah.” You agreed, more to appease him than anything.

“We have a few hours before lunch, should be enough time for you to learn the basics.” He gestured to the couch, and you sat down on it as he walked to the desk, taking out a mobile chess set and placing it down in front of you. He pulled the desk chair over to the table, opposite from you, and sat down.

By the time lunch came around, you had lost seven games in a row, although Spencer claimed you were incredibly talented for a beginner.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast @1mnshw @pleasantwitchgarden @pacmil @moonz33 @meowlusions @iyskgd - Comment to be added <3

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I love when Emily meets a pretty woman and bluescreens

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Fuck me they're so yummy I'm gonna screammmmm

miss possessive. [ just keep your eyes off him! ]ׂ ╰┈➤ a lawyer!aaron hotchner x paralegal!reader fic. ׂ╰┈➤ so close to what series masterlist. paralegal!reader masterlist. ׂ╰┈➤ former chapter. next chapter.

summary: at a work outing, another paralegal wastes no time in trying to remind you of your place. unfortunately, she doesn't realize that your place is with aaron hotchner. tags/warnings: afab reader, no use of y/n and no physical description of reader, tiny smidge of making out, reader sits on hotch's lap, we've finally made it past just verbal flirting guys word count: 3k notes: i fear i still kinda don't like this but it's okay i'm just a perfectionist

Smoke curls in the air of the dimly lit bar, illuminating itself in the small scraps of light before fading into nothingness. So many people are talking that you can’t make out any of the words or any of the voices, either too lost in the feeling of the condensation on your glass seeping into your skin or too focused on the uninteresting hockey game happening on the TVs mounted near the ceiling. 

Since becoming what you’d consider friends with Aaron Hotchner, you’ve found yourself attending team bonding events for the office more than you’d like. Golf games too early in the morning, bars and clubs late into the night, luncheons at fancy restaurants you couldn’t afford without the gift of a company card. Although you tended to just hang around in the corners or find other things to do, he still continuously invited you, making it clear that he’d be your ride even though you always insisted that you could take public transportation.

Now, you sat perched on a barstool, elbow leaning against the only part that wasn’t sticky from spilled drinks. The laughter of attorneys and prosecutors boomed behind you, filling up the small space, reminding you just how much you really didn’t fit in here. 

At the sound of your name, you perk up, trying to seem a bit more interested in the outing than you were. Spinning around, your focus first catches on a plume of blonde hair, messy with heat-made curls and yet somehow perfectly in place. It travels upon sharp eyeliner, long lashes coated in mascara, lips plumped with glittery lip gloss. The sight of perfection all balled up into Cassie Sharp.

Cassie had been hired as a paralegal beside you, prim and proper in her tight pencil skirts and blouses, the opposite of your slacks and slightly oversized button-ups. You hadn’t minded her at first, more so had admiration for her ability to strut in the large heels she somehow wore every day. But now, over a year into the job, you found her annoying, pushy and obnoxious. 

She always found a way to sneak in a snide remark, whether it was a honey-laced comment about how your hair just looked so good in the messy look on days you tried really hard or a suggestion for new clothing boutiques whenever you hadn’t had the chance to do laundry for a week. At first, you thought she’d get fired for either her attitude or her flirtatious comments towards superiors that definitely weren’t HR-appropriate, but it seemed like nobody caught her negativity the way you did.

Usually, in any case, you’d be able to push that away, exercise your patience as far as it could go until you were able to duck out of her presence. But the worst part was that she was dead set on seducing Aaron Hotchner. Not because she liked him, or because she didn’t have any other offers from the other prosecutors, but because she had somehow used her bloodhound nose to sniff out your crush and feel the murderous need to crush your hopes and dreams. 

She says your name again, as if you couldn’t hear her high-pitched shrill from miles away, shoving her way between the man beside you and your stool. An elbow leans against the particularly damp spot on the bar, however she doesn’t seem to notice, too busy grinning at you with a cat-like smile that reeks of mischief. A glance at her eyes reveals her intoxication, too wide with dilated pupils. 

“Hi.” You greet with an over-exaggerated kindness, returning her grin with a fake smile. Hopefully, if you play nice for the few moments she tortures you before moving on, she’ll forget about you for the rest of the night.

“It’s, like, so great to see you here! I didn’t think you’d be invited!” Cassie’s voice is akin to a squeal at all times, scratching at your eardrums and causing your left eye to twitch. “I just, well, I just feel like I never see you at any of these! It’s good to finally have company. I swear it’s like no other paralegals are here.”

Translation: I wish that I was still the only girl here so I could have all of the attention. Maybe you’re here out of a pity invite. 

Taking a deep breath in through your nose, you let it out as you speak, keeping your tone cool and collected.  “Aaron invited me. Weird that you’ve never seen me, though. I’ve gone to quite a few of the outings by now.” As much as you try, you can’t help the smarminess that seeps into your voice. 

Oh, well. You either die a hero or live long enough to become the villain. In this case, the villain is the blonde-haired succubus in front of you, who’s glossed lips part into a shocked ‘O’ before flickering into another smile in a flash.

“Must be the ones I thought were too boring. The boys tend to know what I like,” she purrs. 

You give her a scoff of a laugh before bringing your drink to your lips. Originally, you had planned to nurse a drink or two all night, but now you just hoped that alcohol would dull the sound of Cassie’s voice. Better a headache from a hangover than her grating voice. 

By the time you’ve finished gulping down the rest of your drink and turned back to her, she opens her mouth to speak again, only for her eyes to glance over your shoulder and that flirty smile start to curl on her lips. “Aaron,” she says, her tone causing your eyes to narrow at her before you follow her look. He notices your annoyance, you can tell by the small quirk on his lips and the brisk touch of his palm against the small of your back, although he doesn’t mention it. The prosecutor gives a brisk nod to Cassie in greeting, hand curling around the bar behind you to prop himself up. It gives you a spark of glee how close he is to you, not entertaining the hungry look that the other paralegal is giving him.

“Are you having a good time?” He asks, dark eyes finding you.

Cassie doesn’t get the hint. “Oh, an amazing time,” she coos. “You could buy me a drink to make it better.”

Unfortunately, Aaron’s politeness leads him, hand dipping into his pocket to pull out his wallet. With the swiftness of someone who usually offered to pay for things, he fingered out a few dollar bills, folding them over between two fingers and holding it out to Cassie. “Go ahead and get yourself something. We’re all meeting at the booth in the corner if you’d like to have them bring it there. I’m pretty sure Dennis was asking where you were.”

His voice still carries professionalism, like he was speaking with her inside of the four walls of the office rather than a dingy bar a few blocks away. You watch as Cassie practically deflates, bottom lip pushing into a pout as she takes the bills from his hand and saunters away. You don’t miss the extra sway she adds to her hips, although you’re riding too high on the fact that Aaron sent her away to worry about it.

When you look back up at him, his focus is already on your face, sending a swell of something up into your chest and stealing your voice. “Are you having a good time?” He repeats, moving to occupy the seat in front of you now that Cassie and the guy formerly occupying it were gone. 

Before you can speak, the toe of his shoe hooks underneath the bar at the bottom of your stool, pulling it closer until his knee is slotted between both of your legs. You know it’s most likely just so he can hear you better with the roar of laughter constantly coming from the corner, but that doesn’t satiate the feeling that pools deep in your gut every time your legs brush. 

“As good as I can.” Your eyes flutter over to Cassie in the corner, her manicured hand clasped over a prosecutor’s shoulder as she practically leans into his lap, laughing loudly at something another man says. “Did Dennis actually wonder where she was?”

The corners of his lips twitch, head shaking subtly. “No. But I can tell you don’t like her and I wanted to talk to you alone.”

A laugh leaves your lips at the mischievous look painted across his face when you look back at him. Your eyebrows raise at the second part of his statement, index finger tracing the lid of your empty glass. “Wanted to talk to me alone? Am I getting fired?”

Aaron’s brow furrowed at that, the lines of his forehead deepening. “I don’t think human resources would approve of me firing you inside of a dive bar while off the clock,” he says.

His tone is so serious that you can’t help but laugh again, hand brushing against his knee as you wave him off. Then, once you’re able to brush the amusement off of your face, you fix him with a mock serious stare. “I’d sue you for all you have, Hotchner.”

“Suing a lawyer is very brave,” he replies good-heartedly. Glancing at your empty glass, he gestures to it. “What do you say I get you another one and then we join everyone else?”

Before you can even think about it, a whine is pulled out of the back of your throat, one hand draping over your eyes. “Do we have to?” Then, you peel apart your fingers, peeking at him between them. “What if we just Irish-goodbyed?”

Aaron’s lips peel into a large grin, making a spark of pride travel up your spine and bloom in your chest. “Not very appropriate at a work event like this, I’m afraid. But, I’ll make you a deal.” His hand raises, long fingers closing around your wrist to pull your hand away from your face, his touch warm against your skin. You’re mesmerized as he leans in closer, his breath smelling of his normal scotch and coffee from the single espresso martini he had had to keep him awake into the late night this was sure to be. “I’ll buy you two drinks. Talk to one person other than me and finish those and then we can leave.”

You don’t want to stay. Everything in you screams for you to say no, to leave and curl into your bed. The only person here that you actually enjoyed talking to was sitting right in front of you in your own little bubble, his knees brushing yours with every small movement, his cologne mixing with your perfume. But there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, the ones that are so intently focused on yours, that you rarely see in the office. Frankly, you’d do absolutely anything to keep his focus on you, to stay in his orbit just a little bit longer.

“Deal. But only because I like spending your money,” you lie. He catches it, because of course he does, but he just smiles anyway, waving down a bartender with a crook of his fingers.

It only takes a couple minutes for two drinks to be slid in front of you, ending the small bit of banter you had as he stands up, outer thigh pressing against the inside of yours. His fingers curl around his glass as he pushes back his stool, putting enough distance between the two of you to offer you a hand to stay up. With a reluctant pout, you take his hand, finding your footing and grabbing your drink.

The prosecutor leads the way to the booth in the corner, everyone’s eyes turning towards the two of you as you walk up. Some of the other guys hoot and holler at the sight of him, obviously a couple of beers too deep, but he just smiles politely. At first glance, you don’t see Cassie, although a quick look over your shoulder points her out easily, a collection of beers in her fingers. 

Aaron slides into the open spot on one side of the booth, indicating for everyone to scoot over to allow room for you. Everyone is eager to comply until the squeaky blonde finally gets to the table, taking the last open spot on the other side of the booth. Immediately, your mood sours, eyes narrowing into slits as you find yourself unable to hold back your glare.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Cassie glances up at you, blue eyes widening in pure, unhidden fake innocence. “Were you gonna sit here? I was just so focused on getting these boys drinks, I didn’t even notice!” Her focus flutters across the bar before her lips turn downward, pasting on a comical frown. “Maybe you could pull up a chair?”

You’re about to open your mouth and spit out pure malice when Aaron interrupts you, intercepting what could’ve been detrimental. “Nonsense.” 

You watch as he slants down in the booth, letting go of his tight posture to stretch out his long legs. Dark eyes find yours as his palm slides over his thigh. “You can sit here,” he offers, although his tone makes it seem like it isn’t much of a question.

Oh.

Oh. 

For a moment, you’re frozen in your spot, lips parted as you stare at him in disbelief. Talk about things HR wouldn’t approve of. The bar around you seems muted, the loud hoots of the other prosecutors falling on deaf ears. A single movement of his brow has you glancing over at Cassie, watching as her head whips around to stare at Aaron in pure surprise, irritation blossoming across her face at the fact that her plan hadn’t worked.

Her irritation is what fuels you to take a few steps forward, setting your glass on the table next to his scotch before perching yourself on his lap, closer to his knee. Immediately, his arm is wrapping around your waist, hand splaying across your stomach as he pulls your back to his chest, forcing you to lean into him. You are deathly aware of how his thumb brushes your sternum and his pinky sits at the top of your waistband, the warmth seeping through any of the fabric and pooling deep in your gut.

“Relax,” he murmurs into your ear, tone hushed. Your brain short-circuits. 

For the next couple of hours, you forget that you ever wanted to leave. Each laugh that comes out of Aaron’s mouth sends a rumble through the back of your chest, his fingers pressing into your stomach involuntarily, bringing you back to Earth and reminding you where you are. Every time someone brings you into the conversations, his gaze finds yours over your shoulder, drinking in every word you say. You finish the two drinks he buys you and another one purchased by Dennis, leaning into him more as the alcohol starts to settle.

It’s late in the night by the time his mouth finds the space next to your ear again, breath brushing against the sensitive skin beneath it and sending goosebumps up your arms. “Are you ready to leave?”

For a month’s worth of foolish moments, you allow yourself to believe that he means with him. You slide off of his lap and let hope spike in your chest when his hand still finds the small of your back. You let him guide you out into the cool air of the late night with hopes that he’d continue to guide you to his car. You turn towards him with parted lips in hopes that he’d say anything to keep the hope going.

Instead, when you get to his car, he asks, “Do you need a ride?” 

Disappointment causes your shoulders to deflate. You’re only aware that the emotion is visible when the line in his brow shows, dark eyes scanning your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much?” He doesn’t let you answer, stepping forward and holding up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want Cassie to win if you got angry at her. Plus, all of the other prosecutors seem to love her, so yelling at her wouldn’t have been very productive.”

For a moment, you just stare at Aaron, lips parted and eyes wide. He looks delectable, his hair mussed from running his hands through it, the top button of his button-up undone and his tie loose around his neck. His handsome face looks genuinely worried in a way that you have never seen, as if upsetting you by letting you sit on his lap was the absolute worst thing he could’ve ever done.

Before you can overthink it, your hand is grasping at his tie, curling it around your fist and pulling him closer. Your other hand braces on his chest as you stand on your tiptoes, lips finding his. 

The kiss starts off gentle, exploratory. You’re fully expecting him to push you away, to come up with some chilvarious excuse about how you had both been drinking, about how you worked well together and didn’t want to ruin it.

Instead, one of his hands curls around the side of your waist while the other threads his fingers into your hair, angling your head backwards to kiss you better. The hand on your waist pulls your chest flush against his, as if he wanted to mold your body into him, keep you there with him forever. The air around you seems to become ten degrees warmer, your clothes feeling too tight on your body as you grip at his.

Your head spins as he guides you to press your back against the side of his car, the cool metal digging into the slightly exposed skin of your back. The hand on the back of your head protecting you from hitting it against the car slides down to the nape of your neck, giving it a soft squeeze and drawing an involuntary gasp from your lips. He seizes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth as soon as your lips part, tasting and prodding and turning your entire body into something malleable and pliant.

Once his foot pushes yours to the side, allowing his thigh to plot between your legs, you are brought back to reality, giving him a soft prod to his chest as you pull away. When your eyes open, you take in the look of him, lips swollen and pupils blown. Both of you fight to catch your breath, chests heaving as you try to come up with anything to break the silence.

“Give me a ride home?” is what you come up with, head tilting. You're not sure what you mean by it, but any option that's available seems satisfying enough to you.

Still dazed, he nods, one strand of hair drooping onto his forehead as he reaches behind you to wrap his hand around the handle of his car door.

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the writing slump is so bad rn... I lowkey want to start writing for jj but idk if there's much of an audience for her which is so crazy to me actually because she's like up there with spencer and hotch for me. so idk let me know if you'd be interested in jj x reader!!

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Elle Greenaway & Aaron Hotchner Criminal Minds 1.22 – "The Fisher King: Part 1"

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emily prentiss in s4e06: the instincts