#CriminalMind

[vintagelover24]

I’m addicted to this song, the rhythm, melody, harmonies. It’s such a wonderful masterpiece. I can’t wait to see Gowan in concert. He’s so underrated as well, it’s rare you hear his name in Canada , crazy I know. He’s so sweet, very silly and seems hyper. I love that he is down to earth and communicates with his fans cause like he said once “I was a fan myself when I was young, so I will always make time to talk with them.” He’s just amazing! Yes he’s known for being the replacement lead singer from Styx but I think he’s more than that. He was Canadas’s boy, a talented man with exquisite songwriting.

[darkcasestories2024]

Singapore's Maxwell Food Centre is well-known for its delicious food, lively ambiance, and multicultural melting pot. People from many walks of life come together to share a meal, serving as a symbol of unity. Families' animated conversations and the sounds of hawkers making their favorite treats fill the food court, which is constantly alive with activity. However, beneath this vibrant and hospitable exterior, a terrible incident occurred—one that destroyed the tranquil setting. This bustling center of culture and cuisine was the scene of an unimaginable disasters in September 2024. Wu Tao, a 41-year-old Chinese national, was taken into custody for killing Ms. Tan Kamonwan, a 48-year-old Thai national, at their shared food stall. The neighborhood was left in shock as what started out as a typical night at Maxwell Food Centre swiftly turned into a scene of terror and treachery. Many people's perceptions of this formerly adored culinary destination would be permanently altered by this awful tragedy. Prepare to uncover the details of this shocking case, where friendship, trust, and life were tragically cut short.

Website: www.darkcasestories20246.wordpress.com Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/darkcasestories2024 Twitter: https://x.com/DarkCase2024

[goofygubegubler]

𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆?

Inexperienced doesn’t mean incapable—especially when you’re bent over and begging him to go deeper.

wc: 2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex, mild dominance/submission dynamics, inexperienced but eager Spencer, praise kink, slight hair pulling, deep penetration, overstimulation, mild dirty talk

A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)

Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.

You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.

And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.

"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.

"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.

His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.

But not tonight.

You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."

His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.

He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."

"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."

"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."

His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.

"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."

You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.

Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”

A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”

A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.

“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.

That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.

“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.

“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.

“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.

“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.

Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.

“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.

The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.

Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."

You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."

Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."

He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."

[yasministration]

subtle diamond rings - aaron hotchner

summary: when your coworkers discover the ring on your finger, they are immediately driven to ssa hotchner's office to ask him who your husband is. wc: 0.9k+

A hand on your forehead, deep in thought. Eyebrows furrowed, trying to make out something you had written down in a rush two days ago. Your co-workers, jaws dropped and eyes wide. A ring on your left hand, with the biggest diamond they had every seen. You hadn’t noticed your mistake yet, and they unanimously decided to give you one last moment of peace before chaos would ensue.

Sighing, you brought both your hands down to grip the corners of the paper you were trying to read from, but your attention was attracted to the light catching on your diamond ring. You smiled fondly at the ring on your finger before your eyes widened. Inhaling deeply, you let go of the document in front of you, trying to delicately slide the ring off your finger. Before you could slip it into a safe pocket of your purse, a voice was heard across from you.

“Subtle.”

Your head snapped up at the sound of Derek’s voice. “Good thing no one saw you take that ring off, am I right?” Emily added, dragging her chair closer to Derek. “That would be a disaster.” Added Spencer, leaning on the back of Derek’s chair. You swallowed thickly, at a complete loss for words, your fist gently closing around the beautiful ring. “I… Please don’t tell anyone.” You found yourself begging, but Derek only grinned. “Don’t tell anyone what?”

You froze.

There was no possibility you could ever lie to the person that voice belonged to, so you supposed if you said nothing, you’d be safe. Penelope Garcia walked in front of your desk, looking at you with arms crossed over her chest. You cleared your throat nervously, blinking slowly at the blonde. “I-uh.”

“Put it on, show it to her.”

“Put what on?”

You opened your palm, letting Penelope see the jewellery in your hand. “You’re engaged!?” You opened your mouth, not wanting to betray them any further, but it seemed that your face had revealed enough. “Married?” Spencer whispered, his mouth agape, shocked that you’d hidden a committed relationship for the course of an engagement too.

“Let’s go ask Hotch who it is!” Decided Penelope, prompting Emily and Derek to stand up in unison. “Wait, why Hotch?” “He’s the supervisory special agent. They usually know those details about their agents.” Explained Spencer. “Oh.” Emily and Derek both shot you the same look, squinting their eyes at you suspiciously. “Right, let’s go ask!” You announced, pushing yourself off your chair as you slid your ring back on.

You watched as Penelope, Derek and Spencer walked ahead of you, but Emily stayed back, her hand curling around your wrist. “Hotch?” She whispered. You blankly stared at her, guilt painting your face. “Let’s go ask Hotch.” You repeated.

You pushed past the agents lingering in Hotch’s doorway, moving to sit on the leather couch in his office. Derek and Spencer’s heads moved to watch in astonishment as you slumped on your boss’ sofa, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. “You know, I’m really starting to believe my suspicion is correct.” Noted Derek, before turning back to SSA Hotchner. “What suspicion?” Questioned Penelope.

“What are the five of you doing in here?” Hotch sighed, and you turned your gaze to stare at your lap, distracting yourself from everyone’s stares. “We want to know who y/n’s husband is.” Penelope declared, pointing at you. Hotch slowly turned his attention to you, and you swallowed thickly, shrugging your shoulders. “I forgot to take my ring off this morning.”

As though Hotch forgot he hadn’t been discovered yet, a fond smile made its way onto his face, causing your eyes to widen. “It is him.” Whispered Spencer with horror. “Him like Hotch?” Penelope looked around frantically, watching as you cringed softly, eyes still locked on your boss, sharing a look too intimate for him to only be your boss.

Your husband.

“Hotch is him!?” She shrieked, attracting the attention of JJ, who had been looking for the team, trying to call them up to the conference room. “Hey, what’s going on?” She asked softly, poking her head into the office. “These two traitors are married.” JJ laughed softly, but when no one broke character, she began looking around in confusion. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yes, agent l/n and I are married. Or, agent Hotchner, should I say?" At the squeals that came from your coworkers at the confirmation, he playfully rolled his eyes. "We have been before Prentiss joined this team. Have been in a relationship since before Reid joined. We got engaged somewhere in between.” Penelope screamed at your husband’s confession, her jaw dropping to the floor. “It seems silly to slip up now.” You mumbled, spinning the ring around on your finger. JJ gasped again, moving past her coworkers to get a closer look at the ring on your finger.

“This must have cost a fortune.” She spoke in a gossipy tone, smiling wildly when she looked up at you. “Well, it was less of a fortune back then than it would be now. Inflation. Now everyone get out of my office.”

“Oh! We have a case, by the way.” Your coworkers dispersed into the hallway outside and Hotch travelled across the room, shutting his door closed for a moment alone with you. “I’m sorry, I forgot.” You apologised, bringing up your hands up to rest on Aaron’s abdomen. He tilted his head to the side with a smile, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “Don’t be sorry. I’m happy you get to wear it now.” “I forgot to take it off after dinner.” You reiterated.

“Well, if I remember correctly, we were quite busy after dinner last night.” You felt your cheeks go hot, and reached over to open the door of Hotch’s office. “Sweetheart?” You looked back at your husband, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Happy anniversary.”

[aslamat]

The Zodiac Executioner: Exposing Northern California's Most Tricky Hunter

In the archives of American wrongdoing, hardly any names summon as much interest and fear as the Zodiac Executioner. Dynamic in Northern California during the last part of the 1960s and mid 1970s, this unidentified chronic executioner's rule of fear made a permanent imprint on the aggregate mind of the country. The Zodiac Executioner's enigmatic messages, spooky codes, and heartless killings have confused examiners and beginner detectives for quite a long time, making it perhaps of the most scandalous strange case in criminal history.

A Vile Introduction

The Zodiac Executioner's realized homicide binge started on December 20, 1968, when secondary school understudies Betty Lou Jensen and David Faraday were shot and killed close to Vallejo, California. This severe twofold murder was only the start. Throughout the following two years, the Zodiac would guarantee liability regarding no less than five additional homicides, however he bragged having killed upwards of 37 individuals.

The Homicides

*Betty Lou Jensen and David Faraday: On that critical December night, the youthful couple was stopped in a detached spot when they were trapped and killed. Jensen was shot multiple times in the back as she attempted to escape, while Faraday was shot once in the head at point-clear reach.

*Darlene Ferrin and Michael Mageau: On July 4, 1969, the Zodiac struck again in Vallejo. Ferrin and Mageau were stopped in a comparable darlings' path when they were gone after. Ferrin was killed, and Mageau made due regardless of being shot on numerous occasions, later giving police a portrayal of their assailant.

*Bryan Hartnell and Cecelia Shepard: On September 27, 1969, the Zodiac designated one more couple at Lake Berryessa. This time, he wore a killer style hood and displayed a blade, cutting the two casualties more than once. Hartnell endured the assault, however Shepard surrendered to her wounds.

*Paul Stine: The Zodiac's last affirmed casualty was Paul Stine, a San Francisco taxi driver. On October 11, 1969, Stine was shot in the head at point-clear reach. The executioner took Stine's wallet and keys, and tore a piece of his bloodied shirt to ship off to the police.

The Enigmatic Correspondence

What put the Zodiac Executioner aside from other chronic executioners was his propensity for insulting the specialists and the media. He sent a progression of obscure letters to nearby papers, loaded up with chilling brags, dangers, and puzzling codes. The most renowned of these, the 408-image figure, was broken by a secondary teacher and his significant other, uncovering an upsetting message that started with, "I like killing individuals since it is such a lot of tomfoolery."

Nonetheless, the Zodiac's most notorious code, the 340-character figure, stayed perplexing for more than 50 years until it was at long last broken in December 2020. The message, while frightful, didn't uncover the executioner's personality, keeping the secret alive.

The Examination and Suspects

Notwithstanding the broad examination, the Zodiac Executioner's character stays obscure. The case has produced various suspects, with Arthur Leigh Allen being the most unmistakable. Allen, a sentenced kid molester, was over and over addressed by police and was the subject of a court order in 1991. Be that as it may, no indisputable proof at any point connected him to the Zodiac violations.

Different suspects have included Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, and, surprisingly, a French man named Fellow Ward Hendrickson, whose little girl guaranteed he was the Zodiac. By the by, no suspect has at any point been authoritatively shown to be the scandalous executioner.

The Tradition of Dread

The Zodiac Executioner's rule of fear has left an enduring inheritance on American culture. His capacity to dodge catch, his enigmatic correspondences, and the sheer ruthlessness of his wrongdoings have motivated endless books, films, and narratives. The case stays persevering through interest for genuine wrongdoing fans and has prodded continuous examinations by both policing novice criminal investigators.

The Zodiac Executioner case fills in as a terrible sign of the hazier side of human instinct and the intricacies of criminal examination. As innovation and measurable science advance, there remains trust that one day the genuine character of the Zodiac will be uncovered, giving conclusion to the casualties' families and addressing perhaps of the most persevering through secret in American criminal history.

By digging into the Zodiac Executioner's evil adventure, we defy the chilling truth of a slippery hunter who has figured out how to get away from the grip of equity for quite a long time. The narrative of the Zodiac isn't simply a story of ghastliness yet additionally a demonstration of the persevering through journey for truth despite incomprehensible insidiousness.

[girllblogging777]

IN WHICH spencer proudly shows off his wife at the BAU

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ “that’s my girlfriend, suckers”/“my wife, even better”

the case was tiring. it was a long, exhausting day of sitting around the briefing room with the rest of the team. you were trying to stay awake, observing emily who was sitting at her usual spot next to you, and penelope on your left. frantically tapped on her keyboard.

all of you were racking your brains as you went over the documents for what felt like the hundredth time. but thanks to you, after a couple of hours and coffee refills, it was finally done.

you did it. you cracked the code. you saw the tiny detail no one did, causing everyone to finally let out a relieved breath when you explained your much plausible hypothesis.

“i don’t know what we’d do without you, pretty girl” said derek when you finished rambling, allowing himself to stretch out his arms to release the pent up tension.

you just smiled, and spencer’s eyes locked with yours from the other side of the room. he was grinning goofily, dimples showing. surprisingly, he wasn’t even slightly disappointed by the fact that he wasn’t the one to solve the case this time.

instead, he cheered happily, his hand fixing his tousled hair “that’s my girlfriend, suckers !”

but the thin silver band around your finger reflected the sunlight streaming in the room as you put the files down, like a reminder to him and everyone else.

the whole team rolled their eyes, and you didn’t miss their shared amused glances, aw well as the way rossi rolled his eyes. if noticing your sickeningly sweet behaviour had been fun when you two began dating, it was now a common occurrence for all your colleagues.

“your wife, spencer.”

he looked around, chuckling to himself at your correction, before a smile creeped up his face.

“my wife, even better !”

[thelostmagicians]

Two Teas and a Coffee | Spencer Reid

Summary: Spencer’s changed, but JJ hasn’t realized it or the aftermath of JJ’s confession and how it should’ve gone [3.3k]

Warnings: Fluff, Spencer being in love with you, angst

♡

JJ never saw it coming.  

Not at first.  

She had seen every version of Spencer Reid—the awkward genius, the baby profiler, the grieving man who had lost so much. She had seen him at his highest and his lowest, and through it all, she had always thought she knew him better than anyone else. 

So when you entered the picture, she didn’t think much of it.  

You were fresh meat, eager to prove yourself, and naturally, you gravitated toward Spencer. Everyone did, at first. His mind was a magnet for curiosity. He was brilliant, fascinating, full of facts that would bore most people into the ground  

But you weren’t most people.  

JJ noticed that much early on—how you never seemed annoyed by Spencer’s ramblings, how you never cut him off or rolled your eyes the way some of them did when he rambled on for too long. You actually listened. You asked questions. You encouraged him.  

At the time, JJ thought you were just kind. She appreciated it, really. Spencer had been lonely since Morgan left, and he needed someone. She assumed that was all you were—someone filling a space, a way to keep him from retreating back inside himself the way he had after Maeve.  

She didn’t realize it was anything more.  

Not when Spencer began seeing more of you outside work.

Not when you were the first person he asked for after a case. 

Not even when he hugged you a little too tightly after a tough day.  

—

She convinced herself it was just a close friendship. 

And then prison happened.  

JJ had cried in response to the verdict, but you were broken.  

She found you in the hall after they carried Spencer away. You were propping yourself against the wall, eyes on the floor, hands trembling at your sides. When she called your name, you didn’t look up at first. 

"You okay?" JJ asked, echoing her question to Spencer from the night before.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "No." “He didn’t deserve this,” you croaked, voice heavy with emotion.

“I know,” she said.  

“He—” You took a deep, shuddering breath. “He’s not going to be okay in there.”  

She stood beside you. "He’s strong. He’ll get through this."

You shook your head. "You don’t get it, JJ." Your voice cracked. "I can’t lose him."

JJ didn’t understand. Not then. She had always been protective of Spencer, but the way you said it was different. It wasn’t just concern—it was something deeper, something raw. And for the first time, she wondered just how much Spencer meant to you.

—

Then he got out.  

And the first person he hugged was you.

JJ had been right there, had reached for him instinctively, but before she could even take a step, Spencer had gone straight to you.  

He buried his face in your shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around you, like he needed to feel you to believe this was real. And you—God, the way you held him, whispering reassurances, grounding him—JJ had never seen anything like it.  

That should have been her first clue.  

But it wasn’t.  

Not until she told him she loved him.  

The moment the words escaped her lips, she saw the way his whole body froze. He didn’t look at her the way she had hoped, the way people do in movies when they realize they’ve been in love all along.  

He looked shocked.

And maybe—just maybe— a little disappointed. 

After they were rescued, after the chaos, after everything settled. He had gone straight to you. He didn’t come to her. Not to ask how she was doing. Not to talk about the confession. Not to do anything.

That, more than anything, sent a burning, ugly rage surging through her.  

Then, not long after, she saw him kiss you.

Before she could look away, his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life to do it.  

JJ felt something crack inside her.  

It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the way he kissed you—the certainty, the desperation, like he couldn’t bear to go another second without showing you how he felt.  

She had never seen Spencer like that before.  

Not with Maeve.  

Not with anyone.  

—

So when Spencer finally came to find her, she was already bracing for a fight.  

"You shouldn’t have told me, it wasn’t fair" he told her the second he walked into the BAU’s empty break room, his voice strained with tension.  

JJ blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "What?”  

"You shouldn’t have told me you loved me," he said again, firmer this time. "It was selfish, JJ."  

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, so now it’s selfish to tell someone how you feel?"  

"Yes!" Spencer snapped, stepping closer, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite name. "Because I didn’t need to know that. You didn’t need to say it. What did you think was going to happen? That I’d just—what? Drop everything? That I’d throw myself at you?"  

JJ flinched. "Spence—"  

"You don’t get to do that," he cut her off, a sharp edge to his voice. "I’m not your backup plan, JJ."  

"That’s not what this is about!" she shot back, feeling the heat rise in her chest.  

"Then what is it about?" Spencer demanded. "Because as far as I can tell, you dropped this confession on me after years of nothing, when I finally found someone who makes me happy. And now—now what? I’m supposed to apologize? I’m supposed to feel guilty?"  

JJ exhaled sharply, her fingernails digging into her arms. "I didn’t know I was going to say it, Spencer. I didn’t plan for this, I didn’t—”. "I don’t know what I expected!” She yelled, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "But I didn’t expect you to just—just disregard my feelings like this! I didn’t expect you to move on so fast!”  

"Fast?" Spencer laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Fast? JJ, I have spent years thinking I wasn’t good enough for anyone. I have spent years being alone, thinking no one could ever love me the way I wanted to be loved. And now, when I finally have someone who does, you think I should just—what? Erase that? Drop everything? Forget that you have a husband and a family? To wait for you?"

JJ swallowed hard, the words hitting her like a blow.  

"You never even gave me a chance to begin with," Spencer said, his voice soft, but still fierce. "And maybe, maybe there was a time where I would have jumped at this—where I would have given anything to hear you say you loved me." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But that time has passed, JJ. And you—you need to be happy for me. The way I’m happy for you and Will."  

JJ felt something in her snap.  

"You’re choosing her over me," she accused, her voice breaking.  

Spencer’s face twisted with something like disappointment. "JJ—"  

"You are!” she insisted. "I’ve known you longer than she has, Spencer! I’ve been there for you! I’ve seen you at your worst—"  

"And yet you never saw me at all."  

The words stopped her cold.  

"You may have known me longer," Spencer said, his voice quiet, more raw. "But you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."  

JJ opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  

Because she knew, in that moment, that he was right.  

—

JJ didn’t go straight home after the argument.

She sat in her car for a while, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, Spencer’s words repeating over and over in her mind.

"You may have known me longer, but you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."

She had never seen him that angry before.

JJ wasn’t even sure what she had been expecting when she confessed to him, but it wasn’t that. Not the sharp edge in his voice, the sheer finality in the way he spoke. Like whatever bridge that had once existed between them was now burned to ash.

Eventually, she made herself drive home, even though she didn’t feel ready to face her family.

But the moment she stepped inside, Henry sprinted into her arms, and Michael wasn’t far behind, chattering excitedly about something he had done that day.

JJ swallowed the lump in her throat and crouched down, hugging them both tightly.

Will was in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile of his. "Hey, babe. I heard from Emily, Are you okay? Did you get checked out?"

JJ hesitated. Then she nodded. "Yeah, just feel like shit."

Will didn’t press. He just wiped his hands and walked over, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Go sit, I got everything."

She watched him as he moved through the kitchen, effortlessly balancing cooking and keeping an eye on the boys. He had always been like that—steady, reliable, taking care of things before she even needed to ask.

She had never doubted Will’s love for her. That he would always put her and their family first.

And she had always wanted that for Spencer, too. She wanted him to be happy, to find someone who would love him the way he deserved.

On the drive home she tried to convince herself that’s all this was. That she was just watching out for him. Making sure he didn’t get hurt again.

But now, standing in her warm, bustling home, with Will taking care of dinner and the boys playing at her feet, she felt something ugly crawl up her spine.

Because Spencer finally had a chance at happiness- happiness with someone else, someone that wasn’t her.

And she was jealous.

She thought about how Spencer had gone straight to you after his release. The way he held you. The way he kissed you. The way he chose you.

Did he take care of you the way Will took care of her?

When you had a bad day, did Spencer know exactly how to comfort you? Did he cook for you? Hold you? Brush your hair out of your face, without a second thought, the way Will did for her?

If she and Spencer had gotten together—if she had realized her feelings sooner—what would they be doing right now? Would Spencer be standing in the kitchen, making dinner, smiling at her like she was his whole world?

JJ clenched her fists.

She had no right to feel this way.

She had a family. A husband who loved her. She had made her choices, and she had never regretted them.

So why did it feel like she lost something?

Why was there an ache inside her she couldn’t quite name?

Maybe because, for the first time, she was coming to terms with the fact that she and Spencer were never going to happen.

And it was her fault.

—

JJ tried not to let it get to her.

She and Spencer had years of friendship between them. A bond that couldn’t be broken so easily.

One night—one argument—didn’t change that.

And yet, things between them hadn’t been the same since.

There was an awkwardness now, something heavy that settled between them in the quiet moments. It wasn’t that Spencer was avoiding her—if anything, he was trying. She could see it in the way he made an effort to talk to her, the way he still offered her those random tidbits of information he knew she’d find interesting, the way he searched for cracks in the wall she had built.

But JJ wasn’t sure if she wanted to let him back in.

Because every time she looked at him, she remembered the fight. His words, sharp and unforgiving. The way he had looked at her—not like a friend, not like someone he trusted, but like someone who had failed him.

She knew Spencer well enough to know he wasn’t trying to hurt her. But that didn’t change the fact that she still felt angry. 

At him.

At you.

You, who knew nothing of the past—who had no idea about her history with Spencer or the complicated web of feelings she had buried so long ago that she convinced herself they didn’t matter.

And yet, she couldn’t escape you.

You were everywhere.

Weeks had passed since that night. Since Spencer’s words cut deeper than she cared to admit.

The way Spencer gravitated toward you in the bullpen, how he always seemed to position himself near you, even when there was plenty of space elsewhere. The way he looked at you—soft and unguarded, as if you were something precious and rare.

She realized, with a strange sort of ache, that she had never seen him look at anyone like that before.

And it wasn’t just him.

You never seemed exasperated when Spencer launched into one of his long-winded rants, the kind that had even the most patient members of the team zoning out. Instead, you listened intently, nodding along, asking questions, actually absorbing the information.

JJ had spent years learning how to keep up with Spencer, but you? You made it look effortless.

Then there were the subtler things, the things that spoke volumes even in the silence.

Spencer had always been fidgety, his mind moving a mile a minute, his body following suit—bouncing his knee, tapping his fingers, shifting from foot to foot. But she noticed now that whenever his leg started bouncing under the table, all it took was the briefest touch from you—a gentle hand on his arm, a slight brush of your fingers—and he immediately stilled, his entire body relaxing.

JJ wasn’t sure if you even realized you did it.

But Spencer did.

And he let you.

He wasn’t a huge fan of pda, at least not in front of the team. But lately, it seemed like the distance between you two had disappeared. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he seemed to be doing little things—things she would have never imagined him doing with anyone else.

She noticed it now: the way his fingers casually brushed against yours when you passed him a file, the way he gave you a soft smile when you caught his eye, the way he kept looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

And the others had noticed, too.

Luke had raised an eyebrow when Spencer absentmindedly reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Emily had smirked when Spencer leaned down to whisper something in your ear and you laughed, nudging him with your elbow. Even Rossi had made a passing remark about how Spencer seemed different lately, more at ease.

But what struck JJ the most was the way you and Spencer seemed to exist in your own little world, oblivious to how obvious it all was.

It was frustrating, the way she kept catching herself looking for something—some proof that she still knew Spencer better than anyone else. That he wasn’t really different, that you weren’t the only one who saw him.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe she was just trying to remind herself that she still knew Spencer, that there was still some part of him that was hers—even if it wasn’t in the way she had once imagined, but in the way that came from years of friendship, of understanding each other in ways no one else did.

But it was getting harder to fool herself of that.

Because the way Spencer was with you… it was different.

JJ had spent years convincing herself that she and Spencer had a connection that no one else could touch. But now, she was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t sure what to do about it.

—

The three of you were stationed at a table, going through case files late into the evening. JJ had barely said a word to Spencer that didn’t pertain to the case, and she knew he noticed.

“Do you want something to drink?” Spencer asked after a while, his voice tentative, another olive branch extended her way. “Coffee? Water?”

JJ glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. He was trying, she knew that. But it still didn’t sit right with her—the way he was acting like things were fine, like they could just slot back into place without addressing the damage that had been done.

Before she could answer, you spoke up.

“I’ll get it, Spence,” you said, shaking your head lightly as you stood. “I need to stretch my legs anyway. Both of you relax for once and stop thinking about the case, at least until I’m back.”

Spencer hesitated, but at the slight nudge of your hand against his arm, he gave in, slumping back into his chair.

JJ watched the exchange in silence.

It was so easy for you, the way you just knew what he needed before he even did.

The awkwardness was palpable, even as you walked back into the room, three cups in hand. The atmosphere between her and Spencer had been tense, but now, it was like everything had shifted.

You placed a cup of coffee in front of JJ, a cup of tea in front of yourself, and a cup of tea in front of Spencer, your movements careful, but sluggish from the lack of sleep.

“Two teas and a coffee,” you said lightly, your back to them as you made your way over to the board, eyes scanning the case notes.

JJ blinked, her gaze drifting from Spencer to you, then to Spencer again.

“You don’t drink coffee anymore?” she asked, trying to sound neutral.

Spencer shifted in his seat, his posture suddenly stiff. “Not really.”

JJ swallowed. “Since when?”

Spencer didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, his gaze was on you, the familiar soft smile that had been reserved for so few people now spreading across his face. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he shrugged, a subtle but unmistakable affection in his posture.

“I don’t know. A while, I guess,” he answered simply, his voice low and easy.

JJ’s stomach twisted in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She’d seen it—the way Spencer looked at you, the way he sounded when he spoke to you. He was different now, and the realization hit JJ hard.

She hadn’t been paying attention. She hadn’t been listening, hadn’t truly seen what had been right in front of her.

And suddenly, it felt like the weight of her frustration—the anger that had been building for weeks—was slipping away. Maybe, just maybe, she had been looking at the situation all wrong.

JJ looked at Spencer for a long moment, realizing just how wrong she’d been. She had let her own bitterness and hurt cloud her judgment, had let the past define their friendship, when what really mattered was the present. And she wanted to fix that.

With a deep breath, she smiled at Spencer, the tension in her shoulders easing.

She stood up, walking over to where you were standing at the board. You looked up briefly as she approached, and JJ could see the soft warmth in your eyes.

“I was thinking about the timeline,” JJ began, standing beside you now, glancing at the board, eager to refocus on the task at hand.

You nodded. “Yeah, the key thing is we need to tie everything together—look for patterns in the victim’s movements.”

As JJ stood there, side by side with you, she knew now that Spencer was right. And as she watched you both—watched you understand him, steady him, love him—she realized something painful. There had never been a chance for her. Not really. Not since you walked into his life. Maybe, if you had never entered the picture, there would have been a future for her and Spencer. But that’s all he was to her now.

Her biggest what if.

And you?

You were his always.

[kiwriteswords]

Because You're Just a Man [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist (updated!!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 10k|| AN: Who's going to explain to my boss that seeing this prompt caused me to get ZERO work done today. I'm getting more comfortable with writing smut again and this was honestly my favorite piece I have ever written so far! Also! Thank you for the encouragement on my original post @honeypiehotchner @ssamorganhotchner and @hoe4hotchner <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, canon typical themes, sexual themes, flirting, hotch and reader pushing each others limits, jealous!Hotch, simp!Hotch, unprotected sex, horny hotch, horny reader, provoking hotch hours. Summary: Based on the prompt from @urfriendlywriter: "You're making it really hard to be a gentleman right now."

The hum of the BAU office felt different at night--quieter, but still charged with the weight of unfinished cases and the scent of stale coffee.

It was late, most of the team had already left, and the bullpen was washed in the dim glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the overhead fluorescents. You sat at your desk, typing halfheartedly on your laptop, stealing occasional glances at the one person still in the office.

Hotch.

He sat in his glass-walled office, posture perfect as ever, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at this for hours. His jaw was tight, his fingers moving steadily across reports, and even from here, you could see the muscle in his cheek flex every time he clenched it.

God, he was impossible.

You’d been seeing him--or at least talking about the possibility of seeing him--for weeks now. There had been stolen moments, almost-confessions, a tension so thick between you that even the team had started noticing. But Hotch, ever the professional, ever the stoic leader, hadn’t given you much to go on. A lingering glance? A stray touch? A sharp inhale when you got too close? Sure. But he never acted. Never said anything.

Nothing concrete, anyways. 

And it was starting to drive you insane.

At first, you thought maybe he was just slow to act. That he wanted to be sure. But the more time passed, the more you started to wonder: Was he even attracted to you?

You knew he cared. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he checked in after cases, always ensuring you were okay. But physically? He was impossible to read. He was so composed, so disciplined, that you couldn’t tell if he was holding himself back or if he simply didn’t feel the way you did.

So you decided to test him.

Nothing outrageous, nothing too obvious--just enough to see if you could shake his composure.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your blouse riding up just a fraction. If he was looking, he didn’t show it.

Fine.

You stood slowly, making a deliberate show of gathering your things. You could feel the soft stretch of your pencil skirt as you shifted, the way your blouse clung just right in the low light. You weren’t normally one to be overly conscious of what you wore to work, but tonight? Tonight, you wanted him to notice.

File in hand, you took your time walking toward his office, letting the faint click of your heels punctuate the silence.

He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he knew you were there.

"Still working?" you asked, voice just a little softer than usual.

Hotch finally glanced up, dark eyes flicking to yours before settling back on the paperwork in front of him. "Looks that way." His voice was smooth, measured. Controlled.

You stepped inside, setting the file down on his desk--closer than necessary. Close enough that you could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, something rich and warm beneath the sharpness of his aftershave.

"You should take a break," you mused, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. "I don’t have time for a break."

"Not even for me?" You rested your hand against the edge of his desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as you leaned in--just enough to make it impossible for him to ignore the proximity.

That did it.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

The slight shift of his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his pen just briefly before setting it down.

A rush of satisfaction curled in your stomach.

So, he does notice.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came. Hotch barely spares you another glance, flipping the page of his report with that same unreadable, impassive expression. If he was affected, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it now.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him.

That’s how you want to play it, Hotchner?

Fine.

You could almost see it--the way his mind worked, the methodical discipline he relied on to keep himself locked up tight. He was compartmentalizing. Shoving down whatever impulse had flickered through him the second he caught your scent, or felt the heat of your body just inches from his desk.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

That realization sent a slow hum of intrigue through you.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought. If you wanted to get a real reaction out of him, you’d have to be smarter about it. Subtler.

You straightened up, deliberately not lingering the way you had been. Let him think you were backing off.

“Don’t work too hard,” you said lightly, turning toward the door.

You swore you felt his eyes on you as you walked away--but when you glanced back, he was already staring at his paperwork again, jaw tight.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Back at your desk, you settled into your chair and let your fingers drift over your keyboard, not really typing, not really thinking about work anymore. Instead, your mind was spinning, plotting.

What else would get to him?

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You had all the time in the world to figure that out.

oxoxoxoxoxoxox

The conference room was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of files rustling, and the distant whir of the coffee machine in the bullpen. The team was gathering for a briefing, and you were one of the last to arrive, slipping in just as Hotch stood at the head of the table, setting down the case file.

You slid into the chair across from him, casually smoothing the hem of your skirt as you crossed your legs, slow and deliberate.

His gaze flicked up--so brief, so controlled, that anyone else would have missed it. But you didn’t.

Your stomach hummed with satisfaction.

His eyes dropped immediately to the folder in front of him, fingers adjusting his watch before flipping open the case file. His movements were precise, methodical. A man rebuilding his walls, brick by brick.

Good. You weren’t done testing their strength yet.

Morgan and JJ were still chatting, waiting for Garcia to finish setting up, so you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching Hotch as if you were actually interested in the file he was reading.

“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” you mused.

Hotch’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I was finishing reports.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Right. That explains why you’re so grumpy today.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he replied, voice smooth, but the way his grip subtly flexed around his pen told you otherwise.

“You kind of are.” You let the amusement curl in your voice. “At least a little.”

His exhale was barely audible, a long, slow breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at you, keeping his attention on the paperwork in front of him, but his fingers tightened around his pen just slightly.

You smiled.

And then, because you wanted to see just how much he was holding back, you stretched--a lazy, innocent stretch, your back arching just enough to accentuate your figure, your blouse shifting ever so slightly.

Hotch froze.

Just for half a second.

But it was there.

The slight pause in the movement of his pen. The subtle way his jaw went even tighter. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward you before snapping back to his papers.

You bit back a smirk.

This was working.

You tapped your fingers against the table, feigning nonchalance. “You know, Hotch, if you ever actually relaxed once in a while, I think the world would keep turning.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond--but at that moment, Garcia’s voice burst through the moment, her usual chipper tone filling the room.

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Hotch’s shoulders as he very purposefully turned his full attention to the case.

He was trying so hard.

And it was only making you more determined.

xoxoxoxoooxox

The night air in Quantico was thick with humidity, the kind that settled into your skin and made the inside of the BAU feel heavier than usual. It made you wonder if this is where they decided to save bureaucratic dollars, by turning the air conditioner off when people worked after office hours.

Most of the team had already left, the bullpen dimly lit except for the faint glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the coffee machine cycling through its last brew of the night.

Hotch was still in his office, as always.

And you were still here.

At first, your little experiments had been entertaining--a game to see if you could shake his impossible composure, test the limits of his discipline. And while you had noticed the cracks--those fleeting glances, the small shifts in body language--he never let them grow into something more.

And it was starting to piss you off.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to shove the desk between you aside and kiss you breathless (though the thought was an incredibly tempting one). But you needed something. A sign. A confirmation that this thing--this slow, unbearable push-and-pull--wasn’t just in your head.

Because if he wasn’t interested, if all of this was just a cruel trick of your own imagination, then what the hell were you doing?

You pushed away from your desk, snatching up the case file you’d been pretending to work on, and made your way up the stairs to his office.

His door was open, but he was in his usual state of intense focus--pen in hand, elbow resting on the desk, brows drawn together. His sleeves were rolled up now, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his tie was loosened just enough to be tempting.

You leaned against the doorway, tilting your head. “You do realize the case is over, right?”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Paperwork isn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “You work too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

There was something infuriating about his ability to stay perfectly neutral. You stepped closer, rounding his desk slightly, just enough to lean against the edge.

Close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“You ever think about taking a break? Doing something fun?”

His eyes flicked up at that--just for a second--but his expression didn’t change. “I have fun.”

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “No, you don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

You took it further. “When was the last time you let yourself actually relax?”

“I don’t have the luxury of--”

“Oh, come on, Hotch,” you interrupted, frustration leaking into your tone now. “You’re always like this. So composed, so in control.” You leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something just a little more pointed. “So unaffected.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A warning. A silent caution that you were pushing too hard.

You ignored it.

You tilted your head, considering him, your frustration bubbling into something sharper.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, because you were tired of second-guessing and waiting for something that might not even be there, you let the words slip:

"You must be the most disciplined man on the planet, Hotchner." You let it sit for a beat before adding, deliberately flippant, "Or maybe I’m just not your type."

That did it.

It was instant.

His pen stilled, fingers tightening around it before setting it down with deliberate care. His jaw tensed, the muscle there flickering under the low light. And then--finally--he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a fleeting acknowledgment.

A look.

Slow. Measured. And dark in a way that made your breath hitch.

For the first time, you felt something shift in the air between you--something crackling, something dangerous.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked onto yours like he was considering his next move. Like he was deciding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “You really think that?”

Your stomach tightened.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse picked up. “Well, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

His exhale was slow, controlled--like he was reining himself in.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were the one poking him--or if you had just walked straight into something you weren’t ready for.

The room felt smaller.

Hotch hadn’t moved--not an inch. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the desk, posture as composed as ever. And yet, something had shifted.

Maybe it was in the air between you, thick with unsaid things.

Maybe it was in his eyes--still dark, still unreadable, but no longer distant.

Or maybe it was in the silence, the heavy pause after your words had landed, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Maybe you were right? Maybe you were wrong? 

"You really think that?"

He repeated. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something new in it. Something deliberate.

You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, determined to keep your ground, even as your heartbeat knocked against your ribs. “Well, again, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied you.

And then--he smirked.

It wasn’t full, wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The barest hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

He tapped his fingers against the desk once--just once--before leaning forward. Not much, but enough that the shift in proximity sent a shiver down your spine.

"You expect me to react on your timeline," he said, voice smooth, steady. "You think if I don’t, it means I don’t feel it." His eyes flickered over your face, slow and deliberate. "That I don’t want to."

Heat licked up your spine.

His words were careful, calculated--but there was something beneath them. A warning.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to let him see it. You lifted your chin slightly. "Am I wrong?"

Hotch exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh under his breath, before shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “But you are underestimating me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You felt the weight of those words, how easily they unraveled the confidence you’d built up.

Underestimating him?

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could speak, he continued, voice dropping just slightly:

“If I wanted to give in, I would have already.”

The sheer certainty in his tone sent a thrill down your spine.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "So why haven’t you?"

He held your gaze steady and unwavering.

"Because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of winning this little game you're playing."

Your breath caught.

So he knew.

He’d known this whole time.

Bastard. 

Every shift in your tone. Every touch that lingered just a little too long. Every glance, every tease, every attempt to get a reaction out of him.

He had seen all of it.

And he had been letting you play.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frustration and thrill curling into one. You had been trying to push him, to get under his skin, but now it was you who felt unsteady, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You think this is a game?" you challenged.

Hotch’s gaze flickered lower--just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch--before snapping back to yours.

“I think you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “And I think you’re getting frustrated because I won’t give you one.”

You sucked in a breath, hands curling at your sides.

“And that’s why you’re underestimating me.”

Your throat tightened.

He’s turning this on you.

You had walked into this office thinking you were the one in control, that you were the one poking at his restraint.

But now, sitting there, completely composed, unshaken, he was making it clear:

He had never been the one losing control, but you did have an effect on him.

He was letting you think you were winning--letting you push, letting you test, letting you play.

But the second he wanted to break the tension, he would.

And not a moment sooner.

Silence stretched between you, and you realized that if you said anything now, you’d only be proving him right.

So you did the only thing you could.

You stepped back.

Not much. Just enough to put a few inches of space between you. Just enough to breathe.

Hotch’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he knew he had won this round.

"Goodnight," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Your nails pressed into your palm, heat still simmering low in your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay composed as you turned.

And as you walked out of his office, one thought burned in your mind.

You had severely underestimated Aaron Hotchner.

And now, you were more determined than ever to make him break.

xxoxoxoxoxo

The local precinct smelled like stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of place that saw too many long nights and not enough successful arrests. The team had been working with the local PD all morning, briefing the officers, pouring over evidence, and establishing a strategy for catching the unsub. The air was thick with tension--case tension, but also something else.

Hotch tension.

You had been careful, playing it safe the last couple of days after your last conversation with him. He had successfully flipped your game back on you, made you second-guess your own approach, and that had annoyed you. But more than that--it had intrigued you.

You had underestimated him.

But that only made you want to try harder.

So now, standing in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by officers, detectives, and your team, you found your next move.

It happened when one of the younger officers--a rookie, maybe mid-twenties--sidled up beside you while you were scanning over a map of the unsub’s hunting ground. He was cocky, too casual for a case like this, but harmless enough.

“You guys always get put on the bad ones, huh?” he asked, shaking his head.

You hummed, glancing at him briefly. “Something like that.”

He smelled like cheap cologne and bad news. 

His eyes flicked over you--not in a way that was offensive, but in a way that was obvious. “So, what’s it like working for him?” His gaze drifted past you, and you knew exactly who he was referring to.

You glanced toward the other side of the room, where Hotch was standing with Rossi and Morgan, discussing logistics with the local captain. He was doing what he always did--keeping his tone measured, his posture unwavering, his presence demanding attention even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

The rookie smirked. “I mean, he’s kind of intense, right? Seems like the type of guy who doesn’t let his team breathe.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, he lets us breathe. Just not when we’re wasting time.”

The officer chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “And what about after hours? He loosen up at all then?”

It was an innocent enough comment. It wasn’t inappropriate, wasn’t particularly suggestive, but it was loaded--an implication lingering beneath the surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t obvious. No one else in the room would have noticed. But you did.

His energy--you could feel it surrounding you without him even making as much as a subtle eye movement. He was all around you. All at once. Just not physically. 

The way Hotch’s posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

The way his conversation faltered for just a fraction of a second before continuing.

The way his fingers twitched, like he had the urge to look over but refused to.

You had just done something dangerous.

And you liked it.

A slow, wicked idea unfurled in your mind.

You didn’t even have to flirt with the rookie. You just had to let him think he had a shot. Let Hotch think that someone else might be in your orbit.

So you smiled--just a small, amused smile--as you said, “Why? You looking for some FBI mentorship?”

The officer grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And then, because you could, because you were feeling reckless, you let your fingers lightly trail over his forearm. A barely there touch. A casual, fleeting thing.

But it wasn’t casual at all.

You felt the shift further before you even looked up.

And when you finally glanced toward Hotch--when you saw the way his gaze was locked onto you now, the sharp, barely restrained tension in his features--you almost lost your own composure.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

A rush of heat surged through your body.

Oh.

You had found something.

But before you could process it, Hotch’s voice cut through the air--calm, too calm.

“Agent,” he said sharply. “A word.”

Your stomach dropped.

And not in the way that made you nervous.

In the way that made your pulse spike.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, as Hotch gestured for you to follow him.

He didn’t wait for you--just walked toward one of the quieter hallways of the precinct, expecting you to keep up.

You did.

His legs were so long--such long strides. 

Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if he was mad or if this was something else--if you had finally managed to push too far.

When he finally stopped, he turned abruptly, standing so close that you almost collided into him.

His jaw was tight. His breathing controlled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, playing the part of the innocent. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “The officer.”

Your heart thumped. You knew what this was now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something else entirely.

A slow, knowing smirk curved your lips. “Oh,” you said, tilting your head. “You were paying attention.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice even lower now.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat. “Am I?”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, something sharp, something restrained--but this time, barely.

For the first time, you knew you had him.

And now?

Now you were dying to see what happened when Aaron Hotchner stopped holding back.

The hallway was too quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every single breath, every shift in the air between you and Hotch. The precinct buzzed faintly in the distance, but here, in this small, dimly lit corridor, it felt like another world entirely.

Hotch hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

The space between you was barely a few inches, and yet, the tension crackled like a live wire, sparking in the narrow gap separating you.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. His hands twitched--just slightly, like he was debating what to do with them.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but there was something off about it--something that told you it wasn’t just an exhale. It was restraint.

Tightly coiled, barely-leashed restraint.

You had never seen him like this.

He was always so careful. So composed. So in control.

But right now? Right now, there was something just beneath the surface, something barely held together by the thread of his discipline.

And it was because of you.

You could feel your pulse hammering against your ribs, heat rising up your spine, but you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

“I didn’t realize talking to an officer was against BAU protocol,” you mused, letting the words hang in the air between you, testing, pushing.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Your lips curled slightly, your confidence returning in full force. “No?”

His breath hitched--just a fraction, just enough.

Then, before you could blink, he took a step closer.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

You were trained to decipher human behavior, after all. This man--he was one of the hardest shells to crack, but something told you how to put the pieces together now. 

Your spine straightened instinctively, the sudden nearness setting off a slow burn low in your stomach.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one testing you.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver trailed down your spine.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the heat between you thickened. “And what am I doing, Hotch?”

His jaw ticked. “You want a reaction.”

You tilted your head slightly, barely suppressing a smirk. “Do I?”

His exhale was sharp this time, less measured, less composed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was physically keeping himself from moving.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he leaned in--just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, warm, sharp.

“You really want to test me?” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but nothing came out.

Hotch let the moment hang, suspended, the air thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then--just as quickly as he had closed the space--he pulled back, his expression unreadable once more.

His discipline snapped back into place like a steel trap, as if he had never let it slip at all.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And as he straightened, adjusting his tie, clearing his throat, you knew.

He wasn’t unaffected.

Not even close.

“Get back to work,” he said finally, voice smooth, controlled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

And that?

That told you everything you needed to know.

You thought you had won.

You felt the tension, saw the moment Hotch nearly cracked, heard the shift in his breath. You knew now--knew for certain--that you affected him. That you weren’t imagining things.

That Aaron Hotchner wanted you.

And yet, as you walked back into the main room of the precinct, trying to steady your own breathing, trying to refocus on the case, something gnawed at you.

Because when he had pulled back, when he had gathered himself, when he had smoothed his tie and sent you back to work like nothing had happened--there had been something in his expression.

Not regret. Not hesitation.

Something else.

And you realized it too late.

You had just handed him the upper hand.

oxoxoxoxoxxoox

It started small.

You were seated at the long table in the precinct’s war room, reviewing files, mapping out patterns on a whiteboard with Morgan and Prentiss, when you felt it.

A gaze.

Hotch was across the room, engaged in a discussion with Rossi and the lead detective, his voice even, steady. Composed.

But he was watching you.

Not directly. Not obviously.

But you could feel it.

The way his eyes flicked toward you between sentences, the way his attention lingered just a second too long before returning to the conversation at hand.

It shouldn’t have rattled you.

But it did.

Because you had spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t ignoring you. He wasn’t brushing it off.

He was watching you back.

And worse?

He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t used to.

You forced yourself to refocus, flipping through the files in front of you, but it was impossible to concentrate, not when you could still feel his eyes on you, his presence like a gravitational pull you couldn’t ignore.

And then--he upped the ante.

It was in the small things.

Like the next time you spoke to him--when you handed him a report, expecting him to simply take it like he always did, business as usual.

But instead, his fingers brushed yours as he took the file, slow, deliberate.

The touch was barely there, but it sent an electric jolt up your arm.

You glanced up at him, startled, only to find his gaze already on yours. Steady. Controlled.

Like he knew exactly what he had done.

Your lips parted, but he simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

And then he walked away.

Your breath stuck in your throat.

Oh, he’s good.

It only got worse from there.

During the next strategy meeting, you found yourself seated beside him--not an unusual occurrence, but this time, you felt it.

The space between you was almost nonexistent.

His arm rested along the table, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your notepad, each accidental touch sending a slow hum through your body.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

Was when you went to reach for your coffee mug at the same time he reached for his.

Your fingers brushed again, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

Instead, his thumb lingered against your skin for a half-second too long.

And when you looked up at him, startled, he just--

Smirked.

It was small. Subtle. So quick that if you hadn’t been looking, you might’ve missed it.

But it was there.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee mug like it was your lifeline, because suddenly, the temperature in the room felt ten degrees hotter.

And he just continued on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just turned the game back on you.

You barely heard a word Morgan was saying, barely processed anything but the way Hotch’s arm remained just close enough that if you moved, even slightly, you would touch again.

He was toying with you now.

Testing you.

And suddenly, you understood.

He had been waiting for this.

Letting you push him. Letting you get bold.

Because he had known the whole time that the moment he pushed back, you wouldn’t be ready for it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to refocus, forcing yourself to push through the way your stomach twisted, the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Fine.

If he wanted to play, you could play.

But you were starting to realize something you hadn’t expected.

Aaron Hotchner was a much more dangerous opponent than you had ever given him credit for.

And now, you weren’t sure if you were winning--or if you were about to completely lose yourself in him.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place the team liked to celebrate in after a case closed--a quiet enough spot to talk, but loud enough that no one paid much attention to a group of FBI agents drinking in the corner.

The case had been a difficult one, drawn out and exhausting, but the unsub was in custody, the victims’ families had answers, and--for tonight at least--you could all breathe a little easier.

You nursed your drink, watching as Morgan and Prentiss laughed at something Garcia said, Rossi swirling his whiskey in his glass as he smirked at whatever banter they were trading.

And then there was Hotch.

Sitting beside you, as always.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still distant in that way only he could manage--always composed, always aware of himself, of his surroundings.

Always in control.

You had spent the entire night testing that control.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering touch when you handed him his drink, a fleeting brush of your fingers against his wrist when you leaned in to speak over the noise of the bar.

Then, bolder.

A teasing remark, the way you laughed just a little softer when he said something dry and sarcastic, the way your hand rested lightly against his thigh just as you shifted in your seat.

You had expected a reaction.

You wanted one.

But instead of pulling away, instead of scolding you, instead of doing what he always did--remaining unaffected, unshaken--Hotch did something worse.

He played along.

He didn’t move your hand. He didn’t shift away.

He let it happen.

And the worst part?

He let you sit with it.

Let you feel the weight of your own actions, the way the tension between you thickened, the way your pulse picked up when his dark eyes flicked toward yours, unreadable but aware.

He was so much better at this game than you were.

And you were losing.

You needed to tip the scales back in your favor.

So you made a choice.

You reached for your drink, fingers brushing the rim, and took a slow sip--letting your lips close around the edge of the glass, letting your tongue flicker just slightly against the rim as you pulled back.

It was innocent enough.

But the moment you placed your glass back down, you shifted in your seat--legs crossing deliberately, brushing against his knee as you tilted your head, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

And then you said it.

Low. Soft. Just for him.

"You know, Hotch…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered before."

It was a direct challenge.

A blatant, deliberate provocation.

And this time?

He reacted.

The shift was instantaneous.

His fingers tightened hard around his glass, his jaw clenching as his breath hitched--so subtly that no one else would have noticed, but you did.

His lips parted slightly, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he was considering his next move.

Then, finally--finally--he turned to look at you fully.

And the intensity in his gaze?

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with something you had never heard from him before.

"You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman right now."

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table, and you swallowed, suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath the weight of his attention.

You had wanted this.

You had asked for this.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were ready for what happened next.

Because the way Hotch was looking at you?

Like he had been holding back for so long--so painfully long--and was finally, finally reaching the edge of his control?

It sent a shiver down your spine.

And suddenly, for the first time since this little game started…

You realized you might have just gotten in over your head.

Your stomach clenched, heat flooding through your body in waves, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his fingers flexed against his glass, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could almost hear the strain in it.

Not when you realized--really realized--that you had finally done it.

You had finally pushed him to his limit.

And now, for the first time, you were the one feeling unsteady.

A slow smirk threatened at the corner of his lips, barely there, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass before he finally--finally--pulled his gaze away from yours.

But not before he leaned in, just a fraction closer.

Just enough for you to feel his warmth.

Just enough for his breath to ghost against your skin when he murmured, “Finish your drink.”

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping the glass as your pulse pounded in your ears, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hadn’t given you an order before.

Not like that.

Not in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table.

You took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down your throat, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making your head spin.

It was him.

You were utterly and completely drunk on him. 

Hotch leaned back in his chair, as if regaining some of his composure, but you could see it now.

The way his fingers still flexed against the glass.

The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual.

The way his entire body was coiled tight, like he was waiting.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You had no idea what he was waiting for.

A few minutes passed, conversation continuing around you, but it felt like background noise now--like nothing else in the room mattered except the heavy weight of whatever this was sitting between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hotch glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair.

The shift sent a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He leaned down slightly, voice low in your ear.

"Let’s go."

Your stomach flipped.

You set your glass down, fingers slightly shaky as you grabbed your coat, barely managing a quick glance at the team.

Morgan smirked. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Prentiss definitely noticed something.

But you didn’t have time to care.

Because the moment you stepped outside into the cool night air, the second the door shut behind you, you barely had time to turn before Hotch’s voice--low, measured, dangerous--cut through the silence.

"Tell me something."

You looked up, breath catching. “What?”

His gaze burned into yours, dark and unwavering.

"Was this just a game to you?"

Your throat tightened.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “All of it,” he murmured. “The teasing. The touches. The way you looked at me back there.” His eyes flickered to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. “Was it just a game?”

The air between you was electric.

Your stomach churned, your pulse hammering in your chest, because this was it.

This was him--finally, finally dropping the act.

And the rawness in his voice?

The realness in it?

It made you realize exactly what you wanted.

Your lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping before you whispered, “No.”

Hotch’s entire body reacted to that word.

A sharp inhale. His fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

And then--finally--he stopped holding back.

His hand lifted--slow, deliberate--fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your chin up.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Just assessing.

Just waiting.

Like he needed you to give him permission.

Like he needed to know you wanted this as much as he did.

And God, did you want this.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you leaned into his touch, exhaling softly as your fingers curled against the lapels of his jacket.

That was all it took.

Hotch moved.

His lips were on yours, firm but controlled--measured, like he was still trying to hold back, still trying not to lose himself completely.

But you wanted him to lose it.

So you made a sound--soft, desperate--pressing yourself closer, and that was it.

His restraint snapped.

A sharp inhale against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His body was warm, solid, hot, and suddenly you were gripping him, fingers twisting into his shirt as his lips parted, deepening the kiss, letting out a low, gravelly noise that sent a shockwave down your spine.

The street was too open.

The world was too present.

But Hotch--Aaron--was kissing you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

And the second his hands tightened around you, the second his teeth grazed your lower lip, you knew.

You had both lost this game.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The kiss was heated, sharp, and all consuming, a slow unraveling of every ounce of tension you had been building for weeks.

Hotch’s hands were firm against your waist, fingers flexing like he was still battling the instinct to pull you closer, like he was still trying to cling to the last fragments of control that were slipping through his fingers.

You weren’t making it easy for him.

Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, pressing yourself into the solid warmth of his chest, needing more--needing all of him.

And God, the way he reacted--

The sharp inhale against your lips, the way his fingers dug into your waist, the soft, barely-contained groan that rumbled deep in his chest--

It was like nothing you had imagined.

He wasn’t careful.

He wasn’t measured.

He was starved.

Hotch tore his lips from yours, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your hips as if he was physically keeping himself from devouring you completely.

Your own breath was uneven, your hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly against his shirt.

“Aaron--”

His groan was immediate, like hearing his name like that sent a direct current through his body.

Then his hands moved.

He skimmed them up your sides, tracing the curves he had so painstakingly ignored for weeks, months, forever--his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your blouse before one of them slid into your hair, tilting your chin just so before he kissed you again.

Harder.

Rougher.

No restraint now.

It sent a shockwave through your body, heat pooling low in your stomach as his teeth scraped your lower lip, his other hand gripping your waist like he needed you, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

And God, you didn’t want him to stop.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that you were still outside the bar, still in public, still far too exposed for what was rapidly spiraling into something uncontainable.

Hotch must have realized it at the same time because he broke away, breathless, dark eyes burning into yours.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ride to his place was a blur.

You barely remembered getting into the car.

Barely remembered the way his hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw ticked as you sat beside him, thighs pressing together, anticipating.

The air in the car was thick, electric with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

And the second the door to his apartment closed behind you--

It snapped.

Hotch was on you before you could take another breath.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your hips, backing you against the wall like he needed to feel you, like he was making up for every second he had spent denying this.

Your breath hitched, your arms looping around his neck, nails dragging along the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you kissed him back, tilting your head to let him deepen it, let him take what he wanted.

And God, did he want.

His hands wandered, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers teasing the hem of your blouse before slipping beneath it, palms searing against your skin.

He let out a low groan, his mouth moving to your jaw, down to your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, sending a pulse straight to your core.

“Aaron--”

Another groan.

His fingers tightened on your hips, his breath warm against your skin.

“You--” He exhaled sharply, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You shivered, gripping his shoulders. “Then show me.”

Something snapped in him at that.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs, and before you could react, he was lifting you, guiding your legs around his waist, pressing you firmly against the wall, his body pressing flush against yours.

Heat flared through you at the sheer strength of him, the way he held you so effortlessly, the way his lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, owning the kiss in a way that made you dizzy.

He walked you to the bedroom like that, lips never leaving yours, never giving you a moment to breathe.

And when he laid you down, settling between your legs, hands braced beside your head, his breath coming out ragged--

You realized you had been so, so wrong.

You had thought you were in control.

Had thought you were winning this game.

But the way Aaron Hotchner was looking at you now?

Like he owned you?

Like he was done holding back?

You knew.

You had never stood a chance.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow from the city lights spilling through the window. The air was thick--heavy--with heat and want and weeks of barely restrained tension finally snapping apart at the seams.

Hotch hovered above you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tracing along your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, teasing.

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising beneath him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. You had never seen him like this--eyes dark, his breath uneven, his entire body wound so tight, like he was fighting every urge to just take you right then and there.

He was still holding back.

You weren’t having that.

Your fingers tugged at his collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed against yours again, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues meeting, consuming.

A low sound rumbled in his chest--a groan, gravelly and wrecked--as his weight settled between your legs, pressing firm against you, and God, you could feel everything.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, your nails dragging down his back, and that was it.

He broke.

Hotch's mouth moved--leaving your lips, tracing a path down your jaw, to the curve of your throat. He sucked, bit--just enough to make you gasp, his tongue sweeping over the sting.

"Aaron," you breathed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging hard.

His reaction was immediate--a deep groan against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist, his hips pressing flush against yours in a slow, torturous roll.

You gasped, arching up against him, heat flooding through your body as his hands wandered, sliding beneath your blouse, fingers tracing over your stomach, exploring.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips dragging down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You and your games.”

You smirked, gasping as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “I think you liked them.”

Hotch exhaled a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, laughing, but it was low, dark--not amusement, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers tilting your chin just so until your eyes met his.

“I let you play, sweetheart.” His voice was silk and steel, deep and gravelly, thick with desire. “But now?”

He smirked--smirked--and leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss.

“Now it’s my turn.”

A shiver ran through you, your pulse pounding, your entire body on fire.

Then, in one swift motion, he sat up, pulling you with him, his fingers tugging at the hem of your blouse. His eyes met yours, giving you one last out.

But there was no hesitation.

Not from you.

Not from him.

Your hands covered his, pushing the fabric up, and then it was gone--tossed aside, forgotten.

His eyes--God, the way he looked at you.

Dark. Devouring. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, rough.

Then his hands were on you again--roaming, claiming--his lips pressing, trailing, worshiping.

Your head tipped back, another breathless gasp escaping as his hands found the clasp of your bra, his fingers making quick work of it before sliding the straps down your shoulders, his lips following their path, tongue flicking, teasing.

You arched into him, needing more, your own hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to even the playing field.

Hotch chuckled--deep, dark--before obliging, sitting back just enough to yank the offending fabric over his head.

Your breath hitched.

You had seen him in varying states of undress before--worn-down hotel rooms, bulletproof vests over tight shirts, dress shirts rolled up to his forearms.

But this?

Seeing him like this--the broad lines of his shoulders, the toned muscle of his chest, the faint scar near his ribs--

Your fingers traced over it instinctively, your touch featherlight.

Hotch inhaled sharply.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, a teasing edge beneath the gravel.

You barely had time to process before he was kissing you again--deep and desperate, his hands sliding down, over the curve of your hips, fingers gripping, pulling you closer.

You gasped, hands curling around his biceps, feeling the tension in them, the way he was still holding himself back, still reining himself in.

So you tested him again.

Rolling your hips just so against his.

Hotch groaned, a sharp, wrecked sound against your lips. His fingers dug into your thighs, his control finally fraying--

“Fuck,” he exhaled, forehead pressing to yours.

You smirked, barely able to breathe.

“That’s all it took?” you teased. “I thought you had more self-control than that, Hotchner.”

His breath hitched.

Then--

You barely had a second to react before he had you pinned, his body flush against yours, his lips ghosting over your ear.

His voice was low, dangerous, devastatingly wrecked.

"You're going to regret saying that."

Your breath caught.

Then his hands moved--and you shattered.

Your pulse pounded, every inch of your body burning under Hotch’s touch, under the way he was looking at you now--like he had waited for this, ached for this, and was finally letting himself have it.

You swallowed, fingers tightening against his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he was still holding himself back--even now.

"Then make me," you whispered.

Hotch moved.

His lips crashed against yours, harder this time, rougher, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to touch you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him as his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, exploring, learning you.

You were already dizzy, already losing yourself in him, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t want careful.

You wanted him.

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, but Hotch caught your wrist, breath ragged, his forehead pressing to yours.

His eyes--dark and burning--searched yours, his fingers tightening around your wrist like he was waiting for something.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained, but still careful.

Your heart ached at the question, at the way he was still thinking about you, still making sure this was something you wanted.

You lifted your other hand, tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," you whispered.

Something in him snapped.

His lips were on yours again, his hands sliding lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you, guiding your legs around his waist before pressing you firmly against the mattress.

His body was solid, strong, his weight pressing into you in a way that had your breath catching, heat spreading low in your stomach as his mouth wandered--down your jaw, your throat, lips and tongue claiming you inch by inch.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his hands explored, learning the shape of you, teasing, tormenting--

"Aaron--"

The groan that ripped from his throat was wrecked, his fingers digging into your skin as his hips pressed flush against yours.

"You love saying my name like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but you could hear the strain in it.

You smirked, tilting your head back, offering him more as his lips traced a path down your collarbone. "I like what it does to you."

His breath hitched.

Then his teeth scraped, just enough to make you gasp, his hands finally making quick work of the last barriers between you.

Fabric was pulled away, discarded, forgotten.

And when his gaze lowered--when his hands finally moved where you needed them most--

You shattered.

Hotch devoured every reaction, every gasp, every moan, learning you, memorizing you, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him.

And when he finally, finally pressed into you--

It was slow. Deliberate.

Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

Like he wanted to ruin you.

Your fingers clawed at his back, legs wrapping tighter around him as he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck.

"You feel so--" His voice broke, his breath ragged, his lips pressing against your shoulder as he rolled his hips--

You gasped, arching into him, pleasure crashing through your veins.

Hotch cursed, a low, deep sound against your skin, his movements slow, controlled, but hard, perfect.

He was relentless.

He set the pace, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it, torturing you with the way he pulled back just enough before thrusting deep, the friction sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans were breathless, your nails scraping down his back, but it only spurred him on.

"You wanted this," he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All those games--"

You gasped as his hips snapped harder, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"You wanted to see if you could break me."

He rolled his hips again, making your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach.

"Do you feel broken now?"

You let out a sound that wasn’t even words, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your entire body on fire.

Hotch smirked against your skin, but his composure was fraying now--his thrusts turning more erratic, his breath coming faster, his muscles tensing beneath your hands.

He was losing it too.

And God, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His head dipped, lips crashing into yours in a deep, desperate kiss as the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body trembling as his name tore from your lips.

Hotch groaned, his movements turning sloppy, frantic, chasing the edge--

And then he fell, his body shuddering against yours, his lips parting in a low, wrecked moan as he collapsed, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs entwined, your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, finally, Hotch exhaled--a slow, deep breath--before lifting his head to look at you.

His gaze was soft now, but sated, his thumb brushing lazily over your cheek, tender.

"You really are trouble," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but teasing.

You smirked, tracing your fingers down his chest, lingering. "And yet, here we are."

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. "You love it."

His smirk widened slightly.

"Maybe."

Then he kissed you again--slower this time, softer.

Like he was memorizing the taste of you.

Like he already knew this wasn’t the last time.

And God, neither of you wanted it to be.

You blinked, the haze of exhaustion settling in as reality began to sink in.

You had slept with Aaron Hotchner.

And it hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been measured.

It had been raw. Consuming.

Desperate.

You swallowed, turning slightly in the bed, suddenly hyperaware that he was rolling off of you.

For a moment, your stomach twisted--should you leave? Would this change things between you? Was he already regretting it?

But before you could spiral, before you could even begin to untangle your thoughts, you heard it--

The quiet sound of running water.

You furrowed your brows, shifting up slightly onto your elbows, and then you saw him.

Hotch was standing near the bathroom sink, his back to you, shirtless, his lean muscles flexing as he ran a washcloth under warm water.

Your breath caught.

And more than that--he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t rushing.

He was taking care of you.

Your throat tightened.

He turned a moment later, towel in hand, his dark eyes immediately finding yours.

“You should lie back,” he murmured, voice softer now, the roughness of the night before smoothed into something gentle.

You blinked at him, lips parting, but you didn’t argue. You simply did as he asked, sinking back against the pillows, watching as he approached the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his warm hand skimming lightly over your thigh before he pressed the warm cloth against your skin.

The sensation made you exhale, your body still aching in the best way, but his touch was tender, careful.

"You don't have to--"

Hotch gave you a look.

You stopped.

Because you realized--he wanted to.

He continued in silence, wiping away the remnants of the night before, his touch slow, thoughtful. His fingers brushed against you so gently that your chest tightened.

The air between you was different now.

The tension of the past weeks, the game you had been playing--it was gone.

All that was left was this.

Him.

You.

The weight of what you had just done, settling between you like something neither of you could take back.

When he was finished, he set the towel aside, fingers tracing over your hip absentmindedly before finally speaking.

"Are you okay?"

You blinked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you weren’t--God, you were--but because you hadn’t expected him to ask.

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. I am."

His lips pressed together slightly, his fingers brushing against your skin again, almost like he needed to feel you still there.

Your stomach twisted--not in doubt, but in something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

So you asked.

"What about you?"

Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself, and then--finally--he met your gaze.

And you knew.

Whatever restraint he had left--whatever pieces of the mask he had been holding onto--it was gone.

"I'm not sure I know how to stop wanting you now," he admitted, voice low, raw.

Your breath hitched.

Because that?

That was the first real truth he had given you.

Your fingers curled against the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest. "Then don't," you whispered.

Hotch exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tightening just slightly against your hip.

"You don’t understand," he murmured. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth, but he continued before you could speak.

"I tried--" He exhaled again, rough, like he was frustrated with himself. "I tried to ignore it. To pretend it was nothing. That it was just...passing attraction."

You swallowed. "Was it?"

Hotch let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he admitted. "It never was."

Your breath caught, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter, because this--this--was more than you had ever expected him to admit.

"You drove me insane," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. The way you challenged me. The way you--" He exhaled, shaking his head. "The way you said my name."

Your heart stuttered.

"You noticed that?"

Hotch huffed a soft laugh, his fingers trailing up your arm, his touch leaving a burning path in its wake.

"I noticed everything," he murmured. "The way you crossed your legs during briefings. The way you stretched when you were tired, your shirt lifting just enough to make me lose my train of thought. The way you knew exactly what you were doing--"

You let out a breathless laugh. "I didn’t always know."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into something dangerous.

"No?"

Your stomach flipped. "No."

His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing over your lower lip.

"You really think you weren’t getting to me?" His voice was low, rough, something dark beneath it.

Your breath hitched.

"You were always getting to me," he admitted. "And you loved it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling very small beneath the weight of his gaze.

Because God--he was right.

You had.

You had loved it.

But what you hadn’t realized was that he had loved it, too.

"I--"

Hotch moved before you could speak, pressing you back into the mattress, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

His weight was warm, solid, comforting.

And for the first time, there was no hesitation.

No restraint.

Only truth.

"I’m done holding back," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"Good," you whispered.

And when his lips met yours again, soft and slow, hands sliding under the sheets this time--

You knew.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was real.

And neither of you were walking away from it.

Not now.

Not ever.

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

[whisperedmeg]

AFTERSHOCK ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x liaison!reader

summary: you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — sitting outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort | w/c: 3.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader works for the BAU, friends/coworkers to lovers, story starts after a hostage situation/being held at knifepoint, mentions of bruises and cuts and blood and a gunshot but no major injury (to reader), fingering, p in v, spencer asks for consent like a million times #king, kind of open ending

a/n: omg my first request 🥲 i made reader an assistant media liaison bc i liked the idea of her having minimal field experience + working closely with JJ. i was envisioning like young, s2 spencer here (specifically glasses reid when he goes to check on Elle in her hotel room hence the header but hey, imagine what you wish). hope you enjoy, kind anon! 🦦

The lights were too bright.

Not in a metaphorical way, but literally. Overhead fluorescents buzzed in the corner of your vision as a paramedic waved a penlight in your eyes, asking questions you could barely process.

“You know your name?” he asked. You nodded. Or at least you thought you did. Maybe you answered him verbally — you couldn’t say for sure. “Good. You’re gonna be okay. Just some bruising and minor cuts. We’ll get your neck bandaged up then you’ll be good to go.”

This time, you heard yourself thank him, but your voice didn’t sound like your own.

In the moments after the standoff ended, everything had blurred. You remembered the moment you realized he was about to slit your throat — and how you kept your voice level anyway, how you kept talking to distract him until the team broke through the front. You remembered Hotch yelling your name, and Derek rushing forward as the unsub yanked you tighter against him — right before the single shot that brought him down rang through the air. You remembered insisting you were fine. “It’s just a few scratches.” But your hands had trembled when you signed the incident report, and your voice had cracked as you hugged JJ and tried to tell her you were okay. You remembered blood on your blouse, though it hadn’t been yours. And then you thought of Spencer.

Spencer.

You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.

Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.

So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.

His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.

You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.

“Hi,” you said softly.

His throat bobbed. “Hi.”

You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.

“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.

“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.

—

You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.

He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.

You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.

But still, there were moments.

The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.

—

You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.

“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”

You nodded, your chest aching.

The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.

“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.

“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.

“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”

You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”

He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”

You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”

So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.

When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.

You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.

“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.

He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.

“Can we go sit down?”

He stood immediately. “Of course.”

Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.

It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.

“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”

The silence stretched.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.

You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”

He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.

“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”

He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.

“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”

Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”

The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.

You stared at him.

For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.

But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.

Because of course you’d thought about it.

Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.

But it was there. It had always been there.

And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”

“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.

His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.

He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.

The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.

But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”

Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”

You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.

“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.

You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.

He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.

When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.

You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”

He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.

He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.

Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:

“Still okay.”

“Still yes.”

“Still want you.”

His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.

When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.

His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.

He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.

“That good?” he whispered.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”

He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.

“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”

You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”

He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.

“Spencer,” you breathed.

And he knew what you meant.

He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.

One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.

“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched — and only then did he move.

Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.

You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.

You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.

He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.

A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.

“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”

“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”

You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”

His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”

You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”

He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.

When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.

—

Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.

Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.

You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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[scarlettjemily]

Gonna tell my kids this was One Direction

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

say it again

pairing: aaron hotchner x gn!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: drunk texting your new(ish) boyfriend while out with friends :)

includes: no use of y/n, no gender specific description of reader, reader is drunk/mentions of alcohol and drinking, fluff. just cute wholesome fluff

It was supposed to be a casual Friday–a few drinks with friends, stories swapped over bar food and music too loud to really talk through. But you hadn’t realized how tired you were. How little you’d eaten today. Or how fast whiskey sours hit when you aren’t paying attention.

You don’t mean to get that drunk.

You had meant to just check in. To send a cute text to your boyfriend of a few months–the man you’d worked with for years, who had somehow gone from boss to friend to something infinitely more terrifying: someone you could see yourself falling for.

Your messages start out… maybe a little embarrassing, but at least coherent..

“miss u. u would hate this place lol so loud”

“why do guys named brad always yell”

“ur tie looked good today. tell it i said hi”

And then someone had ordered a round of shots. And then another. And suddenly, your thumbs stopped obeying your brain–which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders either.

“emergency: i need cheese fries n maybe a hug. or both at once”

“hotsh hotc hotdch ur eyes are SO BROWN”

“ty for ur face and ur arms n ur … exist???”

You’ll be mortified by all of it tomorrow morning, but currently, you can’t find yourself caring about much, other than the fact he hasn’t answered.

You frown down at your screen, chin tucked into your hand, your other arm lazily draped around a half-finished drink in a sweating glass.

“What’s wrong with your face?” your friend asks, half-laughing at the childish pout on your lips.

“He left me on read,” you mumble, wiggling the phone at her as though it’s Exhibit A. “Aaron. He read it. Didn’t respond. He read it.”

She squints at your screen, then snorts. “How is he supposed to reply to ‘you’re the best jawline in the whole FBI’?”

You pout harder. “I dunno. Say thanks?”

Your friend just laughs at you, shaking her head. But you don’t think it’s funny.

Because even though you know you’re being ridiculous, even though the room is warm and the night is young, your chest hurts a little. Just a pinch. A flicker of doubt where certainty usually lives. 

You haven’t been together long–just a few months–and it’s all new, still fragile. You’re not used to this part yet. The missing him in public. Needing him without permission. The strange, quiet way his absence can leave you feeling a little off-kilter.

You stare at your phone.

“Fine,” you whisper. “Leave me on read. Rude.”

You sigh and drop your head onto the table, face smooshed against your arm. “I’m going to die here. I’m going to become a ghost in this Chili’s-adjacent bar and haunt the bathroom.”

Your friend pats your head. “You’ll be a beautiful ghost.”

You groan.

And then–

He’s just there.

You blink, lifting your head too fast–definitely too fast, based on the way the room tilts. But it doesn’t matter, because your heart is already thudding, even before your brain catches up with your eyes.

Aaron stands by the door, scanning the room, his tie slightly undone, his expression unreadable in the dim bar light. His eyes find yours, and his whole posture shifts–like something softens behind his stern exterior. Relief, maybe. Familiarity. 

Your mouth drops open. “Hotch?”

He’s already moving toward you, steady and sure.

“You stopped making sense,” he says calmly as he reaches you, slipping a hand under your elbow to help you out of the booth. “Figured I’d come get you after the third text you shortened ‘your’ to ‘ur’.”

“You read my texts,” you accuse softly, tilting your head back to look at him.

“I did,” he says as though it’s obvious, guiding you through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times. 

“You didn’t answer.”

“I figured showing up would say more.”

You blink.

Oh.

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just him, but your chest folds in on itself. You let him guide you out into the night, warm and solid at your side, and suddenly the rest of the world feels quieter.

A little less lonely.

The car smells like him. Clean, calm, a little like cologne and a lot like comfort. You curl into the passenger seat, his jacket draped over your legs, your shoes on the floor, bare feet propped on the dash despite his protests.

The window is cracked. The scent of pine and rain float in on the wind. The road curves gently away from the city, trees rising up like shadows on either side.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” you mumble.

Aaron hums. “You sent me a voice memo where you just repeated the word ‘eyebrows’ for thirty seconds.”

You groan, covering your face. “That’s not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was. But it was… concerning.”

You peek at him—his profile bathed in the dim light of the dashboard, jawline sharp, mouth soft. That little tug of a smile plays at the corner, the one that always makes your heart do strange things.

You’ve known him for years. Shared cases. Late nights. Quiet grief. It took months to earn that smile, and when you finally did, you made it a mission to chase it every chance you got. And then—somewhere between burnt coffee and unexpected laughter—everything changed.

A kiss, in the kitchen after an especially tough case. A breathless “what are we doing?” followed by that smile and the softest, realest “I don’t know. But I want to keep doing it.”

It’s still new. Still precious.

But you can’t deny it already feels like home. 

Outside, stars scatter across the sky. You tilt your head, watching them. A few drift–too slow to be shooting stars, too steady to be anything magical. Satellites, maybe. You squint, tipsy and thoughtful.

“Do they ever crash?” you ask, voice quiet. “The stars and satellites. Do they ever just–” you mimic an explosion with your fingers. “Boom?”

Aaron glances at you, like he’s deciding whether you’re serious. Eventually, he says, “No. They keep their distance.”

“That’s kind of lonely,” you say. “All that space between things. Nothing touching.”

He’s quiet again for a second, eyes back on the road. Then: “Or maybe it’s safe.”

You let that settle. Then smile, a little sad. “I think it’s sad.”

He glances over at you again. “You think everything is sad when you’re drunk.”

You pout. “Not true.”

He reaches over, hand brushing yours where it rests on your knee. “Alright. What’s not sad?”

You turn your head, taking him in. The clean line of his jaw, the focus in his eyes even as he drives, the quiet steadiness of his presence. Your heart softens, like it always does with him. 

“You,” you say, a little too easily. “You’re the opposite of sad.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives your hand a quiet squeeze.

“When you’re like this,” he murmurs, “you forget to hold back.”

You smile, sleepy and honest. “I know. But you love me.”

A beat.

“I do.”

You blink.

The words hang in the air like mist, weightless and heavy at the same time. The quiet hum of the tires on asphalt, the wind brushing through the cracked window, the rustle of leaves as the road curves–all of it fades beneath two words spoken so simply that they almost don’t register. 

You sit with it for a second. Like you’re not sure you even heard him right. 

Almost.

But then they do.

“...You do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper, a fragile thing in the dark of the car. You’re staring at him now–more sober in this moment than you’ve been all night. Not just because the alcohol is wearing off, but because nothing snaps you into clarity like him.

Aaron’s hand is still on yours, thumb moving once, slow across your skin.

He doesn’t look over at first. Just exhales, the smallest lift of his brow, like he’s thinking back through the last thirty seconds and only now realizing what slipped out.

He gives a quiet, dry sort of laugh. “Suppose that’s not how I meant to say it.”

You just stare at him. “So… you did say it?”

His mouth twists–not regretful, just wry. That little pinch between his brows appears, the one you’ve come to learn means he’s sifting through something careful and important. “I did. Wasn’t planning to. Not like this. Not while driving you home after you sent me a bunch of texts about how brown my eyes are.”

You let out a tiny wheeze. “They’re very brown. Deeply brown.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s quiet. Focused elsewhere.

“I mean it, though.”

You don’t breath.

He clears his throat, almost awkward. “I do love you. I was going to say it eventually. Preferably when you were sober. Maybe cook something. Say it over dinner. Something better than… a carfessional.”

You gasp. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t say it again.”

“A carfessional.” You bite your lip, barely holding in your smile. 

He groans, but you can see it—his smile, finally unguarded. Like he’s letting himself have this.

And something about that makes your eyes sting. It's a shaky little moment, full of that strange, sacred feeling that only comes around a few times in life.

You turn back toward the window, toward the trees passing by like silhouettes, the stars still scattered like someone spilled silver across the sky. You’re quiet for a while. Letting your heart settle. Letting the words breathe.

Then, softly: “I love you too.”

Aaron doesn’t flinch but you see it–the way his hand pauses slightly against yours. The way his shoulders shift, like something’s unfulring inside him. He doesnt say anything, but you don’t need him too.

He brings your hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You smile down at your lap, at the warmth tucked beneath his jacket, at the world outside that suddenly feels a little softer. 

After a few moments, you sigh.

“... Still want cheese fries, though.”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I’ll find you some,” he says. “But only because I love you.”

Your smile curls wide. Warm. Dizzy with the weight of it.

“Gross,” you whisper. “Say it again.”

He glances over, flashes another smile back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, like it’s easy now.

Like it was always meant to be.

divider by strangergraphics

[iamgonnagetyouback]

— one (1) flustered genius

✧ summary you’re getting ready for a gala when you ask spencer to zip up your dress. he notices the necklace you’re wearing—the one he gave you months ago—and suddenly, he’s spiraling. the problem? it doesn’t match your outfit. the real problem (for his heart)? you’re never taking it off.

✧ pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ✧ creds: gif by @ropoto ✧ genre: fluff ✧ warnings: flustered && whipped spencer ✧ wc: 0.9k

You’re standing in front of the full-length mirror, carefully adjusting the straps of your dress as your heels click softly on the hardwood floor. It’s elegant, timeless—the kind of dress that makes you feel like you’re starring in some classic black-and-white film… only with better lighting.

The zipper is just out of reach, and so, in a soft voice tinted with playful affection, you call out, “Spence, can you zip me up?”

From down the hall, you hear the soft rustle of fabric and the quick, familiar shuffle of socked feet on hardwood. Moments later, Spencer appears behind you, looking unfairly beautiful in his suit and slightly crooked tie, his hair falling a little messily over his forehead. He has his glasses on, which always makes your heart stutter for no good reason.

“I can do that,” he says gently, already stepping closer. His fingers brush your back as he slowly pulls the zipper upward, the motion achingly careful—as though he’s handling fine lace or some kind of sacred treasure. Which, knowing him, you’re pretty sure he thinks you are.

Once the zipper’s secured, you expect him to pull away. But instead, his hands settle lightly on your waist, and his eyes catch on the chain around your neck. His brows knit together as he leans forward to inspect the pendant more closely.

“You’re wearing the necklace I gave you,” he says softly, a surprised note in his voice.

You glance down at it in the mirror. It’s a simple silver chain, holding a small glass orb with a tiny, pressed forget-me-not encased inside. The gift he gave you months ago—after one of those long, exhausting stretches where he was gone on a case for ten days straight. He had handed it to you sheepishly, in the middle of your shared kitchen, mumbling something about permanence and flowers and how he hoped you’d like it.

“I am,” you say, your smile soft and content.

Spencer tilts his head. “But… it doesn’t quite go with the neckline. I mean, aesthetically speaking, it interrupts the visual line of the bodice, and—” He pauses, recognizing your expression of amusement in the mirror. “Sorry. I was rambling.”

You giggle under your breath. “A little.”

He clears his throat, his fingers gently brushing against the clasp at the back of your neck. “I could take it off for you. Just for tonight. I’ll put it somewhere safe, I promise.”

But you immediately shoo his hands away, your tone light but firm. “Nope.”

He blinks. “What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“I mean no.” You turn to face him now, reaching up to fix his slightly crooked tie. “You gave it to me. It’s yours. I’m not taking it off.”

Spencer stares at you, blinking slowly, like he’s trying to process the words but his brain short-circuited somewhere in the middle.

“I…” he exhales. “But it doesn’t match—”

“Still,” you interrupt gently, smoothing your hands over his lapels. “It’s my favorite thing. You picked it out. You remembered what flower I said I liked when we watched that documentary about botanical symbolism and how they used to mean secret messages.” Your eyes meet his, full of warmth. “It’s the most you thing I own. So yeah—obviously, I’m not taking it off. Ever.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Spencer Reid absolutely melts into a puddle of goo on the bedroom floor. His eyes go glassy, his mouth opens just enough to say something—anything—but no words come out. Just a breath. A shaky, wonderstruck breath.

“You remembered I said that?” he murmurs, like he still can’t quite believe it.

“Of course I did. You’re you.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, before pulling you into a gentle hug. His arms wrap around you tightly, almost like he’s afraid if he lets go, the moment might dissolve.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispers into your hair.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He chuckles, and you feel his lips press to the top of your head. “No. It’s the best thing.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤloading...ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Spencer walks into the bullpen looking like a man who just witnessed actual magic.

“Someone’s glowing,” Emily teases as he drops his bag by his desk. “Did the gala have an open bar, or did your girlfriend finally admit she’s secretly a time traveler?”

“She wore the necklace I gave her,” Spencer says, completely unprompted. He’s not even looking at anyone. He just says it with this dazed little smile on his face.

“Oh?” JJ glances over. “The pressed flower one?”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, adjusting his satchel strap unnecessarily. “It didn’t match her dress at all. Like, it was totally off. I offered to take it off for her, but she wouldn’t let me. She said…” He trails off for a moment, eyes unfocused, like he’s reliving it all over again. “She said it was my gift, so she’s never taking it off. Ever.”

There’s a collective pause around the bullpen.

And then—“Awwwwwwww!” comes in stereo from Garcia and JJ.

“God, that’s so disgustingly cute,” Emily says, sipping her coffee with a smirk. “How are you not married yet?”

“I love love,” Penelope declares, dramatically clutching her heart. “You’ve got the heart-eyes going so hard, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer just shrugs, a soft smile still pulling at his lips. “I guess I do.”

There’s a long pause. Then, almost absently, he adds: “I think I’m going to get her another one. One for every flower she’s ever told me about.”

And just like that, Emily squeals, and Garcia nearly falls off her chair.

[goofygubegubler]

‘𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓.

Spencer eating you for your dear life, ‘cause baby, he’s a giver.

wc: 2.4k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, vibrator use, overstimulation, sleepy sex?, mild power dynamics, teasing, implied age gap

A/N: Spencer is absolutely a giver in my mind, and I hope you all enjoy this! This is my first one-shot and my first time writing smut, so please feel free to share any feedback—I’d really appreciate it! My asks are always open.

Spencer is a giver—there's no doubt about it. He has studied you with a scholar's precision, but his devotion is deeper, almost reverent. He knows where to touch, how to kiss—his mouth slow and consuming, savoring every second, unraveling you with the deliberate slide of his tongue against yours. His teeth scrape over your bottom lip, a teasing sting that he soothes with a lingering press, a soft contrast to the hunger simmering beneath his touch.

And his hands—God, his hands. They move over you like he’s composing something exquisite, mapping each curve, each tremor, each stuttered breath with an intimacy that feels instinctual. He knows how to dismantle you, how to wind you so tightly in pleasure that you shatter in his grasp. His words pour into your ear, dark and teasing, igniting a heat that pools low and aching, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Sleep clings to you in slow waves, pulling you under, weaving you into something intoxicating, something inevitable. His hands find you first—fingertips gliding over your skin like a whisper of possession, tracing your curves, teasing, promising. The heat of his breath spills against your neck, the hushed murmur of your name curling like smoke in the thick air.

Then, his mouth—God, his mouth—claims yours, slow and insistent. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before his teeth catch, a bite of sharp, deliberate hunger.

You’re not in bed anymore. You’re pressed against the bookshelf, trembling under his touch, the rough wood biting into your spine, grounding you in the feverish haze. A book slips from your hands, forgotten the moment his lips trail lower, marking their path with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

He hums against your skin, his voice dark, indulgent. "Keep reading for me."

The command slithers down your spine, igniting something helplessly wanton inside you. You try—God, you try—to obey, lips parting, voice trembling, but the second his fingers sink deep, curling just right, the words unravel, lost in a gasp as he drags you under.

A sharp inhale rips you from the dream, the ghost of his touch still imprinted on your skin, heat curling deep and insatiable. Your thighs clench in a feeble attempt at relief, but it isn’t enough. It’s never enough—not when you wake up to find him lying beside you, lips parted, his breathing slow and steady, a cruel reminder that the hands you crave are just beyond reach.

Biting your lip, you slip a hand toward the nightstand, fingers grazing the smooth edge before you pull the drawer open just enough to reach inside. Your fingers find the well-worn spine of your favorite spicy book first—the one Spencer pretends to roll his eyes at but listens to whenever you read aloud in bed.

Beneath it, tucked away like a secret, is the small vibrator you keep for nights just like this—when Spencer is working late, when the ache refuses to fade, when his absence leaves you restless and wanting. You know better. You should just use your fingers—quieter, safer—but this? This is too good to resist. The way it hums against you, the way it sends pleasure curling through your veins in thick, decadent waves.

It’s never been a replacement for Spencer, not really, but God, it’s close enough to take the edge off when you need it most. Your pulse quickens as you wrap your fingers around it, the cool plastic a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly. You hesitate, casting a glance at him—his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, lips parted slightly in sleep—before exhaling softly, determination settling in your bones.

You start slow, pressing the toy against your clit through your panties, barely turning it on, letting the low hum tease you like the ghost of his touch. A quiet gasp escapes, your hips tilting into the sensation, but even this—God, even this—isn’t him.

Frustration coils tighter in your belly, the need for more gnawing at you, demanding. With a shaky exhale, you lift your hips, sliding your panties down, the cool air a stark contrast against the heat between your thighs. The vibrator follows, gliding against slick, sensitive skin, sending pleasure rolling through you in slow, deliberate waves.

Your breath stutters, fingers tightening around the toy as you sink into the feeling, chasing the edge, knowing it won’t ever feel as good as Spencer but unable to stop yourself from trying. The quiet hum of the vibrator is nearly drowned out by your own heavy breaths, the way your body trembles beneath the weight of your own need. Maybe if you just keep quiet, if you move slow—

But then—a shift. The bed dips. A sharp inhale from beside you.

Before panic can settle, warmth floods your senses—a heavy hand pressing against your stomach, grounding you in the moment. His touch is slow, deliberate, fingers splayed, sliding lower until they brush against yours, still gripping the toy. He hums low in his throat, voice thick with sleep yet unmistakably amused.

"Couldn't wait for me, could you?"

Spencer’s fingers curl over yours, his grip firm as he slowly pries the vibrator from your grasp. The moment it’s in his control, the pressure changes—subtly, precise, his touch calculated in a way that makes your breath catch. The sudden shift sends a sharp jolt of pleasure spiraling through you, tearing a gasp from your lips.

"Spencer—" It’s barely a whimper, swallowed by the way his body shifts closer, his breath hot against your neck.

"Shh," he soothes, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your jaw, soft and teasing. "Let me help."

His focus is singular. Unwavering.

"Besides," he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver, "it’s only 5:17 a.m." Another pause, another deliberate press of his mouth. "I don’t have to get ready until six." His breath is warm, teasing, wicked. "Plenty of time to enjoy myself."

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers weakly carding through his hair. "You are such a giver, Spence."

His lips curve against your skin, and without missing a beat, he hums, "I do pride myself on my generosity."

Before you can reply, the aftershocks of your last orgasm still making your thighs tremble, he licks a slow, teasing stripe up your center. A full-body shudder ripples through you, your nerves still alight with oversensitivity. His hands tighten around your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin, keeping you spread open, fully at his mercy. His mouth is warm and relentless, his tongue flicking, circling, pressing just right—like he’s savoring every tiny whimper and every shuddered breath.

He hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spike of pleasure through your overstimulated body. "Still shaking," he muses, voice muffled against your slick skin. "So sensitive, but I think you can take just a little more, don’t you?"

He shifts, sealing his lips around your clit, sucking with slow, deliberate pressure, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you from squirming away. Your breath stutters, hips twitching involuntarily as pleasure coils hot and sharp in your stomach, overwhelming, dizzying. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough.

"Fuck—Spencer—"

He groans against you, the vibration sending another sharp jolt of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. "Mmm. Say my name like that again."

His tongue presses deeper, his pace unrelenting, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you from squirming away. He’s thorough and determined, making sure every flick and swirl sends you hurtling toward that inevitable edge. And just when you think you might catch a break, his fingers join in—sliding inside you, curling just right, stroking in rhythm with his mouth.

You gasp, arching into him, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. "Spencer, oh my—"

"That’s it," he coaxed between teasing licks. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, keeping you in place. His mouth never wavers, his fingers never falter, dragging another sharp cry from your throat as another orgasm crashes over you, leaving you breathless and shivering. You’re still gasping for air when he pulls back just enough to murmur, "Still with me?"

You manage a weak, trembling nod, half-lost in the afterglow, and for a second, you think he might give you a reprieve.

But then he moves again—this time, slower, more deliberate. His fingers stroke along your inner thigh, coaxing, teasing. His breath is warm as he presses a kiss just above your knee, then another, trailing higher, the anticipation making your skin prickle.

"Spence—" you whimper, voice barely above a breath. "Sensitive."

He hums, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. "I know. That’s what makes it fun."

Then, without warning, his mouth is on you again, softer this time, but no less devastating. His tongue moves with careful precision, his fingers pressing deeper, curving just right. You writhe beneath him, overwhelmed, and when your hand weakly pushes at his head, he merely chuckles against you.

"That’s not our safeword, sweetheart."

You whimper, unable to do anything but surrender as he drags you to the edge again, slow and thorough, relentless in his devotion. The pressure builds again, unbearable, and when you finally shatter beneath him for the third time, he groans, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your lips.

You barely have time to recover before you feel him again—his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, "One more. Just one more."

You shake your head weakly, though your body betrays you, already arching into his touch. Your mind is hazy, barely clinging to the waking world, but Spencer? He’s focused, singular in his intent.

His mouth is on you again, lazy and indulgent, his tongue dragging slow, torturous circles that make your stomach tighten. His fingers press inside, stretching, teasing, working you open with practiced ease. You whimper, toes curling, every nerve alight.

"Almost there," he murmurs, voice frayed, breathless. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me."

Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under with no hope of resurfacing. Your body trembles, shuddering apart beneath him, and this time—even Spencer groans, his breath hitching as if he’s feeling it just as intensely as you are. His hands flex against your hips, tightening like he’s holding himself back, resisting the urge to take even more.

He presses one last, lingering kiss to your thigh before letting his head drop against you, exhaling a shaking breath.

Your vision wavers, the edges smudging into deep, inky black as the pleasure crests and breaks. The last thing you register is the warmth of Spencer’s mouth, the reverberation of his voice against your skin—low, coaxing, reverent.

Then, everything fades.

You resurface gradually—like wading through molasses, every inch of you weighted, sore in the most indulgent, well-earned way. The sheets are a tangled wreck around you, clinging to your overheated skin, undeniable evidence of everything Spencer just did to you. Your limbs are useless, your thoughts thick and sluggish, your body still humming with the aftershocks of him.

And yet.

Spencer is already awake.

“It’s 6:37 AM,” he announces smugly, from somewhere near the foot of the bed. “In case you were wondering.”

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. “Oh my God.”

“No, just Spencer,” he corrects, voice warm and teasing. “But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

When you manage to blink your eyes open, the sight that greets you almost makes you laugh—if you had the energy. Spencer stands there, utterly unbothered, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers covered in tiny owls. His curls are a disaster, sticking up wildly, and his lips are still pink from pressing them against every inch of your body.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you—” You swallow, voice hoarse. “Are you gloating?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “I’d say it’s more of a… reasonable acknowledgment of my achievements.”

You make a weak sound of protest. He grins.

The mattress shifts as he crawls back toward you, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder—sweet, affectionate, in direct contrast to the way he ruined you not even thirty minutes ago.

Then, with an absolutely insufferable level of satisfaction, he murmurs, “Four times.”

You let out a wheezy breath, still not recovered enough to fight him on this. “I know, Spencer.”

He hums, trailing his lips up the side of your neck. “Just making sure it’s fully processed.”

You blindly shove at his shoulder, but it’s weak. He barely moves.

Instead, he settles beside you, tucking you against his chest, fingers idly stroking along your spine. He’s quiet for a moment—until he glances at the clock. And then, you see it. The exact moment he realizes his mistake.

His smirk flickers.

A pause. Then, lightly:

“I may have miscalculated.”

You snort. “You think?”

Spencer lets out a thoughtful hum, completely unrepentant as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your forehead. “In my defense, I failed to account for… the lingering effects.” He shifts, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Or my own overwhelming enthusiasm.”

You lift your arm just enough to glare at him. “You have work in an hour.”

He nods solemnly. “I’m aware.”

“I have work in two.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“You owe me.”

Something flickers in his expression—thoughtful, determined. Then, without a word, he slips out of bed.

You frown. “Spencer?”

“Fixing it,” he calls, already halfway to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns with a steaming cup of your favorite coffee and a plate with a perfectly toasted bagel. He sets them on the nightstand with the precision of a man delivering an official peace offering before climbing back into bed and wrapping himself around you again.

You eye him suspiciously. “This is your plan?”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “It’s called positive reinforcement.”

You sigh, taking a sip. It’s perfect. Of course, it is.

“You’re still in trouble,” you mumble, though the warmth of his body and the way he’s lazily stroking your back suggest otherwise.

Spencer just grins against your skin, utterly unbothered. “That’s fair.” A beat of silence. Then, far too pleased with himself, he murmurs, “But just so you’re aware… I already have a plan for making it up to you.”

You groan. Spencer just tucks you closer, and you don’t even have the energy to argue.

Then, after a moment of quiet, his voice comes soft and smug against your ear:

“You know, I am a giver.”

You huff a laugh, exhausted and hopelessly fond. “Shut up, Spencer.”

But all he does is press another kiss to your temple, grinning against your skin.

[yasministration]

nighttime vlogs - aaron hotchner

summary: finally on the jet ride back home, aaron watches the little nighttime vlog you and jack have filmed for him, allowing him to witness a special moment between the two of you despite being thousands of miles away wc: 1.6k+ cw: reader and jack being adorbs, aaron gets baby fever

The phone falls face down on the covers the second the video begins, darkness engulfing the screen of his phone, and Aaron’s ears are instantly filled with the beautiful sound of Jack’s loud giggles. Through the screen, he hears you mumble something under your breath, and Jack replies with “You made it fall”, as though you hadn’t realised the obvious.

You lift the phone up, steadying it back on some pillows, and even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, Aaron can clearly see that you and Jack are laying stomach down on a very unmade bed. He grins widely, pressing on his phone screen to pause the video you had sent him — hours ago now — to plug in his earphones. He doesn’t want to disturb any of his sleepy teammates on the jet ride home.

“Okay,” You begin with a smile, glancing over to Jack, who’s staring at you through the front camera on your phone. “Hi Aaron-”

“Hi daddy!”

Aaron feels his heart swell as you and Jack giggle between you. “We know it’s a little past Jack’s bedtime. But we just remembered that we promised you a little video message every night that you’re away. And tonight can’t be the night that promise is broken after we’ve done so well.”

It’s true. Ever since you were introduced into Aaron’s life, as his girlfriend, fiancée, one of Jack’s legal guardians, you had changed what it meant fore Aaron to be away on cases. No longer did Aaron have to try and catch you every second of the day for you to know he cares — a mutual understanding that schedules might crash, and that’s okay. But for the past year, every night he’s been away on a case, he has received a nighttime vlog from you and Jack, telling him about your day, about your feelings.

Aaron always watched these videos in the lonely bed of his motel room, a smile on his face. Sometimes these videos were a minute long, quick goodbyes from a tired child and his best friend, and sometimes — like tonight — they lasted closer to twenty minutes.

“Daddy, today me and y/n went to the park and we played football! And I won!”

“He scored so many goals against me.” You add, a hand reaching up to brush through Jack’s blond hair as he thinks of what to tell his dad next. “And then we sat on the grass for a little bit,” Jack is interrupted by his own elated giggles.

“And we saw a cloud that looked like a tyrannosaurus rex!”

“We did, yeah. And one that looked like a bunny too, right?”

“Yeah. All of the other ones were just blobs.”

Aaron can’t help but laugh quietly as Jack gestures widely with his hands. From the seat across him, Dave glances up from his book, eyebrows raised in amusement.

Jack suddenly sits up on the bed, and you shift to lay down on your side to watch as Jack points to the new set of pyjamas he’s wearing, talking animatedly about them. “But I only wore them after dinner.” He tells his dad through your phone.

“Tell him what you did today. In the kitchen.” You encourage, and Jack immediately grins wider, as though just remembering the events that occurred a couple of hours ago. “I helped y/n make dinner! Come, let’s show him, y/n!” Jack tells you, leaning over to grab your hand, and tugging you with him.

You bring the phone with you as Jack slides off the bed, leading you to the kitchen. You take the time to glance down at the phone, imagining Aaron looking back at you, and say “He chopped some coriander all by himself — with a plastic, kid-friendly knife, obviously. And he also squeezed a lemon.” Aaron didn’t know you owned plastic, kid-friendly knives.

Once in the kitchen, you place the phone on the counter, and Jack carries the bowl of salsa you had prepared together. He huffs when he can’t see the phone atop the counter, and places the bowl down, making grabby hands up at you. He ignores the stool he had previously used to help reach better, instead calling “Up please, Mom.”

Aaron’s eyes instantly go wide at Jack’s words, fingers stiffening around his phone, but it seems as though past you still hasn’t processed what Jack called you, picking him up and resting him on your hip. Only then, once Jack’s fully in the camera frame, does Aaron see your eyes go slightly wide as you hand Jack the bowl of salsa so he can display it proudly for his dad.

“Daddy, this is called pico de gallo, and it’s so yummy.” You instantly snap back into your role, nodding along to Jack’s words and he puts the bowl on the counter again. “And I wanted chicken nuggets all day, and mommy said she could make me some for dinner. And she made them from-she made them from the beginning of them.” Jack swings his legs happily, reaching over to the folded up bag of chips to open the bag and steal a chip.

Jack offers you one, and you take it. Aaron smiles fondly as you both go silent for a few seconds, munching on tortilla chips.

You glance down at Jack, asking “Anything else, buddy?” Jack goes silent, resting his head on your shoulder. He watches you fold up the bag again, blinking slowly. Grabbing the phone, you mumble to Aaron “If you come home tonight, there’s leftover salsa and chicken nuggets for you in the fridge.”

Aaron sighs as you place the phone down again, carrying the bowl of pico de gallo into the fridge. It shuts softly behind you, and you move your eyes down to Jack, who’s nearly asleep. “Bedtime, Jack?”

Jack nods sleepily, and you turn your focus to the phone again, saying “Goodnight, Aaron. I love you.” Jack turns his head to face the phone, cheek smushed against your shoulder as he repeats the words, encouraged by you. “’Night daddy. I love you.”

You snatch the phone from the counter, turning the light off in the kitchen as you make your way to Jack’s bedroom. Aaron doesn’t think you’re aware the camera is still recording as you press a kiss to Jack’s forehead, adding quietly “And I love you, Jack. I needed a strong, handsome man to help squeeze those lemons, and who better to help me than you?”

Jack giggles tiredly at your words. You toss your phone onto his bedsheets so you can use both hands to gently place him in his bed. You crouch beside him, fingers brushing his cheeks. “I’m so grateful for your help today, Jack. And for your help every day.”

“I like to help you.” He admits, cozying up underneath his blanket. “Kiss, mommy.” You lean down, pressing your lips to Jack’s forehead. He smiles, reaching up to press a kiss to your cheek. You bring your hands down to tuck him in properly, and tears are almost brought to your eyes when Jack speaks again, asking “Who’s gonna kiss daddy goodnight?”

Aaron swallows thickly through the screen, staring at the ceiling of his own home from the way the phone is facing upwards, only catching a bit of colourful bedsheets from the corner of the screen, but he listens to every word you and Jack are saying to each other. He only hears himself breathing now, and the scuffle of sheets moving around, awaiting your response. “When daddy comes home, we’ll give him all the kisses to make up for the ones he missed, okay?”

“Okay. I love you mommy.”

“I love you too, Jack.”

You stay there for a moment longer before picking up your phone and leaving the room. You leave Jack’s bedroom door wide open — yours too. You lift the phone up to your face, and Aaron sees you have tears gathered along your waterline. “Oh. I didn’t realise this was still on.” Aaron hears you laugh quietly, and you bring your voice down to a whisper, bringing your face closer to the phone screen as you say, “Aaron, he called me mom! Oh my god, I’m feeling so many things right now. Okay, wait, let me send-”

The video cuts off just then, and Aaron instantly drags his finger across the screen, setting the video back to the very beginning. He notices the time of the video sent on the screen that says '8:03 pm.' It it now 2:54am. He’s just about to press play again when he hears Derek’s teasing voice call out in the quiet jet. “Hey, what’s got you crying over there, boss man?”

Aaron takes out his earphones, shaking his head silently. Derek had passed behind Aaron just a few minutes ago to go to the bathroom, and the nosy man had taken a peek over Aaron’s shoulder to see what he was watching. Derek has good intentions, but of course, he’ll never pass the opportunity to tease. So he’s more surprised that anything when Aaron, unknowingly teary eyed, replies with “Jack called y/n ‘mom’.” Then, under his breath “God, I love my family.”

Aaron skips out on the pico de gallo and chicken nuggets when he gets home, beelining to Jack’s bedroom to press a kiss to his son’s forehead before finding you in his bed. He makes sure to be quiet when he strips out of his work clothes. Aaron doesn’t bother to throw on any pyjamas, sliding in next to you wearing only his boxers. He wraps his arms around you and tugs you close to his chest.

He decides just then that one day, Jack won’t be the only one calling you mom.

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[starchaser45]

Emily only allowing herself to cry when she's in Spencer's arms cause she's sure he's safe is my Roman Empire