#monzabeerecs

[monzabee]

this fic changed my brain chemistry as a doh owner because i love guy and how sassy he is and i would do anything to protect him!! not guy being aaron's number 1 opponent but they end up being the best of buds, it fits right into the stereotype and i love it so much, and i love how fluffy it is!!

A MAN'S BEST FRIEND & WORST ENEMY

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: you leave your dog with your FBI boyfriend for the day, and somehow he ends up falling a little more in love—with the both of you, based on this request. warnings | an: fluuuuuffff, hotch is reader obsessed as always, alcohol consumption, one drunk suggestive-ish voice note, hotch has a bath & body works kink he won't admit to, reader has a dachshund called gus & works in fashion word count: 2.9k

✧ masterlist

Aaron sometimes wondered if your senses really dulled with age. His eyesight definitely had. He’d barely stepped out of the optician’s office before the reading glasses became a permanent fixture in his life. And his hearing had never quite bounced back after that one case with the explosion, so it made sense to assume his sense of smell would follow suit eventually.

That assumption died the second he met you.

Because no man with a fading sense of smell could walk into your apartment without being completely engulfed by it—you. Vanilla, coconut, peony… was that cotton candy? He couldn’t even tell anymore. Your bathroom was practically a museum exhibit dedicated to pastel bottles and glittery jars. Oils, butters, sprays, each one with a name more ridiculous than the last, ‘Dreamy Kiss,’ ‘Pink Cashmere Fantasy,’ ‘Moonlight Sugar,’ or something like it. And somehow, every single one ended up on your skin.

You’d even tried roping him into your skincare routine once. Tried being the key word.

It was a lot. Overwhelming, honestly. But it also confirmed one very clear fact, his nose still worked just fine. And so did his eyes, because if wearing those glasses meant he got to look at you like this, he’d keep them on forever.

You cracked open the bathroom door to let the steam escape, stepping out in a cloud of soft perfume and warm air. Wrapped in a blush-pink silk robe, you moved through the room like a complete picture of calm, which was impressive considering just a few hours ago, Aaron had the distinct pleasure of hearing you yell down the phone about samples that were still not en route for a photoshoot tomorrow.

He didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t watching you.

“You want to guess?” you asked, pausing by the bed as you rubbed something sparkly into your hands. “Or do you need a closer smell?”

This had become part of your little routine on the nights Aaron stayed over. You’d emerge from the bathroom all glowing skin and shimmer, layered in fruity floral sweetness, and he’d try to guess which scent you’d chosen, usually with some commentary about how none of them actually smelt like the thing they claimed to be.

“Strawberries don’t smell like that,” he’d once told you. “That’s just sugar in a bottle.”

But tonight, he didn’t even hesitate. He simply tilted his head, pretending to think as you climbed into bed beside him. From the hallway, he heard the soft patter of Gus’s paws, because God forbid he enter a room with just the spare human.

Only once he heard you were out of the bathroom did Gus finally abandon the living room, trotting over to your side of the bed. You scooped him up, supporting his back as you settled into the pillows. “Well?”

“It’s not that ‘Cherry Wishes’ one,” he mused, earning a side eye from Gus who made himself comfortable in your lap. “Too…tropical. But there’s definitely sugar in it. Coconut something?”

You beamed. “Coconut Crush Paradise.”

“Sounds like a cocktail.”

“Mhm, you’re absolutely right and I plan to have about ten of them as soon as the shoot’s over tomorrow.”

Aaron chuckled, already imagining the questionable series of texts he’d be getting by your third.

You gently stroked Gus’s ears, casually adding, “Speaking of tomorrow… I was thinking maybe you could watch Gus for me?”

His eyes immediately shot over to yours. “What?”

“I mean, just for the day,” you said sweetly. “I’d bring him with me like usual, you know I love having him around, but he gets overwhelmed on shoot days. Too many people, too much noise, and it’s way too late to find a sitter. He doesn’t do well with strangers, gets all anxious…starts chewing things.”

“So was he anxious when he chewed my running shoes? Because if I recall correctly, you were home with him that day.”

You winced, scrunching your nose. “Okay, fine. That one’s on me. I didn’t realise what had him so quiet until it was too late. But honestly? He was kind of doing you a favour.”

“A favour? Really?”

You nodded with conviction, shifting Gus and cradling him against your chest. He nestled in, snout wedged contentedly between your shoulder and your cheek like he had no idea his dental history was being discussed. “You were well overdue for a new pair. And now you have those super fancy cloud ones that are way better for your old man feet, no?”

He narrowed his eyes, taking off his reading glasses. “My what feet?”

“Your seasoned feet,” you amended quickly, grinning. “Feet with wisdom. Feet with stories. Feet that deserve orthopaedic cushioning and arch support. Feet that could make my life significantly less stressful on what is shaping up to be the most stressful day of my career.”

“I don’t think Strauss will approve an unsolicited bring your girlfriend’s dog to work day.”

“It’s not unsolicited.”

“That implies you’ve asked her.”

“Ugh!” You threw your head back dramatically, enough to make Gus lift his head in annoyance. “Please, Hotchner. You’re the only human he tolerates without redecorating the place with his teeth. Please, please, please. I will do whatever you want.”

That earned you half a smirk. “Dangerous offer.”

“You know very well there’s little I wouldn’t do for you. I think it’s a very generous offer. Now is that a yes? Can I email you his care guide?”

“There’s a care guide?”

“There’s a Google Drive folder, Aaron. With subcategories,” you stated, moving Gus carefully into his lap. The two of you watched as he stood stiffly on Aaron’s thigh, visibly offended by the entire arrangement, before huffing and hopping right back over to your side.

Aaron let out a slow, defeated sigh. “Subcategories?”

“Feeding, walking, cuddle preferences, emotional triggers, rainwear...I even made it shareable.”

There was a long pause.

“You’ve already emailed it, haven’t you?”

You shrugged, giving Gus a peck. “Well, I’ve got to keep up with your favourite tech girl somehow, haven’t I?”

You were not lying about your care guide.

By the time Aaron’s eyes opened, it—a meticulously organised, colour-coded, link-embedded Google Drive folder—was already open on his work tablet. He barely had time to register the glowing device before you leaned down, peppering his face with quick kisses.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” you mumbled between the pecks, already dressed and multitasking a mascara wand with one hand and holding Gus’s harness with the other. “You’re a literal angel. A national treasure. Gus, say thank you to Uncle Aaron.”

Gus did and said absolutely nothing.

Aaron blinked, still horizontal and slightly betrayed by how awake you already were. “Uncle?”

“You’re not ready for the dad status yet, baby,” you called over your shoulder, grabbing your heels and your oversized tote in one sweep, and Aaron had to think, really hard, about where the mascara and harness had just vanished to.

He sat up slowly, wiping away the remnants of sleep from his eyes. “You fed him, right?”

“Page three,” you replied, swinging back into the bedroom. “Column C, highlighted in purple. He likes to eat with people, so feed him when you feed yourself. All I’ve had is coffee this morning.”

“Coffee doesn’t count as breakfast.”

You were already down the hall again. “It does when all I have time for is chasing down samples!”

“Eat something,” he called after you, standing now. “Even if it’s just a granola bar.”

“I’ll try,” you promised, popping back into view for one last second, cheeks a little flushed, mascara finally applied and one earring MIA. “Wish me luck?”

“You don’t need luck, honey. You’ve got this.” He placed a kiss on your forehead, noticing the freshly applied lipstick. “I love you. Knock ’em dead, then go get your tropical cocktails.”

You grinned, already halfway out the door again. “With little umbrellas?”

“Non-negotiable.”

Gus hated Aaron, he was convinced of it.

He’d prodded at his breakfast with obvious disdain, despite Aaron following your instructions to the letter and even sitting down to eat with him. Then, when it was time to go, the simple task of putting on his harness, which took you thirty effortless seconds, somehow took Aaron six full minutes.

And then, the furry devil—Aaron’s preferred nickname for him—flat-out refused to move when it was time to leave. Just sat there. No barking, no drama, just pure silent dog-defiance. In the end, Aaron had to juggle the dog, his briefcase, and his coffee all the way to the car, trying not to drop any of them, or his patience.

By the time he reached the BAU and began the dreaded walk of shame through the bullpen, he did his best to keep Gus tucked discreetly under one arm. That’s when the little shi—devil—decided he wanted to walk, squirming like a toddler on a sugar high until Aaron reluctantly set him down.

“Is that a dog?” Prentiss asked, craning her neck around her monitor.

Aaron didn’t slow his pace. “Please don’t ask questions.”

“Did you just say dog?” Morgan’s voice called from the kitchenette, just before he poked his head out. He took one look and laughed. “Oh my God. Hotch has officially lost it.”

“Does Strauss know?” Prentiss grinned, standing for a better look.

“If she doesn’t now, she will by the end of the hour,” Aaron muttered.

“Just wait till Garcia finds out,” Morgan said, strolling over and crouching down beside Gus. “This guy’ll be the least of your worries.” He reached out to give Gus a friendly scratch under his chin.

Gus blinked slowly, unimpressed, then turned and padded over to stand behind Aaron’s legs.

“Oof,” Morgan winced, standing up. “Harsh.”

“He’s selective,” Aaron mumbled, already making his way upstairs with Gus disinterestedly following behind.

Once inside his office, he shut the door and dropped the leash along with his briefcase. You had insisted in a flurry of texts that he had to bring Gus’s bed, emphasising the importance of familiarity and emotional grounding. But, if Aaron was honest, he’d run out of hands…and any lingering motivation to make Gus comfortable after wrestling him into his harness had turned into a full-body workout.

So instead, he grabbed the scratchy throw blanket draped over the back of his office sofa, folded it once, then again, and placed it on the floor near his desk, creating a part makeshift bed, and part strategic barricade for whenever Strauss or anyone else decided to barge in.

Gus walked over to it, sniffed it once, looked up at Aaron like this is what you think I deserve? and promptly turned around.

Aaron exhaled, sank into his chair, and turned on his laptop, watching Gus with one eye as he began inspecting the office like the next BAU case would originate from this very room. Then he saw it, the subtle shift of weight, the little butt wiggle, the telltale sign for a leap onto the sofa.

He could already hear your voice in his head, telling him he’s not supposed to jump, Aaron, it’s bad for his back. So before he even knew what he was doing, he was out of his seat, crossing the office in three long strides, and scooping the furball up to gently place him on the sofa.

That seemed to satisfy Gus, and Aaron used the golden window of calm to log on and attempt to get some work done. But Morgan’s earlier comment lingered in his head, which led to him glancing toward his office door every time he heard even the faintest shuffle or footsteps—because if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that being startled by Garcia mid-pen-to-paper was not a rare occurrence, happening more times than he liked to admit.

By the time he was halfway through the morning, he thought he’d managed to get away with it until he heard the jingle of bracelets and a very animated voice getting louder as it moved through the bullpen, straight toward his office door.

“There you are!” Garcia exclaimed the moment she saw the dog curled on the sofa. “Oh my stars, he’s real.”

Aaron didn’t look up from his paperwork. “He’s asleep.”

“He’s perfect,” Garcia whispered, already pulling a treat from what appeared to be a custom bedazzled Ziploc bag. “I brought duck-wrapped sweet potato. Very anti-inflammatory and very gourmet. Only the best for the cutest mister ever.”

“Garcia…”

“Don’t Garcia me. You’ve had a whole dog in here all morning and didn’t tell me? Do you even consider me part of this team anymore?”

Aaron thought about replying, but the way Garcia was now crouched beside the couch, fixated on Gus with near religious reverence, told him she wasn’t really listening anymore. So he turned his attention back to his paperwork, just in time to see Gus shift and reposition himself, turning his back toward her.

Garcia gasped. “Did he just—”

“Yes,” Aaron said flatly. “That’s how he says hello.”

“Okay…that’s fine.” She nodded, waving her hands. “He has boundaries. I respect that. I do. But it’s just no one has ever turned their back on me. Not even you, and you once left in the middle of a team birthday lunch to write paperwork.”

“Garcia, I really need to finish these reports before he decides it’s time for his walk. Could you—”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll go emotionally process in my office,” she rambled, standing and brushing invisible lint off her skirt. “But tell him that I forgive him and that I left him a duck treat under the cushion.”

Before he could question where, exactly, Garcia had left duck treats on his office sofa, his phone lit up with a text.

You: Is Gus okay? Did he eat?? Did you remember to play the chill playlist? Wait, be honest, is he ignoring people?? He’s a little judgemental but he has a very big heart!!!

Aaron: He’s ignoring everyone, including Garcia. He’s on his sixth nap of the day.

Aaron: Did you have anything for breakfast? How is the shoot going?

You: Breakfast was three lattes and half a croissant I inhaled while yelling at someone about lighting.

You: The shoot is CHAOS. I also apparently left the house with only one earring in?? Currently having a breakdown over the wrong shade of beige.

You: Send help AND pictures of Gus pls!! (A selfie of the two of you would be a great boost to morale 😉)

Aaron: You’ll get a picture once you eat an actual meal and stop surviving on foam and pastry crumbs.

Aaron: And for the record, beige is beige. I don't see the crisis.

Aaron: But I do see someone working themselves into the ground. Take a breath. You’re allowed to sit still for five minutes.

He watched the screen for a moment, waiting for the read receipt to pop up. But after a few minutes passed with no sign of it, he figured you’d been swept into yet another lighting or colour emergency.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and made a mental note to call you during lunch, just to hear your voice and remind you, gently but firmly, that surviving on caffeine while running around in six-inch heels wasn’t exactly a sustainable nutrition plan.

When lunchtime finally rolled around, Aaron had to bribe Gus with a dental stick just to get him off the couch. Fortunately, the distraction worked in his favour, because while Gus was occupied gnawing on it, Aaron took the opportunity to slip the harness on without protest.

And yes, he was breaking one of your rules… again. Dental sticks were technically for after walks, not before. But at this point, Aaron was taking the shortcuts and the cheated victories wherever he could find them.

Surprisingly, he had managed to avoid Strauss, which he figured was either Garcia’s or Rossi’s doing… possibly both. And by the time he and Gus returned to the office, Aaron felt noticeably more at ease, especially knowing you’d eaten something real and managed a full ten minutes of actual sit-down time.

When the clock finally hit five, Aaron decided not to push his luck. He packed up the rest of his work to take home along with Gus, who, over the course of the entire day, had only seemed remotely entertained by Rossi and JJ.

It wasn’t until nearly seven that his phone buzzed again.

A picture came through first, two brightly coloured cocktails, one garnished with a tiny umbrella, the other with a pineapple wedge, both held up in perfectly manicured hands, adorned with your favourite rings.

Then came the voice note.

“Okay, first of all,” your voice chirped in his ear, still breathless with laughter, “these drinks are crazy good, and I’m probably going to have, like, four more, but only because I earned them. I kicked ass today… literally at one point, which I’ll explain when I get home if I don’t forget.”

There was a pause, followed by some light shuffling like you were moving somewhere quieter. 

“Tell Gus I love him so, so much. And tell you that I love you even more.”

Another pause, then a breathy, mid-hiccup giggle.

“Please be naked when I get back. I love you.”

Aaron stared at the phone then replayed the voice note again, the sound of your voice catching Gus’s attention, who lifted his head and trotted closer without prompting for once.

“She’s out of her mind,” Aaron muttered, though the fondness in his voice was obvious, even to the dog just as Gus rested his snout on Aaron’s thigh.

“You miss your mom, huh?” he asked softly, scratching behind Gus’s ear. “Yeah. Me too.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt

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[monzabee]

oh bee!!!! Congrats on the raise and promotion my love 🥰 you deserve this (and all the good things!!)

oh my dear ivy!!🫶 thank you so much and i hope you also deserve all of those good things and more!!🥹🩷

[monzabee]

(The dog says everything I have nothing to add 🫰🏻)

I LOVE YOU ALI, YOU'RE MY FAV PERSON EVER

[monzabee]

Can we please get a cheeky Sunday night music rec?👀

of course you can!!

— body better by maisie peters — you're not harry styles by dylan (don't ask please, i listened to it in a tiktok and it was stuck in my head) — cognitive dissonance by sophie holohan — vicious by sabrina carpenter — heaven by niall horan — waffle house by jonas brothers — coast by hailee steinfeld and anderson .paak

[monzabee]

oh my god i love herrr!!! i don't think you understand how obsessed i am with this series and the inner monologue the reader has, but this is amazing and i love reading each chapter more and more each time!!

fun fact: my friend and i ran into phoebe waller-bridge last year near ual in king's cross, and we acted out the entire claire haircut thing and she complimented us so there you go!

PR (Penne Rigate)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Some weird hurt-to-comfort??? (Fluffy at times.) Bro (GN). idk. Summary: Sometimes you spiral so hard you start hallucinating David Rossi - Dave, sorry - groping your boyfriend’s tit the first time you meet his coworkers. Silver lining? Aaron’s forearms are flour-dusted and flexing over pasta dough. Warnings: age gap dynamics, jealousy (#Hossi), suggested sexting, anxiety & hypervigilance, reader masking pain with horniness (and nazi-feminism) so hard she hallucinates a Rossi-Hotch situationship, twice-reminded dead dad, and Aaron not exactly winning Boyfriend of the Year. Reader is not a reliable narrator!!! Word Count: 5.9k Dado's Corner: It was supposed to be the usual fluffy-horny combo… but it spiraled into something... experimental. These issues don’t exactly get resolved, they just get loosely patched up, temporarily. You’re allowed to feel confused. The confusion is part of the aesthetic (or so I keep telling myself)

masterlist

There’s this unspoken rule that you’re supposed to nod along and agree if a customer tips you enough. Now, you’re not entirely sure how to behave when said customer regularly gives you way more than just the tip.

(Oh, for fuck’s sake. That was horrible. You’re officially absorbing his complete inability to make a joke that’s even remotely funny. It’s contagious. Like a virus. Or lov-)

“Why don’t you come meet the team?” Aaron blurts out - mid-coffee handoff, no warning - as if that’s a casual thing people say lightheartedly.

You blink. And then you blink again.

Because he’s looking up at you, bastard, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Tilting his chin just so, raising his eyebrows the tiniest bit so the light catches on his stupidly delicate bottom lashes like a goddamn siren song for your libido.

He’s weaponizing his face.

A full-blown visual seduction attempt under the guise of ordinary eye contact, and you’re meant to say no? You’re meant to resist that? Put that face away, Aaron.

“...What?”

“Dave’s hosting a dinner tonight.” Ah. Dave.

You shouldn’t be jealous of a man at least ten years older than him who is possibly the only person Aaron could realistically call a friend. But you are. (Aaron being on nickname terms with someone? When he still calls you by your full name half the time? No. Illegal. Shut it down.)

But you know better by now.

You’ve learned to stop wasting time on the obvious - like surface-level red flags disguised as male ””friendship”” - and start paying attention to the quiet little tells.

Because when Aaron wants something but can’t bring himself to ask - when the feelings start piling up under that buttoned-down emotional straightjacket - he gets… clingy.

Case in point: he takes the hand you’ve got resting on your hip and brings it to his lips. Slowly. Still looking up. Still keeping eye contact. (Thankfully, the Disney Princess didn’t flutter his lashes… small mercies.)

He kisses your knuckles and doesn’t let go - just laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking the side of your index finger with that soft, absentminded tenderness that would be sweet if it weren’t for the fact that those same fingers were knuckle-deep inside you less than an hour ago.

It’s definitely a trap.

“We’re supposed to have a date tonight,” you remind him. Wine, dine, and get fucked on a mattress that isn’t his orthopedic concrete slab disguised as a bed.

Your roommate’s finally out, the stars are aligned, the gods are merciful, and this man wants to-

“We could have a date at Dave’s place,” he says, like that is romantic. Like Rossi’s Tuscan fuck-palace of mahogany and trauma is somehow a better plan.

He tries to sell it with another knuckle kiss. (Sneaky bastard.)

“Aaron. Honey. We’re not fucking in the car agai-”

“Shhh... honey, we’re in-”

“Last time your hips made that weird noise…” (Like something popped. You thought he dislocated something. You were halfway to calling 911 before he groaned again. Horrifying.)

“-public.” An overly erotic sigh follows to strengthen his case “And you’re working,”

Oh. Right. Thank you so much for the reminder, Aaron. If it weren’t for his sanctimonious little warning, you might’ve forgotten you’re currently in a slutty apron and have a cheesecake in the oven that needs pulling out in - what, 16?

No, 15… 14 minutes. Great.

So considerate of him to be scandalized by the idea of being overheard in public, when he’s blissfully unaware (you don’t have the heart to tell him. He’s delicate.) that your friends already know his inseam. And his full birth chart. And the precise length and circumference of his-

Oh… speaking of which-

“If you’re so scandalized people might hear,” you murmur, saccharine-sweet, leaning in just enough to melt a few IQ points off him (man’s too smart sometimes), “you could always come to the back with me. I could show you the pastry lab... there’s a fresh batch of cookies that desperately need your very professional, very, very, very thorough feedback.”

(Hands-on feedback. Mouth-on too.)

He chuckles, “You’re not fooling me twice.” Fair. It's already a small miracle he believed the croissants were real the first time and not just- well. A metaphor. “I’m serious. Come with me tonight.” (You plan to. Multiple times. Preferably on a mattress, not the gearshift of his billshit car.) “I know it’s scary,” he adds, all earnest and soft. “But I’ll be there. And you’re a much more likeable person than I am anyway.”

He’s still stroking your thumb.

It’s unsettling.

He’s just so sweet. So natural with it. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s touching you like that. Like a lover. Like someone who’s held you through things and made you breakfast and maybe even deserves to be held back.

It makes you want to stroke something else in return.

Just to be even. (Obviously.)

“I think they’d like me more if I were the reason you actually gave them a weekend off, you know?” Honestly, it’d be a win for everyone. You’d get your sleepy, clingy morning sex. The team would get to touch grass.

It’s not even the first time you’ve tried to convince him to sleep in. You’ve tried multiple angles. Some of them very persuasive.

And yet… no.

Fuck him and his iron will.

“I’ll think about it…” He brings his coffee to his lips to hide the smirk, but it’s no use. He’s giddy. Blows gently across the surface, all while holding eye contact. (Unnecessary.) “What do I get in return?” he asks, all faux-coy, like he isn’t already picturing it.

Oh. That’s how we’re playing.

You don’t even hesitate. “A sloppy wet blowie card redeemable anytime you wa-”

He chokes. Immediately. Coughs. Splutters. Spills half the coffee across the table, his lap, the floor you just cleaned. A full dramatic scene. Everyone turns to stare.

So much for being subtle.

You would laugh at him but instead, you’re crouched over a fresh coffee spill with a mop in hand for the second time today, while your deeply apologetic, painfully handsome boyfriend (being 46 and still calling him “boyfriend” feels like a crime punishable by jail time) paces in the background as if he’s just committed a felony.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting - sorry - are you okay? I mean, I know you’re okay, but – sorry - are you sure you’re okay?

“It’s okay.”

“-I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.””

If he weren’t hot and genuinely pathetic about it, it’d be annoying. Like that cursed 30-minute Christmas playlist they loop during December shifts, the one that somehow drops to 0.5x speed the second you're six hours deep, dead-eyed, and one sleigh bell away from crying into the espresso machine.

“I’ll clean it-” he begs.

“You won’t.”

He reaches for a stack of tissues, trying to be helpful - which only pisses you off more, because he can’t not be helpful.

It’s pathological. It’s baked into his DNA. Helpfulness as a compulsion. He’s incapable of simply letting a mess exist without trying to fix it, even if he is the one who caused it.

You need to shut him up or you won’t survive the rest of this shift. “What do I have to wear tonight?”

He perks up instantly. “So you are coming to Dave’s?” Eyes wide. Hopeful. An overgrown bipedal golden retriever who just heard the leash jingle and realized it’s walk o’clock.

You barely get the “yes” out before he’s already yanking out his teeny-tiny iPhone and furiously typing with his index finger something that probably reads:

“hi dave <3 my unconventionally young girlfriend just agreed to come tonight <3 she is the first person I’ve dated or touched since my ex-wife (mother of my child, deceased, rip forever) <333333 she still has a roommate and sometimes thinks she’s a rebound or a novelty item so she overcompensates by being hypersexual (50% is just genuine devotion tho don’t worry) <3 can’t wait for you to meet her!!! she doesn’t speak in full legalese like I do but she’s trying her best <333”

No… actually, more like:

“Good morning, Dave. Confirming that both my girlfriend and I will be attending dinner tonight at [insert overly precise timestamp] p.m. I’m looking forward to everyone meeting her. Let me know if there’s anything you need me to bring. Best, A.H.”

…Which, yes, is overly composed, pompously formal, and emotionally sterile. And yet he’d reread it three times. Hesitate over the word “girlfriend,” maybe delete it, maybe add “my” in front of it. Add a period. Delete the period. Add it again.

Because what he’d really be saying is:

“I’m bringing someone who matters more than I know how to put into words. Please don’t scare her. Please don’t embarrass me. Please, for the love of God, don’t make her feel like this was a mistake.”

You watch, dissecting every micro-expression, every digital breath, awaiting the subtle ping-

And then he finally looks up from his phone and says:

“The weather app says it’s going to be a bit windy… but we’re staying inside, so we’ll be fine. Just make sure you bring a jacket for outside.”

Oh. Okay. So he wasn’t texting DaVe. He was just… checking the weather. Never mind.

“You’re, like, actually 1000% sure I don’t need to wear anything fancy? Like… dress code-wise? You pinky swear?”

“Wear what you’re comfortable in. You’ll look beautiful no matter what.” (Ugh. Gentleman nonsense. Regency-era I-shall-fetch-your-glove-m’lady bullshit.) “There’s a cooking competition at Dave’s, by the way, so… wear something you can move in...”

(And when, exactly, was he planning to share this extremely vital piece of information? Was he just going to let you show up blind - no context, no warning - and then judge your outfit?!?!)

“…Preferably not too many buttons.”

“What?”

“There’s usually wine. And I doubt I’ll have the patience to unbutton all that if I’m tipsy.”

(Did he just-)

(Is that dirty talk? In public?!)

Small step for Aaron Hotchner. Giant leap for mankind.

“OOOOH, I like you,” you laugh, swatting his arm. Filthy, filthy man. You’re keeping him. (You were keeping him anyway. This just signed the lease and laminated the contract.)

“Well,” he deadpans, “that’s a relief.”

His humor. He seriously needs to stop or you’re going to uno reverse him straight into cardiac arrest just so he knows what it feels like to be the one left gasping.

And he is – somehow - worse than expected when you open the door at Mr. “Pick you up at 7:20” but actually shows up at 7:00 o’clock sharp.

Big, dumb googly eyes. “You’re… you’re perfect.” (Perfect??? Okay, bro. Be serious.) He says it a little breathlessly, too.

Which - alright. This is coming from a man who’s seen you in pajamas and week-old (okay, not week-old) mascara smudged down to your collarbones and still had the audacity to call you beautiful.

But this time? This time he stutters. Just a little. Which means - yes. You’ve done one hell of a job.

Although… he’s… he’s…

“You’re not so bad yourself, Hotchner…” you’re trying - really trying - not to engage with the obscene display that is his forearm vein, pulsing under the rolled cuff of a shirt that’s…

Well, textured.

You don’t know what fabric it is, but it looks expensive (though, to be fair, you've yet to catch him wearing anything that isn’t). It’s not his usual no-nonsense blend - it’s something... different.

Almost illicitly nice.

By his standards, borderline scandalous. Sensual. Not quite silk, but it’s definitely texting silk at 2 a.m. Smooth, a little structured, a little (very) transparent.

His version of lingerie, probably. And it’s working.

Especially because he’s holding a slim paper bag - wine, presumably - gripping it just tight enough to make the tendons in his hand flex, veins popping like they’re sending you a personal invitation you absolutely cannot leave on read.

Not when they’re practically pulsing your name in Morse code - perfectly normal heart rate for a man his age, maybe a little faster than usual but nothing to worry about.

(You want to eat him.)

(And you want to eat him even more because he’s still blushing at your compliment.)

(Still ducking his head toward the damn doormat - the same one he always stares at every time you say something nice on the threshold like it's suddenly going to save him.)

(Still pretending he isn’t doing any of this on purpose.)

(He is. He’s a slut. And you’ve broken the encryption.)

You’re dangerously close to asking him to cancel dinner altogether so you can crawl into his lap and trace those veins and flushed cheeks with your mouth.

But - no. You’ve come this far. You’re wearing your good shoes.

“Is that for me?” you ask, nodding toward the incriminating wine bag he’s holding.

You already know the answer. You’ve seen the label peeking out - the same wine he asked you about months ago when he still needed excuses to talk to you. The one you recommended. The one you both got tipsy on that night you-

God. So romantic. Remembering something so small just so the two of you could reminisce together…

“That’s for Dave,” he says. (Awesome. Love that. Feeling super special right now.) “But this-” he leans in, suddenly, and you can already tell he’s doing mental calculus on what to do with his free hand.

Aaron’s a face-grabber kind of kisser. You know this. You love that he’s a face-grabber kind of kisser.

There’s nothing (and this is unfortunately not hyperbole) you crave more than having your face completely eclipsed by those huge hands.

To feel his hot palms cradle your jaw, his thumbs press into your cheekbones while the scent of that wrist cologne (that he definitely sprays on purpose) clogs your lungs and your will to stand upright.

But not this time.

His hand falters mid-air. Hesitates. Probably because his internal probability matrix is running a risk assessment on smudging your makeup.

He can’t tell if you’re actually wearing any - unsure whether the godlike glow you’re currently emitting is foundation, highlighter, or just you being hot and terrifying by nature - so he aborts the face mission.

Redirects, sliding around your waist instead. And when he pulls you in, at least you can get drunk on the sprays of his cologne clinging to his clavicles.

“This,” he says, right before his lips find yours, “is for you.”

The old this-then-kiss technique. Vintage (prehistoric.) Sooooo corny. But somehow it’s adorable when he does it - because he says it with that barely-there smug little smile, like he thinks he just pulled off the smoothest move in cinematic history.

He thinks he’s being so cool.

Bless his delusion.

You need to bless something in this man or you’ll feel guilty for cursing the fact that if Aaron hadn’t been raised with the emotional bandwidth of a teaspoon - thanks to Mommy Dearest and a father who’s, oh right, dead (you keep forgetting; trauma’s the subscription box that just keeps on delivering)-

Then this “meet the parents” moment would’ve involved a couple of awkward silences, maybe a tense pause after his mom casually mentions that your uterus technically belongs to the U.S. government.

Instead, you’re standing in what can only be described as a psychological war room disguised as a kitchen.

The kind of kitchen that’s the exact size of your entire apartment, if your apartment had mood lighting, marble counters, and a temperature-controlled wine fridge that probably costs more than your entire year of rent.

And in it:

A battalion (six) of government-employed behavioral analysts, each gripping the correct wine glass for the correct varietal.

And - one guy. (JJ’s… husband? No ring. Fiancé? No. Boyfriend? Oh, fuck this. Babydaddy. That’s what he is. The babydaddy of their son.) What is he, a detective? Fed-lite? Badge-adjacent? Whatever.

Basically, you’re surrounded by cops.

You've betrayed every principle you hold dear because some old man with courtroom diction and bottom lashes that could sweep the floor said your name once like it hurt him to feel something.

And now he’s gone.

Aaron steps away just to hang your jacket like the soft-handed gentleman he occasionally remembers to be - and Dave, yes that Dave, the one currently looming behind a granite island the size of a mid-range yacht, immediately peels off to follow.

They start murmuring to each other in that cryptic, chesty man-code hum and somehow, despite the noise, your hyper-attuned ears still manage to isolate it:

Aaron’s laugh.

Light. Private. The one he saves for people who’ve known him long enough to earn it.

Physics insists there’s more space without Aaron taking up your peripheral vision and stealing half your air. Your lungs disagree.

You’re standing alone, still mentally half-hovering in the doorway like someone’s plus-one who wasn’t technically invited, every sense on high alert, spine locked, tracking everything at once just to stay one step ahead of the judgment you’re absolutely sure is coming.

The sound of his footsteps on the flooring slowly getting closer. The rhythm of his voice.

Who’s looking at you, how long, what it means.

Whether someone’s already profiling you. (They definitely are.)

You don’t feel unwelcome, exactly. You just feel… scanned.

And then comes Emily Prentiss.

(You recognize her from the Facebook deep-dive you did two hours before Aaron picked you up. 41. Speaks a gazillion of languages. Has a cat named Sergio. [Regrettably did not bring Sergio to dinner.])

Emily: the agent who - until very recently - everyone thought was dead.

Everyone except Aaron and JJ.

(Mother to one boy named Henry - you think he’s a few years younger than Jack? - and chronic reblogger of that one women’s soccer team whose name always escapes you but she clearly has beef with their coach.)

Anyway. Back to Emily.

Messy story.

Something-something faked death, interagency yada-yada, undercover stuff and maybe betrayal?

Aaron never told you the full thing. (Probably because he knows damn well you’d immediately stop siding with him the second you found out how shockingly bad he is at communicating literally anything important.)

Emily looks at you. “You’re-”

His what?

His young?

Too young?

His young little sister? (Half-sister, technically. His dad’s dead. Right. That’s the second time you’ve forgotten. In a row. What kind of girlfriend does that-)

His daughter?

His granddaughter?

“-real.”

Oh. “Yes. Yes, I’m real… I guess so???”

So he’s considered a loser at work too. Interesting. That’s definitely not what he told you.

“Mama, if y’all girls weren’t so hungover you would’ve seen her at the triathlon too…”

That’s Derek. (Age: not specified, hometown: Chicago, emotional support dog Clooney: deceased, tragically. Retired service dog. Heart of gold. 10/10)

He pats Emily on the shoulder mid-sentence, barely getting the words “Hi, I’m-” out before he’s completely steamrolled by JJ and your soon-to-be favorite oversharer: Penelope Garcia.

(Penelope - recently single [sad for her, unfortunately sad for you], extremely online, chronically committed to rhinestone accessories - has posted enough Facebook statuses in the past three weeks to warrant a digital intervention.)

(If you weren’t technically tied to her unit chief, you’d absolutely hit on her. But let’s be real. She’s way out of your league. Like... celestial tier.)

(Not that Aaron isn’t too… but he’s - he’s a loser. That’s what he is. A hot, competent loser. Your loser.)

(Your hormone cycle would like to formally request that you marry him. But that’s just hormones. Obviously. You don’t really think that. Marriage is a scam.)

Behind them stand two more additions to your ever-expanding social anxiety spiral: Will - Will! You finally remember his name! (The detective. The stay-at-home wife. The babydaddy!)

And Dr. Spencer Reid.

(No Facebook. No digital footprint. You only know him through Aaron’s scattered mentions, mostly about how he keeps forgetting his hotel room keycards. Multiple times. Like, compulsively. He’s probably only a few years older than you. Which – honestly - is the closest thing to comfort you’ve gotten all night.)

From a distance, they don’t seem too terrifying.

Not at first glance.

Not until Dave steps back into the room.

And not to be territorial, but-

You clock the way his arm is slung a little too familiarly around your sad-looking man’s shoulders.

“This man wouldn’t have asked you out if it weren’t for me,” Dave declares.

First words out of his mouth and he’s already claiming credit like he coached the whole thing.

Aaron grimaces. “Dave-”

Doesn’t matter. He’s unstoppable.

Dave gives Aaron’s shoulder a condescending little pat - dominance disguised as affection - and flashes the room (…a smile. He flashes the room – a smile.)

“Now that we’re all finally here…”

He side-eyes Aaron. Passive-aggressive. You clock it immediately.

Aaron, bless his rigid, rule-following, bureaucratic soul, steps in. “You said 8 p.m. We’re not late.”

And that’s when Dave really sinks his claws in. His hand tightens on Aaron’s shoulder - subtle, practiced, like a predator with a working knowledge of social cues - and he laughs.

But it’s not a casual laugh. It’s a loaded laugh. A you’ll never have power here laugh.

“Exactly. It’s 7:30, Aaron. Last time you showed up half an hour early, I had to change the time so you wouldn’t walk in on me in my robe.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Aaron’s blushing. And you really hope it’s not for the reason your brain keeps whispering.

(That reason being: They’ve seen each other in robes before. Multiple times. Maybe fewer robes. Maybe no robes. Maybe-)

(You’re not saying there’s something going on. You’re just saying there’s energy. A lot of history. A suspicious amount of comfort. A shoulder grip with a little too much thumb.)

“Anyway, now that that’s all clear,” Dave chirps, but somehow his hand is… lower? Is that-? No. That’s not- It is. No, no no-

Dave’s palm is now resting on Aaron’s tit pec. Is he cupping it? Is this real?

“Alright! You’re all coupled up, right?” Dave claps, winks, and moves along like he didn’t just get to second base with your boyfriend in front of you.

Aaron smiles at you. Smiles. Unbothered. Unbothered and getting fondled by his best friend.

“You’ve got one hour! Chop chop- I’m starving!” Dave calls out, punctuating it with not one, but two enthusiastic pats.

On Aaron’s…

Right boob.

You see red.

And as Dave finally releases his hostage - who strolls back to you all smiley and suspiciously unfazed about being publicly groped-

Dave, yet again (because of course it’s Dave, the world absolutely curves around that manipulative little Italian man’s will), tosses over his shoulder with far too much satisfaction for a straight guy with three ex-wives:

“Damn, Aaron! That triathlon training’s really paying off, huh? Look at that chest!”

“Agh- Dave,” Aaron groans half-mortified, but then, he looks down at himself and chuckles.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

You’re no profiler, but if Dave is making detailed commentary on your man’s chest gains with the kind the kind of confidence that implies historical data-

Then it’s because he has historical data.

That man has groped your boyfriend’s tits before.

More than once.

Enough to compare progress.

And suddenly, you're not so sure you're the only one in this relationship who’s been getting a handful.

Speaking of handfuls-

A warm, very specific hand lands on your shoulder.

“Hey”

Aaron. Of course.

You should’ve known just from the size of it. Or the temperature. There’s something unsettlingly distinct about the way he touches you - like no other object, fabric, or living creature has ever graced your shoulder with that much… heat.

Except maybe his mouth. When it stops there. Briefly. On its way down to your-

“Something’s wrong,” Mr. Profiler’s far too perceptive as he hands you an apron so you won’t get your outfit (the one he called ‘perfect’) dirty.

He steps behind you just as you’ve already tied it, clearly having intended to do it himself in that gentlemanly, let-me-wrap-my-arms-around-you-for-no-reason kind of way.

What a fool.

You don’t need help tying a fucking apron. You don’t need his affirmation coded into every little gesture.

What is that, anyway? Chivalry? Control? Is he worried you’ll somehow mess it up without him? Or is it just that he can’t handle you doing things alone – competently - without needing his federal male approval stamped on it?

You’re here to cook. To participate. To prove-what? That you belong? That you're not a tourist in his life?

You shake it off.

“Are you sure it’s enough eggs for the amount of pasta we have to make?” you frown at the sad, lonely little pile sitting by your –right, Dave’s - cutting board.

“Honey, you asked me to take eight-”

“Yeah. One per person...”

Ah.

You didn’t count yourself.

You stare at the eggs.

Count them again, maybe they’ll rearrange and make more sense this time. But no - there are eight.

For everyone else. Everyone but you.

Aaron steps to your side, looks down too, and you’re still doing mental math, because now you don’t even remember how much fucking flour you dumped in that bowl. Did you even measure it? Did you eyeball it??

There’s no scale in sight. Shit.

If the pasta doesn’t turn out perfect, it’ll just confirm what everyone’s already half-smiling to themselves about: Ah. Of course.

The decorative girlfriend. The midlife-crisis sparkle to distract from how lonely he’s been. A little proof of life.

No respectable job. No remarkable backstory. Just here to stand beside him and prove he can still fuck someone half his age without taking the blue pi-

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

His hand lands on your lower back, rubbing slow circles. Not lazy. Just… frustratingly kind.

The kind of touch that isn’t trying to lead anywhere. Doesn’t want anything.

(…Would he want something more if you were Dave?)

Just exists there, warm and grounding. (You immediately regret not wearing something backless. Why would you not want to feel that hand directly on your skin? Fool.)

It’s infuriating. And really, really nice. Which is more annoying.

He steps into your line of sight, casually body-blocking the rest of the room (which may or may not currently feature a half-floured Spencer Reid flailing near the sink yelling, “Emily. Emily, please stop. She’s going to think we’re – Emily - no, seriously - what is she going to think about us - Emily, that we’re unprofessional? - Emily. No. No, Derek. Not you too.”)

But you wouldn’t know.

Because you can’t see a damn thing past the entire 6’2” anxious boyfriend now standing directly in front of you.

All you get is the gentle forehead creases of a man who probably cares more about your emotional stability than his own cholesterol, and those Barbie-pink lips tugged into that soft, earnest little frown.

He’s trying to emotionally disarm you in full HD. (Also? Slightly misogynistic. Forcing eye contact like that. Yeah… that’s what it is. Sure.)

“Hey, hey,” he chases your eyes. “It’s fine. I’m stealing one egg from Morgan, and we’ll add the flour slowly, adjust the texture as we go. How does that sound?”

It sounds like something he’d say. Like he thinks everyone functions like he does - just bury the panic under logistics, swallow the feeling whole and chew on the task instead.

A plan. A loose, improv-based, easy-to-fuck-up plan. And you can’t afford to fuck up. Also-

“You? Stealing?”

“Yes.” He admits it too... God you’re such a bad influence on him. “I’ve got a lot of tricks up my sleeve you’re still not aware of.” Sure thing, flirt. (Say that again with your little smug voice and see if you don’t get jumped behind the wine fridge.)

He kisses the side of your head - quick, perfunctory. Blink and you’d miss it.

If you were Dave, he’d take his time. He’d cup your jaw, linger, maybe drop a “I’ll have to slip away for a moment to steal that egg, darling” in that perfect baritone.

But sure. A kiss is a kiss.

He seals the success of his noble egg-heist with another swift press to the same spot, then pushes his sleeves up higher - back to business, like nothing happened.

(You’re not looking. You’re absolutely not watching. You are, in fact, turning away to start on some kind of sauce. Your years in the service industry kick in and your body moves on muscle memory- meanwhile, your eyes... oh shit-)

He covertly pulls out a perfectly folded neon pink sticky note and - just as discreetly - his glasses from the pocket of his pants. (God forbid someone catches him using them.)

To his visible surprise, there’s a massive ink smear across the middle (he’s a leftie - everything he writes eventually morphs into smudged abstract expressionism), so he lifts the note off the table – squints at it – holds it even closer to his face – pauses – and then lets out a victorious:

“Aha.”

That soft exhale of understanding that tells you the giant black blob in the center used to mean something like: “Arrange flour into a cone, add beaten eggs and a pinch of salt in the center, and mix.”

(Groundbreaking stuff. Genius-level culinary insight. Next he’ll discover fire.)

And so he does. (Not the fire. Sadly, that was discovered already. But the mixing. He starts the mixing.)

Flour catches on his forearms, clings to the hair dusted across them. His sleeves are rolled to the brink - one more fold and they’d legally be classified as short sleeves.

And those forearms.

Obscene, if you really look. (You’re really looking.)

You can practically hear the veins dilating under the strain of physical effort.

Jaw clenched. Brows drawn in tight, serious lines. All that elite, laser-sharp hyperfocus, typically reserved for, like, hostage negotiations, now directed at a stubborn, crumbling ball of dough.

He probably sticks his tongue out. Just a little. A sliver. For half a second. You imagine it. You know it happens.

At first, the dough resists. Frays. Crumbles. But he’s relentless.

He plants one forearm down to pin it - veins, tendons, shirt pulling tight around his biceps, fabric threatening to give out under the stress - while the other hand folds, presses, rolls into it.

Over and over, and over again.

You want to be that ball of dough.

You want to be folded. Pressed. Pinned. Kneaded into - God, you hate to say it - absolute fucking submission by those hands.

Those hands that are currently manhandling gluten but could so, so easily be doing the same to your thighs. (Your ass. [Your throat.])

You hope you’re not drooling in front of his coworkers. You casually touch your jaw to check if it’s hanging open.

It is.

You shut it. Immediately.

Even though all your jaw wants to do right now is go wide. Wide enough to take that meaty, vein-lined, dexterous-

“Good arm work, Aaron,” Dave comments. From right next to you.

Oh shit.

You flinch like you’ve been caught mid-crime (which, honestly, you have. Horniness in the first degree.)

“You okay there, cara?” he taunts, as you seriously consider pretending you don’t speak English. “Relax,” he chuckles. “It’s cute. I’ve seen that face before... on him.”

Then he winks and tilts his head toward his boyfriend. Your boyfriend.

“Aaron?”

“Oh yes. Aaron,” he says, far too smug for someone who probably still uses a landline. “Back when you texted him back, one of those early times - you were still…” he waves a hand vaguely, probably hoping to reach for a descriptor that won’t get him slapped. “I don’t know. Whatever it was you were doing.”

(Scared shitless you might accidentally become a six-year-old’s stepmom overnight. That’s what you were doing.)

“Anyway,” he continues, “it was right before your first date.”

“What?”

“Yeah. We were driving back from some crap consult in Delaware. Just the two of us. You texted. I swear to God, I thought he was gonna drive us straight into a cornfield.”

Dave even pauses to reenact it - mouth half-open, eyes wide, looking as if he’s just seen Jelena walk into his kitchen uninvited.

(Which is impressive, considering the man almost definitely doesn’t know what a Jelena is. That’s how shocked he looks.)

“He didn’t think you’d reply,” Dave says, shaking his head with a look that’s almost pitying. “Said it out loud. ‘She’s probably just being polite.’” He drops his voice into a pitch-perfect imitation of Aaron’s broody monotone. It’s eerily accurate. Almost disrespectfully good.

“And he was gripping the wheel, doing that thing - you know, the thumb thing he does when he’s overthinking? Like he’s trying to knead the anxiety out through his own damn cuticles?”

(You do know. You’ve probably picked up the same nervous tic by now, just from proximity.)

Thinking about it makes you want to glance at Aaron.

He’s still laser-focused on his dough. (One of his ears is a little fucked up, sure - but not that fucked up. He hears everything.)

(And yet, he’s not looking up.)

“He wanted to text back, but he didn’t want to seem too eager. So I said, ‘Go on. Dictate it. I’ll type it. He made me edit it three times before I could send it. Then made me sign it with his initials, like it was a legal briefing or some classified FBI memo or whatever the hell that was about.”

“I didn’t want it to sound informal,” Aaron mutters, somewhere in the vicinity of his kneading.

“Oh no,” Dave says, grinning, “you wanted it to sound cool. Like you weren’t already smitten. Like every word out of your mouth didn’t already sound like please love me back.”

You are trying so hard not to laugh you might rupture something.

“He even took the wrong exit – twice - while I was typing ‘Sounds great, what day works for you?’”

“Dave,” Aaron groans. “I told you the GPS was-”

“OH NONONONO. Don’t do that. You called me for weeks just to talk about her. You’d send me screenshots and ask if your texts sounded ‘approachable.’ She deserves to know how miserable-”

“Dave.”

You’re frozen. Wide-eyed. In awe. Possibly hallucinating. Then, just to twist the knife, Dave leans in and says: “You know what else?”

There’s a “Dave, no-” from Aaron that gets totally ignored.

“We were forty minutes late. I told the team the GPS glitched. But the truth is… your boyfriend was too busy falling in love in the driver’s seat.”

You glance at Aaron. He doesn’t look up. But his ears are red.

“Just thought you should know,” Dave adds, giving your shoulder a paternal (unsexual) little pat. “Next time you’re eyeing his forearms like they’re your last meal - remember he used to make the exact same face every time you texted back. Poor guy looked like his heart was about to crawl out of his tie.”

He pauses. Smirks. “And he still does it, by the way. Not sure what you’re texting him these days but-”

“Dave,” you and Aaron snap at the same time.

(Oh wow. You’re officially on nickname basis with your man’s man-besties now. Adorable.)

Too synchronized. Too defensive.

Which is juuust a bit telling.

Dave raises his eyebrows. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t have to.

Because now you’re the one stuck picturing Aaron blushing at his phone - except it’s not over some sweet little “can’t wait to see you” message.

It’s over the stuff you’ve been sending him lately.

And it’s definitely not lunch plans.

Aaron still signs them with his initials, though.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[monzabee]

Hi love your work, do you plan or writing for carlos and do you have some series recs plaease??

i do have some fics planned in mind for carlos to come in the following weeks, but i'm trying to get through my wip list at the moment!

the two series i'm addicted at this point are:

august rush by @harley-sunday which is SO well-written, i probably read it three or four times since she concluded it (and it wasn't that long ago either)

and also tightrope by @somejazzinthemorning - i am completely obsessed with this and basically check the tags to see if there's a new chapter, it has me in a chokehold basically

xoxobee

[monzabee]

bestie, you need to feed us with girl crush content after that met ball....

i mean, great minds think alike....

[monzabee]

I FINALLY READ SOME OF THE STUFF I LIKED SO I COULD READ THEM LATER AND OMG I LOVE TUMBLR SO MUCH

I hope you guys check them out because all of them are chefs kiss and i can't wait to read more!

xoxobee

[monzabee]

OH MY GOD IS ALL I CAN SAY ABOUT THIS FIC AND OH MY GOD

it's a miracle that they didn't wake anybody up because you best believe i would not be able to stay silent or calm but this fic is LITERALLY what dreams are made of

MILE HIGH — aaron hotchner

In which whiskey and your short skirt make a combination that is too tempting to wait till the jet lands.

genre smut (18+) cw fem!bau!reader, established secret relationship, dom!aaron being a tipsy, horny, possessive fucker, slight dubcon?, fingering in front of the (sleeping) team, bicep biting, hair tugging, blow job, rough jet bathroom p in v wc 4k a/n first kinkfest request :) for the kink: “exhibitionism”

The warm glow of amber city lights illuminates the night sky as you watch out of the round jet window. One more hour until you land in Quantico, Virginia. You had just left Michigan, finishing up a case of an unsub who had a body count that would give any person the shivers. The relief had been immense when Aaron had cuffed him and pushed him in the cops’ direction — not your problem anymore. 

A celebration was only to be expected after a case like this. Rossi had opened up a bottle of Macallan, one of the finest whiskeys one could find. It was meant as a pre-drink, everyone was so excited and energized that the plan was to visit O’Keefe’s once landed. That wasn’t going to happen anymore, though.

Looking around, all you see are sleeping colleagues — the whiskey having conked them right out. To your right, JJ lies asleep on a single chair, head rested against the wall, blonde hair splayed all over her face. In front of you sits Derek, headphones on, position so slumped that he almost disappeared underneath the table that separated you. Your eyes wander further until they land on Aaron.

A smirk lingers on his face as you finally find his gaze, as if he was waiting for the moment. He reaches out his arm, giving cheers, before bringing the glass of liquor to his mouth and taking a sip. You smile back, lifting yourself from your chair and making your way over to him. 

“The last men standing,” you joke as you spot Spencer asleep, long legs dangling uncomfortably off of the couch. Then in the two seats in front of Aaron, Rossi and Emily are off to dreamland as well.

“Are we sure there are no sleeping pills crushed in there?” You ask, eyeing the bottle that stood on the table in between the four leather seats.

“I’m sure. Otherwise I’d be out too,” Hotch answers, placing his empty glass on the table with a clank. “Want some?”

You shake your head. “No, thanks. It would be wise for at least one of us to stay sober.”

He hums in response, patting the empty seat next to him. A giddy smile makes its way onto your face. You never sit next to Aaron. Not because you don’t want to. Definitely not because of that. But because of the relationship you’ve been trying to keep a secret. What you had with Aaron was still fresh; finding yourself in this weird stage where you knew each other well enough because of work to call it dating, but one where putting an official label on it felt too intimidating. 

One thing that was certain was that you were still in the honeymoon, head-over-heels phase (and you questioned whether that period would ever end when dating Aaron Hotchner). It was for your own safety to try and keep as much distance as possible, not being able to keep your hands off of each other when being too near. It was like his presence physically pulled you to him wherever you were. And now you’ve found your way back to him again — the only ones awake. 

You sit down on the beige padded seat, comfortably falling into the cushions. Not even a second later, Aaron’s large, warm hand made contact with the bare skin of your knee, making the skirt you’re wearing ride up your thighs. 

A rush of electricity tingles through your bones because of his touch, a mix of excitement and anxiety, but your nerves quickly calm as you realize that no one is awake, no one can see you. You’re fine.

Feeling confident, you place your hand atop his, interlocking your fingers and leaning into the warmth of his figure next to you.

“Imagine the day we can do this without feeling like two teenagers sneaking away in the middle of the night.”

You chuckle at your own comment, but there’s no response from Aaron. The air around you remains silent. You tilt your head at him, finding his gaze intently focused on your intertwined hands.

“Aaron?”

He hums. Recognition flashes in his eyes as he blinks his prior thoughts away. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your face. “One day, sweetheart.”

The royal, vanilla scent of liquor was evident on his tongue as he spoke. He presses another kiss to your skin. The moment lasts longer this time, lingering. His hand moves on its own accord, warm fingers slipping out of your grasp and finding their way to your inner thigh.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, a hint of a warning in your tone.

“Not allowed to touch my woman now?”

Your skin heats, momentarily forgetting all about your surroundings until Rossi lets out a snore in front of you. 

Your expression turns stern. “Whatever is on your mind, we’re not doing it.”

A frown etches into his face, then he leans in again. Like he was briefly offended by your rejection until he decided that he didn’t care. His large palm cups your face, and you freeze when his lips brush against yours, ever so softly, before pecking them.

“We can’t-“

A tug on your hair stops you in your tracks. The action is sharp enough to shut you up. Aaron empties your mind of all of your worries when his whisky-kissed lips ghost over your neck and move to the shell of your ear. 

“We can,” he argues. “If Reid were awake he’d tell you that the chances of them waking up in the next thirty minutes are close to zero.” 

Thirty minutes. That gives you enough time to do all the dirty things that are currently flashing through your mind. 

“It’s very naughty to be wearing a skirt like that around me,” he says in a heavy breath, tongue darting out to lick the spot where your ear meets your neck. “You must know that, right?”

You swallow, trying to gain the courage to tease him back. “I assumed you had more self-control. You had no trouble resisting me before we were together.”

He chuckles against your shoulder, a rush coursing through your veins. You could feel the goosebumps forming on your skin, your nipples hardening under his proximity.

“It just seemed that way. I bet you aren’t aware of the restraint it took me to not bend you over whenever I saw you.”

His fingers grasps your thigh, squeezing the skin firmly. 

“Hm?” He hums when he felt you tense under his touch, a small gasp escaping you. “Did you ever wonder how much restraint it took me to not push up this tight little skirt?”

His hand moves up, teasing the edge of your skirt, before slowly pulling the fabric up your legs. 

“How badly I wanted to find out if there was indeed a damp spot, right...” 

His hand parts your legs possessively, the heat of his fingers brushing up your inner thighs and leaving a scorching fire in their wake. 

“Here.”

The moan that you let out was all but voluntary, leaving your lips before you could stop it. 

Two of Aaron’s thick fingers were pressed against your clothed cunt, making contact with the wet spot that he had in fact predicted. You tried catching your breath, but the attempt quickly failed when he used the flat of his palm to rub you up and down, cupping your pussy in his strong hold.

Another squeak breaks the silence on the jet, and you bite down on your bottom lip, heart racing as your eyes flick over the sleeping figures around you. The warmth in your core is building with each move of his hand. The roughness of his calloused fingers stimulating your clit even through the fabric that separated you. 

You make the mistake to move your head, your sight falling on the unmistakable length that’s straining against Aaron’s pants. He wasn’t even trying to hide the way that his hardness bulges against the black cotton.

“You’re not the only one turned on by this,” he explains, noticing you staring. 

“I’m not turned on by this. This- this is crazy,” you defend. You’re not even sure whether you’re trying to convince him or yourself at this point.

Amusement laces his words. “Is that so?” In a smooth motion, he hooks his middle finger into the side of your underwear, pulling it aside to reveal your glistening cunt. You hold back a moan as the cold air makes contact with the sensitive skin. 

“Seems like you’re rather turned on by this,” he gloats as he lets his finger disappear between your folds. As if his body is a missing puzzle piece to yours, he enters your pussy by a simple press of the digit — fitting perfectly like he’s made to fill you up. 

With just a slight curve of his finger, he’s hitting your sweet spot. Your hand lunges forward, fingers locking around his wrist. It was a brave attempt at trying to stop him, but who were you kidding? With your hard nipples poking through your lacy bra, against the thin silk of your blouse, your eyes half fluttered shut, your mouth open in an O, and your juices trailing down your thighs… there was no possible way for Aaron to give up.

“Trust me, honey, you have nothing to worry about,” he coos into your ear as his finger finds a steady rhythm. 

You close your eyes, trying to enjoy the moment. You had missed his touch. You’ve been on the case for several days, not even having the time for a proper sleep, let alone for sex. It was obvious how much you missed him by the way your walls clenched around him and how your pussy made the most inappropriate, squelching sounds for the occasion. 

“Think you can handle another,” he says. It’s not a question but an observation he could easily make. He adds another finger — the gesture happens smoothly, stretching you ever so carefully before his thrusts grow more forceful. 

“Don’t you care about-“ you gasp, not able to finish your sentence as overwhelming pleasure consumes you. He barely pulls his fingers out of you, relentlessly hitting them against your G-spot, not giving you a second to come up for breath.

You finish your sentence in a dazed breath. “About HR?”

“I only care about you.”

The words leave his lips so simply that it almost feels mocking of the way you struggled. 

The familiar warmth is building rapidly in your core, tingling all the way to where Aaron’s touching you. It’s laughable how, during the situation you’re in right now, he’s going to break a record in making you come. You’d expect it to be difficult to reach that point when everyone is staring at you — well, it feels like they are, even though their eyelids are covering their vision — but your body is proving that it can be a mere biological function. 

“Aaron,” you moan in a high-pitched note.

It’s only then that a flash of nerves flickers over his face, being reminded of how loud you can be.

He places an arm around your neck, locking it so that his bicep covers your mouth, glad that he’s left-handed when it comes to playing with your pussy so that he can continue his ministrations. 

The corners of Aaron’s lips twitch as you place a kiss on his bicep. He explains the purpose of his arm. “Need to bite down on me if you feel the need to scream. Okay?” 

You couldn’t give it much thought — teeth plunging into the soft but firm skin the second his fingers curl inward. The flat of his palm applies pressure to your clit with every thrust. You feel dizzy, hazy, only able to focus on the warmth that’s building inside you, desperate to reach that peak.

It isn’t long before your wish gets fulfilled. Your thighs clamped around his wrist, your body convulsing in aftershocks as your orgasm washes over you. Glad that his strong arm is there to muffle your loud cries.

After a couple of seconds — closer to an entire minute, honestly — Aaron removes his arm. Your chest is rising and falling more steadily now, but your heart is still thudding as you come down from your high. 

“Sorry,” you whisper sheepishly when you notice the bite marks you’ve left, his skin glimmering with the traces of your mouth.

What you aren’t aware of is how much it turned him on. He was overcome by this primal sense of intimacy. Claiming him by putting your mark on him for everyone to see, taking you in front of his team. It felt raw. Passionate. He needed more.

“Go to the bathroom.”

You blink up at him, your mind too foggy to make sense of his order.

“If you don’t want me to stuff your mouth with my cock in front of everyone, go to the bathroom,” he elaborates.

Ah.

You lift your hips to adjust your skirt, careful to not let the wetness that’s spilling down your legs drip onto the cushions.

You hold onto the armrest as you stand up, losing your balance due to your shaky legs and falling almost headfirst onto Spencer’s figure on the couch. “Shit.”

Two strong arms grip you by the back of your arms right in time. Aaron’s hands ghost over your stomach, keeping your back pressed tightly against his chest as you make your way to the bathroom at the end of the pathway. The outline of his cock is pushing against your lower back, reminding you of what you’ll get once you make it to the other side of the jet. 

“Get in. Quick.”

With a gentle push against your ass, Aaron moves you into the bathroom. You turn around to face him as his tall figure leans against the door. Knees hit the white floor tiles as you let your nails scratch his covered upper thighs, evading the obvious bulge. His eyes trace your face, lip locked between his teeth as he looks at you with an expectant expression. He’s not going to remind you. You know exactly what he wants.

Your hand reaches out, sliding your fingers over his length before flexing your fingers, gripping him. He shuts his eyes, head tipping back, savoring your touch, growing only harder by the prospect of what’s about to come. 

He lets out a shuddered breath as you place your soft lips over his clothed cock — not having expected that. He wishes he didn’t go to the top tailors to find his suits, regretting the fabric not being thinner as your tongue darted out, licking a firm stripe over the length.

“No time for teasing,” he warns, pushing his hips forward, pressing his hard bulge in your face. “Wrap your lips around me. There’s no lube on the jet.”

Like you need it. You’ve been wet ever since you saw that lustful look in his eyes when you sat next to him. Still, you obeyed. Careful fingers working on his belt, struggling a bit more than usual now that you feel like you need to make haste.

Relief floods over you as his belt buckle clicks open. In full excitement, you tug his pants down, underwear slipping along. You squeal when his length flicks against your nose, not able to stop the laugh that escapes you. The whole situation of being stuffed in a bathroom on a moving jet of all places makes you feel giddy.

A small smile follows after the groan Aaron lets out. He extends his hand, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. Then he slides over to your hair, holding the back of your head as he guides your mouth onto his cock.

You hum, relaxing your jaw as he fills your throat. You wrap your fist around his shaft, placing the other on his thigh for support. Just like at work, you and Aaron make a good team: he thrust his hips in a tempo that synched perfectly with the way you pumped your fist and swirled your tongue.

“Always so hungry for my cock. Aren’t you?”

You moan eagerly, giving a firm squeeze of your hand in response, making him hiss. “That’s what I thought. Such a naughty girl.”

You squeeze your thighs together. You loved giving blowjobs. Aaron always got so vocal, praising you on every lick of your tongue, every dig of your nails in the thick flesh of his thigh. You upped your speed, eyes watering as the head of his cock made contact with the back of your throat. 

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, his grip on your head tightening. 

The cramped space is filled with his heavy breathing and your little gagging noises. Your gaze remains plastered on him, taking in the way he scrunches his nose, his eyes closing in pleasure and then quickly fluttering back open to not miss the show. You know that he’s close when his thrusts grow sloppy, his breathing heaving. 

He groans, “That’s enough,”, tugging you back by your hair to release his cock from your mouth.

“That’s a shame. Wanted to feel you spill down my throat,” you pout.

He squeezes his hands into fists, physically holding himself back from coming by your words alone. “You’ll still get it. Going to fuck you first.”

You grin. “Works for me.”

He holds you by your elbows, lifting you up and enveloping you in a frenzied kiss, tasting himself on your lips. Careful to not leave any imprints on your skirt from his throbbing cock. 

“Turn around for me,” he instructs breathlessly.

Aaron switches positions with you so that you’re now face first against the bathroom door, arms placed up against the cold wood as Aaron stands behind you, his presence lingering.

A hand slips around your waist, and you can feel him leaning in. “Going to fuck this pussy so hard, you’ll struggle walking back to your seat.” He whispers against your neck, then places a wet peck on the skin, overwhelming your senses.

“God, Aaron,” you moan. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He asks, his free hand rubbing over the curve of your ass.

“Yes, please.”

“Good girl. That’s it.”

He bunches the tight fabric of your pencil skirt up to your waist, not bothering to remove your underwear as you feel the slick tip of his cock slide over your puffy lips. You claw at the wall, desperate to hold onto something as you arch your back. Please. I’m ready for you. Need you inside of me, you scream to him in your head.

His fingers dig into the skin where your hip meets your waist, placing his other arm over yours, intertwining your fingers as he pushes inside of you. 

You whine as he keeps going until the hilt, stretching you out to the fullest extent. Then he slowly pulls out of you, your eyebrows scrunching at the feeling; without warning, he slams his hips back, choking the breath out of your chest. 

“Aaron!”

He doesn’t wait on you to get used to the feel of his girth after days of not having him. He continues his movements, slow strokes of his cock pulling out and ramming back into you in a desperate need. “Push back onto me. Don’t get distracted now.”

You nod your head, using the wall as leverage as you meet his thrusts. Skin slaps against skin. The air feels clammy around you, hairs sticking to the side of your face, but no feeling is as prominent as the butterflies that are doing somersaults in your stomach. 

“Doesn’t matter how many times I take you,” Hotch groans into your ear. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

You moan in response, nodding your head. “Just for you.”

A growl escapes from deep in his throat, making the hairs on your neck stand up straight. He tugs on your hair, tilting your face to him, and crashes his mouth against yours. 

Aaron kisses you like your lips are the elixir of life. In pure desperation and desire, he clashes his teeth against yours. Moans tumble out of your mouth, but even when you don’t reciprocate his kisses, he continues. Sucking on your bottom lip as your mouth is opened in an O, licking the soft skin beside your lips, not caring as long as his mouth is on you.

He speeds his pace up. Your legs shake as you struggle to not bend your knees due to the intense pleasure. His rough hand pulls you up on his cock each time you slip away. 

“My head is pounding. I hate naps.” 

Emily’s voice muffled through the thin wall.

“Aaron, they’re awake!” You warn in panic. You had predicted to have thirty minutes to yourself, but to be honest, you got so carried away, you have no idea what time it could be. 

“Almost there, honey,” he groans back, clearly not as worried as you.

However, your desire is ebbing away as anxiety takes the lead. Aaron seems to notice and drags his hand down your stomach until his fingertips press against your aching clit. 

You moan. Loud. Way too loud. 

Aaron places his hand, which previously was intertwined with yours, to your mouth. You lean back into him. His body being the only surface to keep you in place.

You’ve lost your synchronic rhythm; he pounds into you at a speed that he knows will get him to the edge fast as he does the same for you by rubbing your swollen bud in rough circles.

There’s no way to communicate that you’re close, his palm covering your mouth very efficiently. Still, he can tell by the way your walls are swallowing his cock, tightening around him as if begging for his release.

“That’s it. Let go for me, honey; I’m right behind you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. Hands patting in the air around you until you get a hold of his arms, grabbing him tight as you let go.

Aaron gasps, feeling every vibration of your body as you come around him. “Fuck! On your knees. Fast.”

Maybe it’s the years of training in the field, but the command has you on your knees in a split second. You pull him in by his ass, lips locking onto the head of his cock. Your eyes widen as warm spurts of his release shoot down your throat, glad you took action fast before he’d come all over your clothes.

Aaron looks nothing short of ethereal. His rough demeanor now changed as a delicate peace washed over his face. Calmth radiating off of him. He needed that release, even more than you did.

When finally catching your breath, you stand up on shaky knees, Aaron holding you for support.

“Wow,” you giggle. 

He smiles, a real wide grin. “A new experience to add to your list.”

You chuckle, your voice lowering as you speak the next words. “Do you think they’ve heard?”

He shakes his head. “We’re good.”

You pull your skirt down, then look back up at him. “Do I look good?”

He takes you in with those deep, dark eyes of his. He lightly traces your face, pulling away a few loose strands of hair and wiping the side of your lip with his thumb. 

“You look perfect,” he speaks sincerely.

You bite the corner of your lip, another tingle coursing through you as if your body doesn’t still feel like it’s on fire.

“I’ll meet you out in a minute.”

He leans in, gentle lips making contact with yours for one last time. 

The last time on this flight. Because you know whatever just happened was bound to happen again.

[monzabee]

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©𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗓𝖺𝖻𝖾𝖾 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥. 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌.

[monzabee]

are you KIDDING ME this was probably the cutest thing i've read this weekend😭 the spencer reid dilf agenda is strong and i am OBSESSED with it because this man would be the softest dad ever and oh my god i just can't stop talking about how AMAZING this fic is and how it made me tear up almost at every line

shelter from the storm | s.r.

in which your son comes to your room in the middle of the night seeking the safety of his father's arms.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: fear of storms, spencer reid dilf agenda, boy dad!spencer word count: 1.07k a/n: need to give this man a baby immediately oh my god it's so bad the voices

Spencer woke up first; the very first hint of a rumble caused his eyes to flutter open before he even heard the patting of the rain on the window. He glanced at the clock, only for it to read just past two in the morning, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and tried to nudge you awake.

He was a much lighter sleeper than you; years of being conditioned to wake up to the slightest vibration of a phone had caused that. While he’d gotten over his own fear of storms, Spencer always kept an eye out for them, knowing it was a trait that your toddler had acquired.

“Hmm?” You responded to his nudge, stuck between being asleep and being awake. With your eyes open only slightly, you saw the flash of lightning peek in through the blinds and immediately sat up. “Jamie?” You whispered your son’s name while Spencer flicked on the lamp on his bedside table.

The two of you shared a knowing look when you heard the pattering of bare feet on the hardwood floor. You left your bedroom door open just a crack, so all he needed to do was push the door open and peek his head inside. “Mama?” He whimpered just as softly as you’d whispered his name.

Jamie’s glasses were crooked on his face, thick black frames that surrounded his brown eyes. Sometimes, when Spencer looked at his son, it felt like he was looking at a reflection of his past—something he’d never experienced until he was born. Jamie clutched a stuffed teddy bear in his hand, wearing matching glasses you’d affixed to the animal so the two of them could match.

As soon as your three-year-old saw his parents sitting up in bed, his little face crumpled in relief. “Daddy,” he called this time, and before he knew it himself, Spencer was getting out of bed to gather his son in his arms.

“Hey, lovey,” Spencer cooed, crouching so he could pick Jamie up, adjusting the way the stuffed bear—named Garcia, after his godmother, and affectionately nicknamed Bearcia—rested so no one was being crushed. “It’s raining really hard out there, huh?”

Wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s neck, Jamie held on while he was brought over to the bed. Once he was within reach, you rested a gentle hand on his back but made no move to take him into your arms. Knowing that he could comfort his son when he was scared reassured Spencer; it told him he was a good dad. He never would have gone to his own father for protection, and that’s all he’d ever wanted to be as a dad—dependable, protective.

You hushed Jamie when thunder cracked again, “Oh, my poor baby.” Moving over on the mattress to rest your head on your husband, giving you the range to press a soft kiss on your son’s forehead.

The feeling of tears as they seeped through Spencer’s t-shirt broke his heart; it almost made him wish he could control the weather to his benefit. Instead of forbidding the storm, he craned his head back to meet Jamie’s red-rimmed eyes, “’s okay to be scared,” he assured him.

Jamie squeezed his teddy bear for comfort and looked at your bedroom window; the blinds were still closed to prevent the eventual morning light from getting in. The toddler mumbled something unintelligible about the rain before sniffling. He used the sleeve of his dinosaur footie pajamas to wipe his face before resting his head against his father.

Getting up from the bed, Spencer walked Jamie over to the window and opened the blinds so he could see the rain, hoping that taking the mystery of the storm away would take away some of the fear. “When the lightning goes again, if we count the seconds until the thunder goes, we’ll know how far away the storm is,” he explained to Jamie, smoothing the toddler’s hair from his forehead and swaying gently while they waited for the flash of light.

“Woah,” Jamie breathed when the lightning struck, childlike wonder lighting up his features while Spencer started counting. “Two,” Jamie joined softly, “Three, four, five, oh!”

Thunder rumbled, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile to himself when Jamie curled into his side for safety. “We counted five, and if we divide by five, that means the storm is one whole mile away.” He didn’t expect the three-year-old to understand the mathematics, but he knew Jamie liked to have things explained to him.

At some point, you’d crept out of the room, and Spencer didn’t notice until you were tiptoeing back in, holding Jamie’s blankie and setting it in the middle of your shared bed. “One,” Jamie started counting on his own at the next flash of lightning, “two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!” This time, he smiled proudly up at his father when he finished counting, “More!”

Spencer nodded before closing the blinds once more. "That’s right; it means the storm is moving further away from the house.” He brought Jamie back to the bed, laying him down on his blankie with Bearcia in his tiny clutches. “Now we have to go back to sleep, and the storm will be all gone by the time we wake up.”

“Promise?” Jamie asked, big, brown eyes stared up at his dad as he sought reassurance.

He knew he might’ve been putting too much faith in the meteorologists, but nonetheless, Spencer nodded, “I promise.” He carefully took Jamie’s glasses off, setting them on his bedside table and turning on the nightlight you kept in there for nights like these.

Jamie settled into the big bed and cuddled his bear close. “Love you, daddy.”

A two in the morning wakeup call didn’t seem so bad when it ended like this. He finally found his way back to bed, pulling the covers over you and your baby, and once he took off his glasses and turned off the big lamp, Jamie curled into his side, resting his head on Spencer’s shoulder.

You poked your head up from your pillow, your smile glowing under the soft nightlight. Spencer could almost hear what you were thinking, imagining your voice as you cooed My boys.

Silently, so as not to disturb Jamie, Spencer mouthed I love you.

In response, you leaned over to press a goodnight kiss to his lips, and to Spencer, it was the same thing.

[monzabee]

CATE!!! i haven't read anything for f1 in a hot minute but i swear this just woke me up from my grave dracula stye😭 never thought lando would make me feel this way but i love this, i love you and i love monzamusings soo much!🩷

lando norris x you rating — 18+ (sex, coarse language) —requested by anon for monzamusings✨

“You smell sooo good, Lan.” 

“Have you lost your mind? I just got back from a run,” He laughed, fending off your grabby hands as he tried to grab a cold water from the fridge. 

Maybe you needed one too, he thought.

“Maybe I have lost my mind," you tutted and snatched the water from his grasp, gently placing it on the counter, “But I need you.” 

It really should've been embarrassing being that desperate, in hindsight it probably was, but you knew your boyfriend – you knew how much he loved to be needed. And by the way those ocean eyes you'd fallen in love with many moons ago widened and that smirk tickled his perfectly shaped lips, he knew what you were hinting.

“It's that time of the month again!?” It always came around too quickly for his liking, and yours.

“It’s so baaaad,” you whined and dramatically threw your head back, gripping tightly onto the loose work-out top hanging from his shoulders. God, he looked delicious in that top.

Lando rested his hands on your waist with a sweet smile, thumbs gently rubbing your hips, “What do you need, baby? Because I'm not offering sex and getting rejected again – my ego can’t take it.”

You scoffed, “That was last night and you know what I’m like – sometimes I don’t know what I want but right now I need you to just... I dunno, touch me I guess,” your voice was low and meek compared to your usual tone.

But Lando understood. “What hurts?” he asked gently, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheeks. 

“Everything,” you sighed, melting into his touch.

“Here?” he asked tentatively as his hands slipped under the sheer shirt you’d thrown on, slowly travelling up to your bare chest. 

You nodded, pliantly arching into his warm palms, “No bra? Hurts too much, huh?” he whispered, fingertips smoothing over your sensitive swells. Every movement laced in pleasure and pain.

“Be gentle,” you moaned back, eyes closed as his lips nipped at your neck. 

“When am I not?” he asked cheekily, you could hear it in his voice. 

“I can think of a few times… Jesus, that feels incredible.” 

“My name is Lando,” he quipped back before giving you a toe-curling kiss, groaning when your fingers slipped into his tangled curls.

“Shut up,” you murmured against his lips as his fingertips gently brushed across your swollen nubs, earning him a deep moan and a sigh of relief. 

His hands were warm and soft but calloused in all the right places. And he knew you like the back of them; like a maestro performing the sweetest of symphonies. He knew what you liked, how much pressure you needed to really feel it – he knew when to slide up your shirt and give you extra attention with his perfect mouth. The small whimpers from above encouraged him, the little whines every time he lapped with the wet tip of his tongue and he knew when you needed more.

Lando knew how far to push when you were like this – sore, swollen and achey. He couldn’t stop staring at them at dinner last night, or this morning when he woke up to you sprawled out in bed, uninhibited by a bra. And fuck did it turn him on, imagining what they may look like if someday, he was lucky enough to put a baby in you. 

“Lan, your mouth feels so good,” you whimpered, barely making a sound. 

“Think you can come just from this?” he asked, eyes coming up and boring into yours as his slick thumbs worked you over, pace quickening.

“I think– yeah.. shit – I’m gonna come…”

“I’ve got you,” Lando’s voice was gravelled as he alternated between each nipple with a pop, tongue flickering against the sensitive nubs while he steadied you against the kitchen island, knees trembling. 

“Fuuu–ck,” you sighed, fingers still deeply entrenched in his messy curls as your body shook. The high built and washed over you slowly, like a soft crescendo – moan after moan slipping from your bitten lips, teetering over the edge. 

Lando’s hands came up to cradle your chest while you came down from the clouds, pressing soft kisses to the swells of your breasts and trailing up to your neck, “How do you feel now?”

“Relaaaaxed,” you sighed, grasping his blushing cheeks in your shaky palms and giving him a sweet kiss. 

“Good.” he nodded with a proud smile before giving you a gentle smack on the backside, “Now come and have a shower with me because I'm fucking stinky.”

“And hard…” You teased with a playful smile and a glance towards the mouth-watering outline in his stupidly tight cotton gym shorts.

Lando hummed and lovingly pushed you towards the bathroom, “And whose fault is that, huh?” 

“I wouldn’t have a clue.”

inbox open for suggestions

[monzabee]

SHUT UP ALI WITH THE BABYSITTER FIC!!! FINALLY!!

umm.... I LOVE HOW AWKWAR HE IS WITH HER?? because why would he send her away after kissing her stop i love it so much😭 also the age gap is like ??? YES ALI😭 i've been waiting for this fic for a hot minute and oh my goodness you did not disappoint i'm so excited to have more of them ali😭🩷

falling anyway / Aaron Hotchner

summary. hotch knows he shouldn't fall for the babysitter. but sometimes things are meant to be.

words count. 3 603

what to expect. fluffy and flirty, age gap but reader's age is not tell she's a student, jack is mentionned obivously

a/n. this is way longer that i thought it would be but i didn't want to say goodbye to this story, i want to write so many things about hotch and the babysitter so i hope you will love their story too 🥹

criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

There were different things that could make up for the terrible week you’ve spent.

Spending a chill day watching your favorite TV show. 

Seeing your friends for a coffee or a drink.

And taking care of Jack Hotchner was also a solution.

You’ve been babysitting Jack for six months now. You needed a new part-time job; Aaron Hotchner, one of your father’s colleagues, needed a new babysitter. The deal was done. 

You’ve never seen a kid so easy to take care of. Usually, you and Jack shared the same routine: you helped him with his homework, and he helped you make dinner. You would play some games and then show him a movie from your list of favorites from your childhood. Harry Potter? Done. Narnia? Too. Back to the future? To be done.

You were this close to calling him your best friend at this point. To be honest, you missed him when you weren’t babysitting him.

With Hotch’s job, your presence wasn’t so linear. When he had to leave for a few days, Jack was staying with the family. Days when he was still paying you. “It’s my fault you’re not working; I don’t want you to have financial issues,” he said when you fought to give him the money back. You felt like taking advantage of the situation, and you hated that. But you quickly learned that there was nothing you could do when Aaron Hotchner had decided something. 

Not that you really mind the whole commanding trait.

“I’m sorry to ask you that,” you heard Hotch say on the phone. From the noises around, you guessed he was in his car.

Your Friday night plan was to stay home and forget about your week. 

College was awful; you got bad grades in one of your favorite classes, and your date stood you up and ghosted you. But when Aaron Hotchner called you in a last-minute emergency, you found his plan way better than yours.

“This is an important dinner; I can’t excuse myself from going. I know it’s last minute, but…” You put him on speaker. His voice becomes a part of your get-ready playlist. 

“Aaron,” you interrupted him. His name always felt like candy on your tongue. One that you’re not allowed to have, making it taste even sweeter. “I’ll be there in twenty; is it good for you?”

Then there was a silence that made you wonder if he even heard you. Then two words. “Thank you,” and silence again after he hung up.

You barely ever had any discussion with Hotch since you started working for him. Apart from the classic news from life, you never said much, and neither did he.

Jack, on the other hand, was a heavy speaker. It was thanks to him that you learned things from Hotch’s life: how work was taking much of his time and how he was barely going outside of it, which team he supported, or what kind of music he played in the car—but only when Jack was there.

You could only guess what he told his father about you in exchange.

When you arrived at Hotch’s place, he was the first thing you saw. On the phone, he was leaning against his car. His open suit jacket was flying with the wind, opening to his muscular chest and dad bod you could see through his shirt. And thinking about that, you realized how cliché you were for dreaming about the father of the kid you were babysitting.

But you’ve been on that road for so long now that you didn’t know the path to go back. Nor did you want to take it.

When Hotch saw you, he gave you a very short smile. He put his hand up, asking you to wait for him. And you did. Of course you did. You tried to focus on something to not overhear what he was saying, but it was hard when his voice sounded like a melody in your head.

His “bye” sounded like a secret code, and you finally let yourself turn to him. “Thank you again for coming.” 

Hotch never really knew how to act around you. He was your boss, technically, but he couldn’t act as he was with the team. He didn't mean to sound too friendly or nice so you wouldn’t imagine things. He didn’t want you or your dad to hear that he was being flirty with his daughter or for Jack to lose you.

And this conflict was obvious in many situations. The way he moved his hand up showed he intended to shake yours before changing his mind and putting it on your shoulder. A greeting and thanking at the same time. 

“I should be the one to thank you,” you replied with a laugh. “I needed something to change my mind, and Jack is perfect for this.” 

You noticed the change in his expression when you said that. Clearly putting him in the investigator mode. “Are you alright?” Maybe you dreamt it, but for a second or two, his fingers were holding your shoulder tighter. 

From the little time you spent with Hotch these past months, you thought he didn’t know you enough to care or to notice it anyway. Clearly putting aside the fact it was his work to see these kinds of things. So you simply brushed it off before he left, saying it was nothing important.

But Hotch did. He noticed the dark rings under your eyes or how you seemed to shine a little less than the other days. You were always so bubbly; sometimes you even made his day brighter with the little attention you seemed to give naturally. Like a much-needed smile, questioning him about his day or offering him a cookie from those you made with Jack earlier. Cookies that were staying at his place and that he could have taken himself. But you chose to offer it yourself. 

And knowing you weren’t going well, I stayed with him the whole night. Even during his dinner with high-level agents from the FBI. At some point, he probably even missed some conversations. Too busy trying to understand what could be wrong with you. Or what he could do to help. 

He knew it wasn’t really his place to help you in any way. But something he hated more than overstepping the line was being useless in front of someone’s bad mood. 

Hotch didn’t come home until midnight. He wasn’t surprised to feel the calm inside. Even if Jack was a heavy sleeper, you always put the TV on a quiet volume just to be sure it wouldn’t wake him up. You always kept just the lamp beside the sofa to have a warm and cozy atmosphere. And since you’ve cleaned the kitchen after dinner, he could smell a mix of dish soap and your perfume in the air.

And like he expected, you were laying on his couch, with a blanket covering your legs, reading the same book he was on. 

That was a kind of secret but not so secret habit you had. When Hotch noticed once or twice that you were reading the book he inadvertently left on his coffee table, this became a routine. You never talked about it. You both just liked the idea of sharing the same interest.

He stayed in the back, appreciating how peaceful his place was. Until he felt bad about being there without your awareness. So he put his keys in the bowl you helped Jack create for Father’s Day, slowly but still loud enough so you can hear it. And it worked.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” Hotch, said, sitting next to you. He put his jacket on the back of the couch; his tie was slightly undone, and you tried not to focus on his undone cufflink too. You had a thing for the way his open sleeves were showing his muscled and hairy wrists. 

“You didn’t,” you replied, bringing your knees up against your chest. “I'm getting used to hearing you coming back,” you added with a smile. It was only after the words left your mouth that you realized how domestic this sounded. And the little smile on his face let you know that he noticed too.

But that didn’t seem to bother him. Or at least, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, you watched as he put a doggy bag on the coffee table. “Don’t tell Jack, but I brought back the dessert.” He sounded so innocent, like a kid hiding his secret from his parents and not the other way around. You couldn’t contain your laugh when you watched him rub his hands before opening the box.

“Enjoy your dessert,” you said with a laugh. You also took that as a sign to leave. After such a long day, you guessed Hotch needed a moment for himself without the babysitter being underfoot. So you got up and took the blanket to fold it when he grabbed your hand softly. And showed you two spoons. 

“I’m not eating that alone,” he offered, handing you one of the spoons with a shy smile. No words could explain the heat in your heart when you understood he wanted you around. 

So you sat back, unintentionally closer to Hotch than you were before. So close that you even touched his thigh with yours. You both looked down, and the apologies left your lips quickly, taking enough distance so you weren’t this closeto sit on his lap anymore. 

Looking away, you missed the blush on his cheeks after he lost your contact.

To lighten the mood, you tilted your spoon next to him to toast. When you heard him laugh so softly, like he didn’t even mean to, this felt like a victory. As hot as it can look on him, this serious look, you loved to make his day a little brighter.

But this victory was soon over when he turned to you. “Would you like to share what’s on your mind?” when you frowned, having too much respect for him to talk with your mouth full. “You said you needed to change your mind.” 

You took a moment to think about it. You didn’t even remember telling him about that, making you wonder what other thoughts you slipped since you started working for him. Yet, talking to Hotch didn’t seem a bad idea. He had this comforting look in his eyes, and you felt safer next to him than you did with most people in your life.

“That’s stupid,” you started. You noticed the look he gave you; he didn’t like the idea of you judging yourself before speaking. But you chose to ignore it and told him about your week. “And I think I finally lost hope in love for good.” You finished your story with a sad laugh. Because there was some truth in this. 

You were met with a silence. But when you turned your head to look at him, you saw that his eyes never left you. “You do?” he asked in a genuine and sincere tone. One that made you blush. Because a part of you still pretended like Hotch wasn’t really listening. It would have been easier to accept that you were opening your heart like that. This explained why you started looking at your cake instead.

“It’s just…I’m tired of running after men who clearly don’t appreciate me. I keep getting hopeless and sad because dating has become a joke for them. And it’s not one for me. And I just don’t know what to do.” 

Before you noticed it, you were playing with your cake and reducing it to a pulp. Much like your heart these days.

“I just wished there were more men like…” You sighed, turning to look at Hotch. He was there, frowning, waiting to hear more. Not prepared for the last word missing from your sentence. “More like you,” you added.

Hotch froze, his spoon close to his lips. So close you missed the way it curled into a small smile. Both flattered and curious to see where you were heading with this idea. 

“You’re great, you’re mature, you’re an amazing father, you know what you want, you take good care of you, of Jack, of this house. And I’m convinced you can take good care of a woman too. You’ve never been anything but nice and gentle with me, so I can't imagine how great you must be with someone you love.” 

It has been a long time since Hotch heard that he might be a great man. Being a divorced, then widowed, single father working too much to the point he had to take a babysitter who was probably seeing his son more than he was wasn’t the definition of a great man for him. But maybe he was too hard on himself.

Or maybe you were too kind about him.

And maybe that was the reason it hit him like that. You were the one who said that. Not any woman he might have brought on a date, and probably won’t see again because he didn’t feel the connection he was craving for. You. Jack’s babysitter. The woman who hunted his dreams to the point he considered he might need to ask you to stop coming. 

But he couldn’t do that to Jack, who clearly appreciated you a lot.

And selfish, he couldn’t do that to himself either. He loved seeing you around. He found some comfort in his crazy and not always so easy life knowing you would be there when he came home.

“I…I’m sorry.” You stuttered, getting up suddenly. You needed air. You needed to get out of here before proposing to Jack’s father and getting jobless. And maybe being removed from here, from the city, from the country even! Who knows what the BAU chief can do? 

This time, you put the blanket away in a messy way. And soon, you were in the hallway, collecting your bag and even chose to put on your shoes after you passed the door to not waste another moment of his time. 

But right when you were going to open the door, a big, hairy, somehow charismatic hand landed on the wood to prevent it. When you turned, you faced Hotch, who was closer to you than you imagined. “You mean that?” he asked, confused.

This whole minute of preparing your escape, you imagined he was still sitting on the sofa. Probably eating the part of the cake you left on the table, not bothering about you leaving, and maybe even thinking about the text he would send you tomorrow to inform you of your dismissal. 

But you certainly did not imagine Hotch would run after you.

“Do you mean that?” he asked again, moving just a little closer to you. But enough for you to feel the desire from his body. You had to tilt your head backward to look at him and suddenly got lost in the beauty of his face. It was the first time you were seeing him like that, and you could be sure that your subconscious would be looking forward to putting this beautiful face in each one of your dreams.

No words left your lips, at first. So you simply nodded. “Say it.” Hotch whispered, bringing his face closer again. You could taste the luxurious wine he drank that night and the sweet dessert you both ate in his breath. And for a second, the single thing on your mind was how good it must taste on his lips too.

“I do,” you finally replied, looking up at his eyes. But his were down on your lips this time.

And after whispering a “good” that you almost missed, his lips finally tasted yours. In the softest and sweetest kiss you’ve ever had. There was something in the way Hotch felt almost vulnerable against you, like he didn’t know how to act. Yet, the experience was speaking too from the way he put you against the wall, how one of his hands ended up in your hair to grab them just with the right strength: enough to keep still and not hurting you. You were right; that man knew what he wanted and how to get it.

You let one of your hands run through his chest. You grabbed his loosened-up tie to gain a little height. Now that you got it, you wanted more of him.

But the reality hit you at the same time.

Or more exactly, when you heard little steps on the hallway coming to you.

Hotch was fast at stopping the kiss and putting a good distance between the two of you. Yet, he kept his hand on your waist longer. Long enough that when Jack finally appeared, you still felt the touch of his fingers on your skin. 

“Daddy, you’re home.” Jack said in a sleepy voice, lazily walking to Hotch to hug him. You always loved how Hotch’s whole world seemed to light up every time his son was around. The love he had for him was undeniable.

“Let’s go back to sleep, buddy.” Hotch said, taking Jack in his arms to carry him back to his room. You watched as the little boy put his little hand on Hotch’s back, probably with no strength at all but just with the need to feel his dad with him. Every movement between the two of them seemed so natural.

But before leaving the living room, and probably reading your mind somehow, Hotch turned back to you and whispered, “Wait for me, please,” with a tone that clearly indicated it was both an order and a pleading.

So you did. But instead of sitting back on the couch, like he probably expected you to, you took the empty plates and did the dishes. Something you were used to, you did that only a few hours ago. You needed to keep your mind occupied while he wasn’t here; otherwise, you couldn’t promise you wouldn’t run away. 

You were so focused on what you were doing that you didn’t hear Hotch coming back. You just felt his chest against your back when he approached. Thrills grew on your arms when he put his hands on the counter, surrounding you. When you turned your head to look at him, you noticed he had let go of his tie and had opened up the first button of his shirt. 

“I can call you a taxi,” he whispered in your ear. You lost it at the contact of his lips with your skin. So much that you didn’t understand straight away what he said.

You then turned around to face him. “You kissed me, and now you’re sending me away? You have a weird way to deal with women,” you replied, frowning. You discovered a new expression on his face. A sweet and mostly flirty smile. One that had reached immediately to the top 3 of your favorite looks on him. “I might take back what I said earlier,” you added, yet still placing your hand on his chest. It wasn’t your fault; it was calling you.

“I just don’t want you to regret what happened tonight and feel pressured to stay here if you don’t want to.” Hotch felt like a high school boy who wanted to hide his girlfriend in his bedroom. And if he listened to his heart, he would. It was hard looking at you now that he knew this wasn’t all in his head and fantasy.

When he brought a hand to your face to put a strand of hair behind your ear, you cuddled against it. And feeling his thumb brushing your cheek softly was worth it. “You mean I have to go home knowing I can have this now?” 

“I mean, you can stay the following nights to…have this.” He laughed, from the way you both worded it but also from the falsely menacing look you were giving him. You were making it harder for him to let you go. 

This explained why you stayed longer like this, in the middle of the kitchen. Just talking and flirting until the driver was here. And you both lived through every minute like there was no tomorrow.

“Promise me you will tell me if you regret it.” Hotch said one last time when he opened the door for you. He had to be sure you got in the car safely. He also allowed him to have the option to keep you with him until the last second.

You replied with a kiss on his lips and a “I won’t,” said happily. 

When he woke up the next morning, Hotch noticed he had a text from you. For a second, he got scared something happened after you went home. He was ready to jump out of bed. But when he opened it, he ended up giggling. 

“I still don’t regret it.” you wrote.

It has been months, probably years, since he felt this lighthearted at the idea of texting a woman. But you weren’t any woman. You were you. Probably one of the few people to know him well, except from the team. So maybe it was meant to be. “I don’t regret it either,” he replied back. And when he saw the heart you left on the text and the bubble indicating you were writing, he added a new goal to his life: spending more time with you. And who knows, maybe considering that life and love still had some surprises to offer him.

[monzabee]

everyone who knows me knows i love aus but this?? THIS TAKES THE CROWN😭😭 like the flirting, and the nerves and the softness... i might just die. i might actually just die and there is nothing any of you can do about it😭 this was just the most perfect soft fic ever and i am thorougly obsessed with hotch and florist!reader😭

Roses Behind Her Eyes [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader] **

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 1.9k|| AN:  Some poetic smut because I felt like their first time wouldn't be entirely raunchy...but there is room for raunchy florist!reader requests Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, MDNI, tasteful smut, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, unprotected sex, first time together, spoilers to episode 100, mentions of scars, reader is a little insecure, fear of being perceived Summary:  Big, expensive arrangements to make for the biggest days in your customers' lives? You never got nervous. About to have sex with Aaron Hotchner for the first time? Very nervous.

It hadn’t been the first date. 

But it wasn’t too long after either.

A few dinners. A slow walk home after a stakeout-worthy lunch break. A lot of lingering eye contact, subtle touches, whispered remarks that walked a razor-thin line between charming and obscene.

You flirted with Aaron Hotchner like it was your job.

You did it at your shop.

Over the phone.

Across tables at dimly lit restaurants.

You even flirted with him once through a flower arrangement--

Note tucked in between white peonies and ranunculus that said: “If you were a flower, I’d press you in a book and never let you go.”

He never responded to it in writing.

But he did respond with a look the next time he saw you.

The kind that said, Be careful what you start.

You thought you were prepared.

(You weren’t.)

You weren’t prepared for how quiet and focused he became when he let himself want you--

How he listened when you spoke, watched you when you moved. How it felt to have all that slow-burn attention turned solely on you.

And now?

Now you were standing in his bedroom, a little out of breath, skin warm from being kissed too many times to count, and you realized with a jolt:

You were nervous.

You. Nervous.

Huge expensive arrangements to make on some of the biggest days of your customers' lives? All that pressure? Never a nerve in sight. Now…standing in front of a man who could just change your life? Nervous. Very…very nervous. 

For a person who doesn’t get nervous. 

Wow, you should mention it again. Nervous. 

You hadn’t had sex in a long time--

Like…a really long time? Like, potentially re-virginized long time…

Not just physically, but intimately. This kind of real. This kind of weighted. All your playful confidence, your bold lines, your innuendos--

Those were second nature. 

You wore flirtation like a second skin. But this?

This was Hotch.

Aaron.

Who was already halfway undressed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal that taut, defined chest you had definitely fantasized about more than once. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even hungry.

It was intentional.

And it was wrecking you.

You hovered awkwardly by the bed, arms still wrapped around yourself, unsure what to do with your hands--

You suddenly felt like you were nineteen all over again.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

Damn, profiler. 

Why’d he have to be so good at his job? 

Your brain raced and thought about all of your little imperfections. The softness your body had. It wasn’t toned or overly fit. The callouses your hands held from years of holding shears and being cut with thorns--

Being cut with thorns almost metaphorically, too. 

Years and years of that. 

You’d become a closed off version of yourself. 

Hotch moved slowly toward you, still barefoot, his expression soft but attentive.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently.

You tried to play it off. “Are you complaining?”

“Not yet.”

You huffed out a laugh, but it didn’t land. Your eyes darted toward the bed again. His hand came up, slow and deliberate, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now.

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding.

“...Yeah. Just--” you breathed out. “It’s been…a while.”

His brows pulled slightly, but not with judgment.

“With someone I wanted like this, I mean,” you clarified quickly. “Someone I wasn’t just trying to...get through.”

Hotch’s hand curled around your waist gently, anchoring you. It almost shut off your thoughts. You could only feel his touch. It was confusing. The control freak in you wanted to scream. Run. Push him away. 

You could become addicted to something that had this ability to shut off your worried mind. You could get used to having someone calm your thoughts and worries. They were always there and to feel them dissipate so…so naturally, it felt dangerous. Like you were playing with fire. 

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to,” you said, surprising even yourself. “I talk a big game. I flirt like it’s a sport. But when it comes to this--actually being with someone--I freeze up. Like I’m supposed to be good at this just because I make innuendos for a living.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease.

He just stepped closer, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him seep into your skin.

“You don’t have to perform for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

You blinked fast.

His thumb stroked the curve of your hip through your dress. “You’re already here. That’s all I want.”

That broke something in you--

Something tight you didn’t realize you’d been holding in your chest.

You reached for him slowly, kissing him again. This time softer. Slower. Less trying to impress, more trying to feel. 

And he met you there. Every second of it.

Maybe you could allow one night of this…this drug. One time couldn’t hurt? One time of just shutting off that brain of yours.

When he peeled your dress off, it wasn’t with a groan or a joke. It was reverent. Like he’d been dying to know what you looked like under the layers but didn’t want to rush a second of it. His fingers were warm and careful and steady--

Reassuring in a way that made you feel safe and desired.

And when he laid you down, he didn’t say anything poetic or raunchy.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

The reflection met back to you from him was one you didn’t recognize. It was at this moment when you realized maybe your self-esteem was past poor because when he looked at you, you thought he had to be looking at someone else. How could he look at you that way? You? 

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was the only thing in the world he was sure of. 

Certainty. Not a trace of hesitation.

And then he kissed you like he meant it.

Not just the kind of kiss that makes your stomach twist or your knees weak--

But the kind that says I see you. I want all of you. You’re safe with me.

You didn’t think much during that first time. You didn’t need to. Because every time doubt crept in, his hands were there. His voice was there. His eyes, grounding you back into your body.

It felt like second nature. You could think about all of the ways it was like a blooming flower, just knowing what to do without being told. But even now, there was no space for metaphors. 

And when he finally had you beneath him, skin to skin, all pretense melted. The teasing. The armor. The curated confidence you wore like perfume--

Gone.

Out the window. 

Down the street. 

On a plane already halfway across the world. 

Hotch touched you like you were breakable, but worshiped you like he’d been waiting his whole life to get it right. Every kiss was slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing over your jaw, your neck, your chest with devastating patience. 

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t with a sharp gasp or a rushed moan--

It was a breath. A grounding. A reverent exhale against your shoulder as your fingers curled into his back.

You clung to him, thighs wrapping around his waist instinctively, holding him close like your body knew how to do this even if your mind was still catching up.

And Hotch? He didn’t rush you. He didn’t take--

He gave.

Gave you time. Gave you softness. Gave you heat, slow and building, coaxing your nerves away with every deep, languid thrust that left you gasping and aching for more.

He knew exactly where to put his hands. How to angle your hips…how to hit the right spots. 

You didn’t expect how vocal he was--

How he’d murmur things in your ear with that low, gravelly voice of his, wrecked by restraint.

“God, you feel good.”

Or, “You’re driving me crazy.”

And the one line you’d fall back on when the bed is too empty without him because, wow, it did something to you when he said this, “Don’t hide from me, baby--look at me.”

You did. You couldn’t not.

And when he groaned your name like a secret, hips stuttering, fingers tightening on your waist--

He could leave his hands thereforever.

It…it didn’t feel like sex.

It felt like letting go.

You weren’t graceful about it either--

Your back arched, legs trembling, head throw back when it finally crested. You tried to muffle the sounds in your throat, but he wasn’t having that. He kissed you through it, swallowed every whimper, told you not to hold back.

He wanted all of it.

All of you.

And by the time it was over, your heart was still racing, your body was humming, and all you could do was lay there--tangled in sheets and in him--wondering how the hell you were supposed to go back to normal after that.

He kissed your shoulder, then your cheek, “You okay?”

You nodded, chest full. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

And Hotch, steady as ever, whispered back, “Good.”

The room was still, the night hushed in that way only post-midnight could be. A car passed slowly outside, headlights momentarily flickering across the ceiling. You lay beside him, skin warm beneath the sheets, your heart finally beginning to beat like it belonged to you again.

Hotch was on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly against your hip. He looked more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.

You shifted onto your side, head on his shoulder, and let your hand drift across his chest, fingertips grazing slowly over skin that was far more defined than you'd expected. Then your touch stilled--

Pausing over a pale scar just beneath his left clavicle.

It wasn’t huge. But it was there. Clean, raised. Healed, but noticeable.

You traced it gently, and his breath hitched ever so slightly.

“Where’d this come from?” you asked softly.

Hotch hesitated for a second. “Work.”

You glanced up at him, expression curious but not prying. “That FBI is a dangerous line of work….”

You tried not to think about someone hurting him like that…you didn’t know him well enough to care for him that deeply. Not yet. You’re not sure if you could let yourself get to that point, so you pushed it down. That uneasy feeling. 

He nodded once. “Sometimes.”

You hummed in response, fingers brushing lower across his ribs, then over his abdomen. “That explains the rest of this,” you said, a teasing note sneaking into your voice. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a body like this in a flower shop.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

You shifted a little, stretching your arm out between you, and he caught your wrist gently in his hand, turning it palm-up. His brow furrowed.

“These,” he murmured, thumb gliding across a small, white scar along the side of your forearm. “What happened here?”

You laughed quietly, slightly embarrassed. “Occupational…hazard.”

He looked confused.

“Being a florist,” you clarified with a little smile. “Thorns. Shears. Floral wire. Those centerpiece installations don’t build themselves, and rose stems are meaner than they look.”

His eyes flicked over your skin again, taking in the small marks. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“I try to keep the bloodshed off the showroom floor,” you said dryly.

Hotch smiled at that, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

You traced over the scar on his chest again, slower this time, a little more thoughtful. “I like that we both wear what we do.”

He turned his head to look at you fully.

You shrugged. “It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think? You protect people. I make things beautiful. Both jobs come with little reminders.”

Hotch leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“They suit you,” he murmured. “The marks. The job. All of it.”

Your lips curved upward, eyes fluttering closed as you settled closer into his side.

“Likewise,” you whispered. “Even if your work stories are definitely cooler.”

He huffed a laugh. “Debatable.”

And there, tangled in his sheets, your hands on each other’s skin--scars and softness and all--you felt more seen than you had in a long, long time.

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 @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue

[monzabee]

in what world did i though it would be fine to read this when i woke up first thing in the morning and cried on my way to work?? insane stuff right here, insane

before i start praising the shit out of spencer and reader and just have to get one thing out of the way... hotch pissed me off so much. LIKE LEAVE MADDIE ALONE HER FAMILY IS ALL DEAD, so safe to say reader's reaction to the whole thing about using maddie as bait was justified. ALSO the part where maddie asks them if they are dating... she knew what she was doing!!

this was 10/10, chef's kiss, pullitzer prize deserving fic and will i come back to read it more than once? you believe your ass i will😭

cold!reader used to work with VCAC? the idea that she's good with children despite just hating everyone is so funny to me

would you consider writing a fic where the BAUs main witness is a kid and cold reader is the only person to get through to them? and then the kid becomes like super attached and the rest of the team is just like 'hm, strange' because they never expected her to be good with kids? thank you!

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

A family annihilator who's killed three families in two months makes a fatal mistake. He leaves behind a witness, a child, and she's the only one that can help solve the case.

cold!reader ❅ 10.0k ❅ series masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, violence against children, mentions of trauma and ptsd, you do not know how tempted i was to kill this child but i didn’t

The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the sterile chill of the air conditioning.

The conference room is dim, the overhead lights casting a dull glow against the crime scene photos spread across the table. Three families, their faces smiling in old photographs, juxtaposed with the horror of their final moments.

You sit stiffly in your chair, arms crossed, watching as Hotch stands at the head of the table. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders speaks for itself.

The team is silent as he clicks to the next slide on the projector, displaying the most recent crime scene. Blood splatters across beige carpet. A broken picture frame. A child's shoe, left in the doorway.

“This is our unsub's third family in six weeks,” Hotch says, his voice steady but heavy. “All killed in their own homes, in the middle of the night. No signs of forced entry, no clear connection between the families. Each time, he’s managed to evade security cameras and forensic evidence. He’s methodical, careful, and fast.”

“Spree killer tendencies, but controlled,” Spencer interjects from across the table. His fingers drum against the tabletop as he speaks. “He escalates quickly, but there’s no erratic behaviour at the scenes. He’s not disorganised—he knows exactly what he’s doing,”

“Until now,” JJ murmurs. She leans forward, her brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the next image—a little girl. The survivor.

She’s small, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, pressed into the corner of what looks like a hospital bed. A police officer stands nearby, talking to her, but there’s no recognition in her eyes. She looks… empty.

“She got away,” Emily says, glancing at Hotch. “How?”

“The unsub killed her parents and older brother before she managed to escape through a back door,” he explains. “The neighbours called 911 when they heard screaming. By the time officers arrived, the house was quiet, and the suspect was gone. She was found hiding in their backyard shed.”

“A survivor,” Morgan says, shaking his head. “That changes things. This guy has a pattern—he wipes out the entire family unit. That means she wasn’t supposed to make it out alive,”

“Which means he might try again,” Rossi adds grimly.

A beat of silence. The weight of the statement settles over the room like thick fog.

“Local PD has had no luck getting her to talk,” Hotch continues. “She hasn’t said a word about what happened. Refuses to answer questions. She’s traumatised, barely verbal, and right now, she’s under police protection until we can confirm if she has any extended family who can take her in.”

You shift in your seat, already sensing where this is going. A slow dread creeps up your spine as Hotch’s gaze flickers toward you.

“We need to get through to her,” he says. “She’s the only witness we have, and if the unsub left anything behind—a name, a face, a detail—she’s the only one who can give it to us.”

His words hang in the air for a second too long. You feel everyone’s eyes move toward you.

And then Hotch says it.

“I want you to talk to her.”

You inhale sharply, jaw tightening. "Hotch—"

“You have a PhD in Psychology,” he cuts in smoothly, as if he already anticipated your pushback. “And your time in VCAC makes you the most qualified person here to work with child victims.”

The mention of VCAC makes your stomach twist. You fight the urge to grimace.

“I moved to the BAU for a reason,” you remind him, keeping your voice measured. “Children can be… difficult. Especially ones dealing with trauma this severe. She’s not just going to start talking because I ask her to.”

“I know,” Hotch says. “But if anyone can get her to open up, it’s you.”

Silence stretches between you.

You don’t want to do this.

You hate working with kids. Not because you don’t care, but because they feel too much.

They cry, they panic, they cling, and their emotions are messy—unpredictable in ways adults rarely are.

You spent years in VCAC, watching helpless children break apart under the weight of their own trauma, and it wore you down in ways you never admitted.

That’s why you left.

You’re not the nurturing type. You don’t coddle, you don’t reassure with empty promises, and you don’t have the patience for endless sobs and incomprehensible explanations.

And yet.

You glance at the image of the little girl again. She looks so small. So completely alone.

No one else in this room is going to be able to reach her. And if she doesn’t talk, if she doesn’t tell you what she saw—

The unsub will keep killing.

You exhale slowly, forcing the tension out of your shoulders.

“Fine,” you say finally. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Hotch nods. “Wheels up in 30.”

The meeting disperses, chairs scraping against the floor as the team gathers their things. You stay seated for a moment, staring at the blurred-out image of the girl on the screen.

A hand brushes against your arm.

You look up to see Spencer standing beside you, concern flickering in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You almost say yes, but stop yourself. Instead, you shrug.

“It’s just… not my favourite thing to do,” you admit, voice quieter than usual.

He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does.

“You’ll be good at it,” he says. No hesitation. No doubt. Just quiet certainty.

For some reason, that makes your chest tighten.

You swallow, push back your chair, and stand.

“Let’s hope so,” you mutter, grabbing your case file.

And then you follow the team out the door.

—

The jet touches down in Minnesota under a dull, overcast sky, the kind that promises rain but never quite delivers. The air outside is biting, cold enough that you pull your coat tighter around you as the team steps off the plane.

The local PD is already waiting for you on the tarmac, their unmarked cars idling, exhaust curling into the frigid air. Hotch exchanges quick introductions, then splits the team without hesitation.

“Rossi—you’re with me at the latest crime scene. JJ, you’ll work with the department’s media liaison to handle the press. Morgan, Prentiss, you’re going to the ME’s office to go over autopsy findings.”

His gaze lands on you. “You’re going to the station to talk to the girl.”

You nod, ignoring the way your stomach tightens at the assignment.

“I’ll go with her,” Spencer says, stepping forward.

Hotch gives him a brief look, then nods. “Keep me updated.”

You don’t say anything as you and Spencer break off from the group, climbing into the backseat of a waiting squad car. The officer driving doesn’t speak much, just gives you a curt nod before pulling out onto the highway.

You spend the drive flipping through the case file, rereading the details you already know.

The survivor’s name is Madelyn Carter. Eight years old. No prior history of abuse or neglect. No suspicious activity leading up to the night of the murders. A completely normal kid—until the night she lost everything.

The police reports are frustratingly sparse. Non-verbal. Unresponsive to questioning. Won’t engage.

You tap your fingers against the file, jaw tight. She’s just a child, but already, you can feel the weight of the challenge ahead of you.

The police station is small, tucked into a sleepy suburban district, the kind of place that probably never sees much worse than drunk and disorderly charges.

But today, it’s buzzing with quiet tension.

You and Spencer are led to a small interview room at the end of the hallway. The walls are a washed-out shade of blue, meant to be calming, but the effect is ruined by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

And there, curled up on a chair too big for her, is Madelyn.

She’s impossibly small, arms wrapped around herself, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair is tangled at the ends, her clothes a size too big, probably donated by someone at the station. A stuffed rabbit sits limply in her lap, its fur worn and patchy.

She doesn’t look up when you walk in.

The officer standing in the corner—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes—gives you a look that’s equal parts sympathy and frustration.

“She hasn’t said a word since we brought her in,” she murmurs.

You nod, but your focus is on the girl.

You know better than to overwhelm her right away, so you take your time settling into the chair across from her. No sudden movements. No clipped, authoritative tone. Just careful, deliberate quiet.

“Hi, Madelyn,” you say gently.

She doesn’t acknowledge you.

That’s fine. You expected this.

You shift slightly in your seat, keeping your posture relaxed as you introduce yourself to her. “I’m a Doctor, I’m going to try and help you,”

Still nothing.

You glance at Spencer, who watches the interaction closely, hands tucked into the pockets of his cardigan.

“That’s a nice bunny,” you say, nodding toward the stuffed animal in her lap.

Madelyn doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flick her eyes toward you. She just tightens her grip on the rabbit, her small fingers curling into its worn fur.

You exhale slowly, adjusting your approach.

“I used to have one kind of like that when I was little,” you continue, keeping your voice soft, conversational. “Mine was a bear, though. His name was Theo. I took him everywhere.”

Nothing.

Not surprising, but frustrating nonetheless.

You lean back slightly in your chair, glancing at Spencer, who watches the exchange with quiet patience.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs under his breath, just for you to hear. “Just be patient,”

You barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. “She hasn’t said a word, Spencer.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s not listening,”

You don’t respond, but his words linger in your mind as you turn back to Madelyn.

She’s still curled up, still silent, but you notice the way her fingers twitch slightly against the rabbit’s ear. It’s a small movement, but it tells you one thing, she’s aware of you.

That’s something.

You decide to change tactics. Instead of talking, you lean forward, resting your arms on the table between you. Then you take out your notepad and a pen, clicking it open.

Madelyn doesn’t look up, but you catch the smallest flicker of movement in her posture—curiosity.

Good.

You start to doodle. Simple things. A flower, a star, little patterns in the margins.

Still nothing from her.

But when you glance up a few minutes later, her eyes are on the notepad.

Just for a second. But she was looking.

You resist the urge to smile. Instead, you gently slide the notepad across the table toward her, placing the pen on top.

“You can draw something, if you want,” you say simply. “You don’t have to, but sometimes it helps.”

Madelyn doesn’t react immediately. But then, slowly—so slowly—her fingers twitch again, and she reaches out.

She doesn’t grab the pen. But she touches it.

Your heart stutters slightly in your chest.

Progress.

You let her take her time. You don’t push, don’t rush. You just watch as her tiny fingers trace the edge of the pen absently.

You glance at Spencer again, and his expression is warm. Encouraging.

After a long silence, he speaks, his voice gentle.

“Do you like stories, Madelyn?”

She doesn’t answer.

But after a moment, she nods. Barely. But it’s a nod.

You share a look with Spencer, and for the first time since walking into this room, you feel the smallest spark of hope.

She’s in there.

You just have to find a way to bring her out.

—

You don’t know how long you sit there, watching Madelyn’s fingers trace absent shapes against the edge of the pen. Time moves strangely in moments like this—slow and thick, like wading through molasses.

Spencer stays quiet, offering his presence but not overwhelming the space. You appreciate it more than you’d ever admit.

Madelyn doesn’t speak. But she nods. And she touches the pen.

That’s more than you had ten minutes ago.

So you build on it.

“You like stories,” you say, keeping your voice soft. “What kind of stories?”

No response.

You lean back slightly. “I like mysteries.” A pause. “Not the scary kind, though. More like… puzzles. Things that make you think.”

Nothing at first. But then—so subtle you almost miss it—Madelyn shifts. It’s small, just the faintest movement of her shoulders, but it’s acknowledgment.

Encouraged, you try again.

“I think you might be really good at puzzles,” you say casually. “The way you were looking at my drawings earlier—that was you figuring things out, right?”

She still doesn’t answer, but this time, you catch the way she avoids your gaze, like she’s fighting the urge to react.

She’s engaged. Even if she won’t admit it yet.

So you take another risk.

“Do you want to play a game?”

That gets her attention. Not fully, but her head tilts just slightly—like she’s listening more closely.

You grab the notepad again, flipping to a fresh page.

“It’s really simple,” you tell her. “I draw something, and you guess what it is. If you guess right, it’s your turn to draw something for me.”

You don’t expect an immediate response, so you keep moving. You draw a cat. Just a simple, messy sketch, the kind a kid might do. Then you slide the notepad back toward her and wait.

Silence.

You don’t push.

Then, after an agonising pause—Madelyn reaches for the pen.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But she writes one word in the space beneath your drawing.

Cat.

Something in your chest unclenches.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even softer than before. “It’s a cat.”

Madelyn’s fingers tighten around the pen.

Then—hesitant, almost reluctant—she starts to draw.

It’s shaky, unsure, but after a moment, you recognise it.

A rabbit. Her stuffed animal.

You don’t rush to answer. You let the moment sit, giving her control.

Finally, you say, “Is it your bunny?”

Madelyn nods.

Not small. Not hesitant. A real, full nod.

Your breath catches. Spencer’s posture shifts beside you, like he can feel the significance of it, too.

You’ve got her.

—

It takes another hour before she agrees to talk.

You don’t push her. You keep playing, keep gently pulling her out of the dark space she’s been locked in. She tells you her bunny’s name is Milo, that he’s red because it’s her favourite colour, about things that don’t hurt to answer.

She tells you her friends call her Maddie. You ask if you can. She agrees.

And slowly, carefully, she leans into it.

Finally, when the moment feels right, you set your pen down.

“Maddie,” you say gently. “I need to ask you about what happened that night.”

Immediately, she shrinks in on herself.

You don’t reach for her. Don’t move too fast.

“I know it’s scary,” you continue. “And I know it hurts to think about. But you’re the only one who knows what he looks like.”

Her grip on Milo tightens.

You lean forward slightly. “I want to stop him,” you say. “I don’t want him to hurt anyone else. But I can’t do that without your help.”

She’s trembling. But she’s listening.

Spencer speaks for the first time in a while, his voice quiet but steady.

“We can do it in a way that’s not so scary,” he tells her. “You don’t have to remember everything at once. We can do it piece by piece, and you can stop whenever you want.”

Maddie hesitates.

Then, after a long, agonising pause—she nods.

You take a slow breath.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s do this together.”

—

The cognitive interview is exhausting. For her, for you, for everyone in the room.

You guide her through it carefully—asking her to picture the house, to focus on what she remembers before things got bad.

She whispers about the TV being on. About how her brother was playing a game on his tablet. About how her dad was in the kitchen, and her mom was upstairs.

Then—the noise.

Something breaking.

Screaming.

Maddie shakes violently, curling in on herself, and you immediately pull back.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “You’re safe. You’re here with us.”

She nods, but her breath is coming too fast, her body trembling too much.

Spencer places a gentle hand on your arm, meeting your gaze. You understand what he’s asking. Back off. Give her a moment.

So you do.

You wait.

Finally, she whispers, “He—he was big,”

You go still.

She’s talking about him.

You nod encouragingly. “Okay. Big. Can you tell me anything else?”

A shaky breath.

“H-he had a… a hat.”

You glance at Spencer, who’s already jotting this down in the case file.

Maddie’s voice is barely audible.

“I think it was red.”

Your heart pounds.

Piece by piece, she tells you more. His height. His clothes. A scar on his arm.

By the time she stops, she’s crying.

You reach forward, gently—so gently—and brush a piece of hair from her face.

“You did so good, Maddie,” you tell her. “So, so good.”

She hiccups, her tiny body wracked with exhaustion.

And then—before you can react—she throws herself into your arms.

You freeze.

You’re not the nurturing type. You don’t know how to do this.

But right now, this kid trusts you in a way she doesn’t trust anyone else.

So you let her cling.

You let her cry.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t pull away.

—

The interview is over, but somehow, it feels like the work is just beginning.

Maddie doesn’t leave your side.

Not even for a second.

You’d thought that once the interview was done, you’d be able to hand her over to someone else—maybe the police, or someone from her extended family who was supposed to arrive soon. But instead, Maddie just… clings.

After the interview, she refuses to let go of your hand. You try to tell her she can go with one of the officers to get something to eat, but her grip tightens.

When you tell her it’s time for you to go back to work, she just looks up at you, her eyes wide with that quiet, vulnerable desperation that makes you want to soften, but you can’t.

Her tiny fingers dig into your sleeve when you stand, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You can’t blame her.

You’ve been the one who’s been there for her, the one who’s gotten her to speak, the one who’s made her feel safe for the first time in days.

But the child is persistent.

Everywhere you go, she follows. To the small break room where the team is gathering, to the bathroom when you briefly step away, back to the conference room where they’ve gathered for a case update.

She’s your shadow now.

And the team notices.

You try not to make it awkward, but it's impossible when she insists on sitting at your side, her tiny body almost engulfed by the chair next to you. Her stuffed bunny sits in her lap, its fur nearly as frayed as her nerves, but she holds it tightly. It’s like her last link to some semblance of safety.

Morgan raises an eyebrow as he walks in. “I thought we were done with the interview?”

“We are,” you say, keeping your tone neutral. “She just… she doesn’t want to leave me.”

No one teases you—at least, not directly—but there’s a quiet amusement in the air as they all take in the sight of Madelyn curled up in her oversized chair, the edges of her blanket practically touching the floor, with you sitting across from her.

Hotch is the only one who doesn’t seem particularly surprised. He’s worked with children before—he knows how attachment works, especially after trauma.

But the others? They’re bemused.

JJ glances over at you as she sips her coffee, a smile pulling at her lips. “She seems to have taken quite a liking to you,”

You tilt your head, barely acknowledging her. “I’m just doing my job.”

Maddie, of course, doesn’t let go of you, even as the case discussion begins. She stays glued to your side, her small hand clutching the sleeve of your jacket, her eyes darting from one agent to the next as they go over the details of the unsub’s pattern.

You keep your voice even, answering questions when necessary, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to focus when you feel the weight of her gaze fixed on you, like she’s waiting for something.

Spencer notices.

He’s been watching the whole scene unfold with quiet fascination, his arms crossed, his head slightly tilted, like he’s trying to puzzle out the situation. Finally, when the meeting breaks up, he sidles up next to you as you get ready to leave the conference room.

“She’s really latched onto you, huh?” he says, his voice low, but the smile tugging at his lips is evident.

You glance at him, your expression unreadable. “It’s nothing. Just transference.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

Maddie hasn’t let go of you once during the discussion, and now that it’s over, she’s still following you around, pressing close to your side as you move toward the exit.

“Are you hungry, Maddie?” you ask her gently, glancing down at her with a touch of exasperation. “You haven’t eaten, and I’m pretty sure there’s a café close to here.”

Her head nods almost imperceptibly.

Spencer watches, his eyes softening slightly as he observes the quiet bond that’s developed between the two of you. It’s not obvious at first—just the way the girl clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering her to some kind of reality.

“Maybe we can grab lunch,” he suggests, his tone more teasing than anything. “I mean, you’ve earned it. Getting the kid to open up like that? Not easy.”

You roll your eyes, though there's no malice behind it. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“You’re good at it.”

You mutter something under your breath about it not being a permanent situation, but Spencer just chuckles.

He walks with you as you lead Maddie toward the small café a few blocks away. As you cross the threshold of the restaurant, you notice the oddity of the whole situation.

It’s strange to have someone at your side like this. A small, vulnerable child who insists on being with you despite everything that happened.

The waitress gives you an odd look when you request a secluded booth, but she doesn’t say anything. You slide in, Maddie immediately beside you, her fingers still clutching your sleeve.

Spencer orders for everyone, giving Maddie a soft smile as he does. You can’t help but notice the way his expression softens around her.

“She seems to like you,” Spencer comments as you sit, his voice light but carrying a certain warmth.

You cross your arms and shoot him a glance. “What can I say? I’m just a magnet for clingy children.”

Spencer laughs quietly, but it’s warm. “You’re good with her. I think she feels safe around you. And you are good at what you do.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, but there’s something unsettlingly genuine in your voice.

Spencer raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press you. Instead, he changes the subject, discussing the case with you as if nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed.

As you eat, Maddie picks at her food, her gaze flickering from you to Spencer and back again. She looks at you with a certain familiarity, like she trusts you completely, like you’re the one person who’s made her feel safe in the whirlwind of everything that happened.

After a while, she speaks.

“Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Your fork stops halfway to your mouth. Spencer looks at you from across the table, just as surprised.

You freeze. How do you explain the whole weird mess that is your and Spencer’s relationship to an eight-year-old? How do you explain the not-together-but-kinda-together situation that doesn’t even make sense to you half the time?

So you side-step the question.

“No, sweetie,” you say, “Not quite.”

Maddie doesn’t seem disappointed by that answer. She just nods, although a little confused.

You glance at Spencer, who’s trying to hide a smile behind his cup of water.

“It’s okay to be curious,” he tells her gently.

You roll your eyes and take another bite of your food. “It's just complicated,”

Maddie shrugs, her focus shifting back to her plate. She doesn't press any further, and for a brief moment, you almost feel normal again—just two adults eating lunch with a kid. Like a proxy family.

But normal doesn’t last long. The reality is that she’s still attached to you, and you're still the one she turns to. For now, at least.

And despite all your reservations, there’s a part of you that’s starting to understand why.

—

The evening sets in with an oppressive stillness that mirrors the tension in the air.

Maddie has been tucked into a small cot, an officer stationed outside her door to ensure her safety. She’s asleep now, her face still flushed from the day’s events, her small form curled tightly under the blankets. The moment she closed her eyes, a quiet kind of peace settled in the room, but the unease in your chest hasn’t subsided.

The case isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The team has reconvened, sitting around the large conference table in the BAU’s temporary Minnesota office. The maps, photos, and notes are all spread out before you, the room filled with the usual quiet hum of focus.

They’re all working with urgency now—calculating, piecing together information, and drawing conclusions. But none of them, not even Hotch, seem willing to speak the one truth you’re certain of.

Madelyn is in danger.

It’s only a matter of time before the unsub comes back for her.

“Based on the pattern,” Hotch begins, his voice steady, “we can assume the unsub is going to strike again. He’s methodical. The way he works suggests he’s already been planning this next move. We have a window.”

You listen, but you’re not really hearing him. Your eyes are fixed on the girl’s picture—the innocent smile frozen in time, the eyes full of unspoken fear. She’s just a little girl.

“And our best bet,” Morgan continues, leaning forward as he studies the information in front of him, “is to get her back into her old house. Lure the unsub out with a setup that looks weak—something that’ll convince him to make his move.”

Your stomach churns.

“That’s what we’re doing,” Hotch affirms, his eyes briefly meeting yours. “We need to make sure he’s brought to justice, and we’re running out of time.”

You can feel it—the tension rising in your chest, suffocating you. It’s not just the decision they’re making. It’s the plan. It’s the idea that they’re considering putting Madelyn in danger again.

You can’t stay silent.

“Are you serious?” Your voice cuts through the conversation like a knife. “We’re going to use her as bait?”

There’s an edge in your tone, one you rarely let genuinely show. The room goes still, and all eyes turn toward you.

Hotch looks at you with that ever-steady gaze of his, the kind that’s usually so impenetrable, but you can see the frustration beneath it. “We don’t have many options here. If we can’t draw him out, we risk losing him completely.”

“By using a child?” You repeat the word like it’s a poison, something that doesn’t belong in the same sentence as the word justice. You stand, unable to keep still, the anger making your pulse quicken. “This isn’t some game, Hotch. This is a real little girl. She’s already been through enough. We can’t just—”

“You’re overreacting,” Morgan interjects, his voice quieter now but firm. “We’re not putting her at direct risk. The setup will be controlled, and we’ll have backup in place,”

You shake your head, the words slipping from you before you can stop them. “Controlled? How do you control something like that? How do you control what he does to her when he finds out she’s there?”

Spencer speaks up from across the room, his voice calm but carrying an underlying note of empathy. “We’re not doing this blindly. There’s a risk, yes. But we’re also talking about a chance to stop him, once and for all. This is what we do,”

You turn to him, frustration boiling in your chest. “This is not our mission. She’s not just some tool to help us find a solution to our problems. She’s a child!”

Spencer’s eyes flash for a moment, but he softens his tone, lowering his voice. “I know, but we’re doing this to protect her. We can’t just sit back and wait for him to come to her. That’s not an option anymore,”

The conversation swirls around you, their voices growing distant in your ears as the weight of the decision begins to settle over you.

The plan, the baiting, the manipulation of this little girl’s already broken world—none of it feels right. The thought of putting her in harm’s way, even with all the precautions in place, is enough to make your stomach turn.

But no one is listening to you.

And you know, in the back of your mind, that it’s already decided. They’re going to go through with it.

Hotch gives you one last look, his gaze unreadable but firm. “I understand your concern, but this is the best option we have.”

You hold his gaze for a beat, the frustration still burning in your chest, but you can’t push it anymore.

Instead, you take a breath and step back, your voice tight. “Fine. But don’t expect me to like it.”

The rest of the team doesn’t speak up—no one challenges the decision. They all know what needs to be done, even if it isn’t easy. Even if it feels wrong.

And in that moment, you realise just how far this has gone. You’re not just part of the team anymore. You’re now complicit in something that you can’t reconcile with the woman you thought you were.

—

That night, you sit at your desk, staring at the case file in front of you, though you’re not really looking at it. Your thoughts drift back to Madelyn—her fragile, trusting eyes, the way she’s clung to you all day.

You didn’t sign up for this.

Spencer walks past your desk, pausing when he sees the way you’re hunched over the case files.

“You’re really not okay with this, are you?” he asks quietly, his voice soft but knowing.

You don’t answer at first, focusing on the photo of Madelyn. Her smile, her bunny clutched tight in her hands, all of it makes you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Finally, you speak, your voice barely a whisper. “I just—I can’t believe we’re doing this to her.”

Spencer’s silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you don’t expect him to. Finally, he leans in, his tone steady but sympathetic.

“Sometimes, we have to make hard choices,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we forget who we’re doing it for,”

You glance up at him, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his gaze—a quiet understanding, a recognition of the struggle.

“You’ll be okay,” He hesitates before setting a hand against your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “And so will she,”

—

The silence in the room is almost oppressive. Madelyn has been tucked into her cot for the night, her small body curled into the covers as if trying to make herself as small as possible.

You’ve been avoiding looking at her, because every time you do, the weight of what you’re about to ask her presses down harder on your chest.

You know that this is necessary. You know that this is the only way to stop the unsub and give her a chance at safety. But that doesn’t make it feel any less wrong.

The plan is set. Tomorrow, they’ll use her as bait. And you, the one person she trusts in the world, are expected to stand by and watch.

It doesn’t matter that you’ll be there to protect her. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be the one closest to her. The thought of her being used like this leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that no amount of logic can cleanse.

But there’s no getting around it. The team has made their decision.

So you sit at the edge of her cot, trying to steady the storm of conflicting emotions swirling inside you. You’re the one who has to make her understand, and that terrifies you.

Maddie is lying on her side, her bunny tucked into the crook of her arm. She looks so small in the dim light, so fragile, and it hurts to see her like this.

The trauma she’s endured is still written on her face, though the interview was a step forward. But that doesn’t mean she’s ready for what’s about to happen. None of you are.

“Maddie?” you say softly, your voice quieter than usual. She doesn’t respond at first, her wide eyes flicking from her bunny to you. She’s so still, almost as though she’s bracing herself for something worse.

“Hey, sweetheart, look at me,” you coax gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She hesitates for a moment, but then she turns, her face a mask of anxiety and exhaustion.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to hold her gaze. “I need to tell you something important. Do you remember what I told you earlier, about keeping you safe?”

She nods, her lips trembling. “You’re gonna stay with me?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, like she’s afraid of hearing the wrong answer.

Your heart aches. You can feel the weight of what you’re about to say hanging in the air like a storm cloud. But you can’t lie to her. Not now. She deserves the truth. Even if it breaks you to say it.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” you promise, trying to keep your voice steady. “But tomorrow… tomorrow’s going to be a little different.”

She furrows her brow, her small hands twisting the edges of her blanket. “How?”

You take a slow breath, carefully choosing your words. “Tomorrow, we’re going to do something to make sure that bad man never comes back. Something that will keep you safe. But it’s going to be a little scary, and I need you to trust me, okay?”

She looks up at you, eyes wide with apprehension. You can see her processing, the fear bubbling under the surface, trying to break through. But she doesn’t pull away. She stays there, watching you, waiting for the rest of it.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you continue. “We’re going to go to your old house, the place where all this happened, and we’re going to make it look like it did before. We’re going to have people watching from close by, and I’ll be right outside. The whole time, okay?”

Her lips tremble again, and you can see that she’s struggling to understand. The idea of going back to that house—where so much horror happened—is almost too much for her to process. You don’t blame her. You’d feel the same way.

“I won’t leave you,” you say again, making sure she hears the sincerity in your voice. “You’ll be safe, Maddie. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The trust in her eyes is palpable, but the fear is too. Her small body stiffens for a moment, and she looks down at her bunny like it’s the only thing holding her together. “What if… what if I’m scared?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

You lean in, your heart breaking just a little more. “It’s okay to be scared, But we’ll make all the scary things go away.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you almost feel like you’re breaking. The responsibility is too much, the pressure too great. You want so badly to pull her out of this situation, to find another way. But you can’t. You have to do this, not just for her, but for everyone who’s been affected by this unsub.

Madelyn bites her lip, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “You promise?”

You nod, your voice thick with emotion. “I promise.”

She looks at you for a long moment, as if weighing your words, trying to decide if she can trust you. And then, just as you’re starting to doubt yourself, she nods, barely perceptible. “Okay. I trust you.”

The words settle between you both, and for a moment, you feel the quiet weight of the promise you just made. This isn’t just a case anymore. It’s her. It’s her safety, her future, and you’re the one who has to make sure she’s protected.

“Good girl,” you say softly, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her forehead. “You’re so brave, Maddie. I’m proud of you.”

Her eyes flicker up to you again, and this time, there’s a faint smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “I’m not scared if you’re with me.”

That’s the moment you realise: she’s not just trusting you to keep her safe. She’s trusting you to give her back a sense of control over her own life, something she hasn’t had since the night her family was taken from her. And you can’t let her down. Not now, not ever.

“I’ll be with you,” you repeat. “Every step of the way.”

And as you watch her settle back into the covers, her bunny tucked tightly under her arm, you make a silent vow to yourself that no matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what you have to do, you will keep that promise.

Because no one else is going to.

Not like you will.

—

The air inside the old house is heavy with tension, each creak of the floorboards under the team’s feet amplified in the stillness.

The plan is simple. Madelyn is placed in the house, under the guise of a minimal police presence, to lure the unsub into taking the bait.

Everything has been carefully orchestrated, right down to the smallest detail. Outside, the team is positioned in hidden locations, all eyes on the house. They’re watching for any signs that the unsub is approaching, but you know they’re all thinking the same thing—you hope this works.

You’ve spent the entire day getting Maddie ready, talking her through the steps again, reassuring her that this is the right thing to do, that she’ll be okay. And, despite your own misgivings, you’re trying to convince yourself of the same thing.

You’ve promised her that you would stay by her side, and you have to see that promise through.

The door to the house is left slightly ajar, a weak police presence positioned just inside. You take your position on the floor below Maddie’s bedroom, staying close, but not so close as to be obvious. Your heartbeat is a loud thrum in your ears as the time ticks by, every minute stretching into what feels like an eternity. The silence inside the house feels like a storm waiting to break.

Then, it happens.

The motion sensor outside the house triggers, and you hear it—the unmistakable sound of someone breaching the perimeter. Your stomach lurches. The unsub is here.

It’s go-time.

The team moves in quickly, and in that same instant, you spring into action, your focus singular. Your only thought is Maddie. The unsub can be handled by the others. They’ve got it covered. But you can’t take your eyes off the one person you promised to protect. You know exactly where she is, and you don’t even hesitate to run toward her.

—

You burst into her room, your heart pounding. The light is dim, casting long shadows across the space. Maddie is standing by the window, looking outside with wide, fearful eyes. The moment she hears the door open, she turns to you, her face a mixture of confusion and terror.

She doesn’t say anything, but you can see the fear etched into her small features, the tremor in her hands as she holds the bunny close.

Without thinking, you move towards her in two quick steps. You scoop her up in your arms, holding her tight to your chest, pressing her small form into you as though you can shield her from all the horrors in the world. The weight of her trust feels heavier than ever.

“Shh,” you whisper, your voice as steady as you can make it, though it cracks just a little. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m right here. See? I told you you’d be okay.”

She clings to you, her fingers curling into your shirt. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. In this moment, she’s not just the scared little girl caught in a nightmare. She’s the child who trusted you with her safety—and that trust is all that matters.

You stroke her hair gently, trying to soothe her with the rhythm of your hand.

Your heart is racing, but you can’t afford to let that show. She’s looking up at you now, her wide eyes full of questions, full of fear that you can’t quite banish. But she trusts you. That’s enough.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you say again, even though you can’t promise it. You hold her tighter, wanting to shield her from everything outside this room, from the danger lurking just beyond the walls. You’re not thinking of the unsub anymore—only of Maddie. She’s the only thing that matters.

For a moment, everything else fades away. The outside world is a blur of movement and sound, but you are anchored in this small, dimly lit room with this little girl in your arms.

You don’t hear the team’s voices anymore, don’t hear the chase or the shouting, don’t hear anything except Maddie’s breathing against your chest. She’s calm now, her body still trembling but no longer with fear—more from the shock, the exhaustion of the night.

It’s a strange thing, the weight of her small body in your arms. There’s something deeply instinctive about it, something that stirs in you like an echo from a past you thought you’d finally buried alongside your Professor.

In this moment, holding her like this, you can’t help but think of what might have been. If you’d had that child, if you’d stayed.

What would it have been like? To raise a child of your own? To care for someone who needed you as much as she does?

The thought catches you off guard. It’s a brief moment of reflection, one that passes as quickly as it comes, but the weight of it lingers, like the fading scent of something once held close. It’s not the first time you’ve thought about it, but it’s the first time it’s felt so… real.

You quickly push the thought aside, focusing again on Maddie’s presence. Not now.

This isn’t about you. It’s about her. Always her.

“Hey,” you murmur, pulling her back slightly to look into her eyes. “You did great. You were so brave. You’re okay. It’s over now.”

Her eyes are wide, still searching your face for reassurance, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. You know that she’s still processing everything, still trying to make sense of the danger, of the chaos, of everything she’s been through in the past few days. But she’s safe now. She’s in your arms, and you’ll keep her safe for as long as it takes.

“Do you trust me?” you ask softly, even though you already know the answer.

Maddie nods, her small hand clutching tighter onto her bunny.

“Good,” you say, giving her a small but sincere smile. “Then we’ll get through this together.”

—

The storm has passed. The danger is over. Madelyn is safe. The unsub is in custody, and the team is in the clear. You’ve done your job. You’ve kept her safe, just as you promised.

But now comes the hardest part.

Her grandparents are here, having arrived just after the house was secured, the paperwork signed, and the chaos of the operation settled.

They’re older, frail but warm, and there’s a visible relief on their faces when they see their granddaughter—safe, unharmed, and sound, despite everything she’s been through.

They approach her cautiously, with a tenderness that is obvious in their every move, but it’s clear that Madelyn isn’t ready to leave yet.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to you, staring down at her hands, her bunny still clutched tightly in her grip. Her eyes flicker toward the door every now and then, but she doesn’t look up.

She can hear the voices outside—her grandparents—her family—but she’s frozen. The transition from being with you, the one person she’s come to rely on, to a completely new environment is more than she’s ready for.

You move closer, kneeling beside her. Her head doesn’t turn, but you can tell she knows you’re there. The silence between you is comfortable, not awkward, but weighted with the realisation that this is the end of the road for you both. This is where you have to let her go.

“Maddie,” you say softly, your voice a little hoarse from the long hours. “Your grandparents are here. They’re going to take you home. You’ll be safe with them.”

She doesn’t say anything, but you can see her shoulders tense, just a little. Her fingers flex against her bunny’s fur, as if trying to hold onto some sense of control, some last shred of the familiar. She’s scared. You understand that, even though she’s made it through the worst of it, she’s still just a little girl. And little girls need security. They need the things they’ve trusted, and right now, that’s you.

“I know it’s hard,” you continue, gently brushing her hair back. “But you’re going to be okay now. You’re going to be with your family. You’re not alone anymore.”

Madelyn stays quiet, but this time, she finally turns her head to look at you. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable, and it’s all you can do to hold back the swell of emotion threatening to break free. She’s asking with just a look—Can I stay? Can you keep me safe?

But you can’t. You’ve done what you promised. You can’t be her protector forever, and you both know it. She needs her family now, the people who can be there for her in ways you can’t.

“I’ll always be here if you need me,” you say, your voice steady, though your heart is anything but. “But you’ve got your grandparents now. They love you, and they’re going to take care of you. You’ll be safe with them, just like I promised you.”

Maddie looks down at her bunny again, as if deciding whether to give it up. For a long moment, she just holds it, her fingers tracing the worn fabric. You don’t push her. She needs to come to this decision herself, in her own time. But eventually, she looks up at you, and her face is as serious as it’s ever been.

“I want you to have him,” she says quietly. “He keeps me safe. Maybe he can keep you safe too.”

Your throat tightens at the simple, honest offer. The bunny—her constant companion, the thing that has been with her through every terrifying moment, every flash of panic—is now being entrusted to you. You can feel the weight of it, of the trust in her small hands as she holds it out to you.

For a brief moment, you hesitate. You weren’t expecting this. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to accept anything from her, to make it feel like a goodbye, like this was the end. But the way she’s looking at you—her eyes filled with the kind of vulnerability that only a child could show—it’s a gift. A gesture of complete trust.

You reach out, slowly, your fingers brushing against hers as she places the stuffed animal into your hands. You don’t say anything at first. You don’t need to. The weight of the moment says it all.

“I’ll look after him,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I promise,”

Maddie gives a small nod, her lip trembling slightly, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t need to. She knows she’s safe now. She knows that the danger is over, even though it’s going to take a long time for her to truly feel like it. But she trusts you. That’s what matters most.

Her grandparents step forward now, gentle and patient. Her grandmother reaches out, her hand trembling slightly, but Madelyn doesn’t move. She looks up at you one last time, and it’s like she’s asking you for permission. You nod, brushing a hand over her hair one last time, offering her the comfort and security she’s going to need in the days to come.

“You’re going to be okay, Maddie,” you repeat, knowing it’s true. You’ve done everything you could for her, and now it’s time to let go.

Madelyn doesn’t look back as her grandparents gently lead her out of the room. She doesn’t cry, though you’re sure the tears will come later. For now, she’s holding herself together, with the knowledge that she’s safe, and that she’s going to be okay.

—

The hum of the office is soothing in its familiar monotony. You step inside, the heavy weight of the case finally lifting from your shoulders. It’s strange—part of you feels relief, the other part feels like an echo of something left behind. Something you didn’t quite expect to feel, but there it is, nestled in your chest, quietly tugging at you.

You take a deep breath and walk to your desk, setting down your bag and the files you’ve been carrying all day. Then, without really thinking about it, you place the stuffed animal on the corner of your desk, the soft bunny now a permanent fixture in the workspace that’s been both home and battlefield for so long.

It’s a small thing, but it’s a thing that means something. And as soon as you set it down, you feel a soft exhale escape your lips. A sense of finality, of closure, as if everything has settled into place.

The case is over. Madelyn is safe. But something about this—about the stuffed animal—feels like a piece of you that will always remain in that small room with her, in the moment when you promised to keep her safe.

You don’t realise Spencer is watching you until you hear his soft voice.

“She gave it to you,” he says, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

You glance over at him, momentarily surprised. His gaze is soft, understanding, and there’s a certain warmth in his eyes that you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You glance back at the bunny and then back at Spencer. It’s an odd feeling—the way he’s looking at you, almost as if he sees more than just the case, more than just the professional side of you. He sees the part of you that changed over the past 36 hours.

“She did,” you say, your voice low, not quite sure what to say after that. It’s true, but you hadn’t really thought it through. You hadn’t thought about what this moment would mean.

“You didn’t have to take it,” Spencer offers gently, taking a step closer. “But I think it’s... a good thing. That you did.”

You swallow, unsure how to process the mix of emotions stirring in your chest. It’s strange, this feeling. The feeling of having kept a promise, of having kept someone safe. You’ve done this kind of work before, but never like this. Never with this kind of personal connection.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice thick with something you can’t quite put into words.

Spencer steps closer, his posture relaxed, yet there’s an unspoken care in his movements. He looks at you—softly, steadily—and you feel the warmth of his presence settle around you. He reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing over the edge of your waist. It’s a gesture that’s comforting, gentle, not pushing, just there.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid of breaking the moment. His touch is subtle, yet you can feel the tenderness in his gesture.

You nod, but the answer feels incomplete. How do you explain that you're fine, but also changed? How do you explain that the girl who clung to you, who trusted you with her safety, left something inside you that you hadn’t expected to find?

“I’m fine,” you say finally, because it’s easier to say than to explain.

Spencer doesn’t press, doesn’t ask for more details. He just gives a soft nod, his fingers still lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back slightly. He doesn’t push. He’s always been good at giving space when needed.

“Want me to take you home?” he asks, his voice gentle. “Or… we could just go somewhere. Get some food. Something to relax.”

The offer is simple, but you can tell that it’s more than that. It’s his way of letting you know he’s there for you, not out of obligation, but because he wants to be. Because he sees you in a way that not many people do.

The soft affection in his voice, the quiet care in his words—it’s enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you’ve felt in the past.

You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips. For a moment, the world outside the office fades, and it’s just the two of you. He’s standing there, so patient, so steady, and the weight of the last 36 hours begins to feel a little less heavy with him around.

“That’s be nice,” you say finally, surprising yourself with the answer. You don’t know why, but you do. You could go home, retreat into the silence of your apartment, but there’s something about the idea of being with him—of having someone there, someone who understands, someone who’s seen the way you’ve changed—that feels better.

Spencer smiles, a quiet relief crossing his face. He steps forward, offering you a hand, and you take it without hesitation. His fingers close around yours, warm and comforting. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a promise, like something new is beginning.

“Let’s go then,” he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

[monzabee]

JUDE IS JUST THE CUTEST😭 so what if he was crying almost the entire time the reader was gone and refusing to eat?? so what if he made his dad worry? THE KID HAD HIS REASONS OKAY😭 all things aside this filled a hole in my heart that i didn't even know was there and oh my god i don't know how to process it because spencer, jude and the reader is just the cutest little family ever!!

can I pls request: dad!spencer and his baby boy getting antsy and weepy but spencer not knowing what’s wrong until you come back from a long case and then he’s fine straight away

—Spencer and Jude miss you something awful while you’re away. fem, 3k

Things have been hot garbage since Monday. Saturday night and all Spencer wants is one good day, where Jude doesn’t cry, and Spencer doesn’t feel sick. Saturday morning it went on for hours —Jude started crying because his bottle was prematurely empty and he didn’t stop, the sobs petering into weeps, sniffly wet nose pressed to Spencer’s neck, then his chest, then his forehead. Poor boy can’t stay still. 

Spencer hasn’t eaten properly since you left. He can’t get more than a couple of mouthfuls in before Jude is protesting his own meal or snack and flopping sadly into a Jude-puddle. 

Spencer has suggested dinner again, because not eating makes you sad, but Jude doesn’t care what it does and Spencer puts electrolytes in his juice. He offers extra time at the swimming pool and the library, and he plays soccer outside despite terrible coordination because Jude loves to score. Nothing lasts long enough. Jude spends half of his waking time morose and clingy, the other hiding under beds or in the kitchen cabinet under the sink. Spencer makes him an appointment with the pediatrician for Wednesday morning. 

The waiting is agony. 

“I don’t think you should worry about it until you go,” you say down the phone, “you know that worrying twice is pointless. Not that you shouldn’t worry at all, I know it’s scary, but there’s nothing you can’t handle, Spence.” 

“If Jude is sick I definitely can’t handle that.” 

“Yes, you can. Don’t be stupid.” 

Stupid said very softly. Spencer misses your voice. He tries to go on cases but if they look too long, he stays home, ‘cos who does he trust enough to take care of Jude besides himself? There was one time where you stayed with Jude for a two-nighter just because you wanted to and Spencer missed being with the BAU, but he missed Jude more while he was there than he missed the work. He’s a professional consultant now, and it’s fine. He loves his life. He still goes to the office and sees his friends for coffee, and he gets to be with Jude all the time. If something happened to him… 

“He’s just not himself, it’s–” breaking my heart. 

“Emily said we’re a half hour from touching down in Quantico, I’ll come over?” 

Spencer didn’t consider you going home to your own place, but he should’ve. “Please. Maybe you can get through to him, or figure out what it is that’s making him so sad.” 

“What's he been eating?” 

“Nothing.” Spencer rubs his eyebrow and the headache there roughly. “Uh, he can’t stop himself from eating those carrot puffs. If you get a couple of those on the way in I’ll pay you back.” 

“Honey, I can buy the baby some snacks. What about you, are you eating?” 

“Not really,” he confesses quietly. 

“Anything you fancy?” 

He grins at your phrasing and your light tones. Maybe when Jude is a little older, a lot older, Spencer could go with you again. 

“Can you get me those chilli tortilla chips, please?” 

“And salsa?” 

“Please, if you don’t mind.” 

“I love all the snacks you love,” you laugh, “did you want something sweet, too? I really crave a three musketeers.” 

“That’s the worst candy bar you could’ve picked.” 

“It is not. And for that you aren’t getting one.”

Spencer laughs and sways Jude’s attention from the movie. He frowns at Spencer as if to say, What’s so funny? I’m miserable. And Spencer feels more sorry for him than anyone in the whole wide world. “What’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs. 

“Is that my boy?” 

Spencer tries to pretend you saying such a thing doesn’t inspire extreme attraction. “That’s your boy,” he says, flustered beyond sense, “he’s not feeling the best.” 

Jude shuffles to Spencer’s seat. “I know, poor boy,” you murmur, “aw, I can’t wait to be home, I missed him so much more than I can say, this case felt like an age.” 

Doesn’t Spencer know it? He pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, holding out his hands for Jude, slipping them into his armpits as Jude struggles up into his lap. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asks again. 

Jude pouts up at Spencer through long eyelashes. “Daddy, who’s on’a phone?” 

“Y/N. Do you want to talk?” 

Jude is rigid, his eyebrows pinched tightly, but he nods and holds his hand out for the phone. Spencer guides it gently to his ear. “Tell me if it’s too loud, okay?” 

“Hello?” Spencer hears you say. “Jude, lovely, are you there? Can you hear me?” 

���I hear you,” Jude says. 

“Hello. I miss you very much, I’m excited to come home. Daddy says you’re not feeling well, I’m very sorry to hear it. If you can think of anything I can get you or I can bring you to make you feel better, can you tell me now?” 

“Um…” Jude gives Spencer a betrayed glare that makes no sense.  “Dad?” 

“She said she misses you,” Spencer says softly. “She’s sorry you’re not happy. And she wants to know if you want a present, or a special dinner.” 

“No.” Jude straightens up, a little hand tight on the phone. “I miss you,” he says loudly. 

“I miss you too. I’ll see you soon, just a couple more hours. Can you be good for dad and have something to eat? Have some apple stars or a bowl of chips or a boppy?” 

Jude nods. 

Spencer huffs a laugh. “Say out loud,” he whispers. 

“Say what?” Jude asks. 

“He’s saying yes,” Spencer says loudly. 

“You’re gonna go have a boppy now?” you check. 

“Yeah,” Jude says. 

Your laugh is hard to hear, but Spencer knows it well, filling in the gaps in his head. “Okay, babe. You go have your boppy and I’ll see you real soon.” 

Jude perks up a little. He thanks you in his mind for being a miracle worker. Jude says, “Okay,” and you say, “Okay, bye-bye,” and Jude says, “Bye-bye, I love you,” which makes you backtrack to say, “I love you too! Okay? Go have your boppy. Bye, sweet boy.” 

Jude gives Spencer the phone nicely. 

Spencer can see you’ve hung up, so he puts the phone on the arm and takes Jude’s cheek into his palm. “Okay?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna have boppy now,” Jude informs him. 

“Yeah, let’s go make it.” 

It’s skim milk now Jude’s old enough, but he likes it all the same, and he drinks it held against Spencer’s chest where Spencer stands in the kitchen. Jude doesn’t fuss as Spencer starts writing a list on the fridge-pad. Milk, laundry detergent, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, bread, cheese and broccoli pasta mix, cheese, noodles. “What do you want for your dinner tomorrow?” Spencer asks, unsurprised to go unanswered. He adds rice, hand soap, and crayons. 

Jude doesn’t fall asleep after the bottle. He stretches and cards a hand through his dad’s hair, clumsy but quiet without sulking for the first time in days. “Thank you, that feels nice,” Spencer whispers. 

Jude presses his nose up against Spencer’s jaw, bringing his other hand to double the stroking. “I love you very much, you know,” Spencer says. 

“Yeah.” 

“And things are going to be okay, I promise.” 

“Promise,” he repeats. 

“Want another boppy?” 

“Maybe I can have soup?” 

“Is that what your tummy wants?” Spencer opens the cabinet above the counter before Jude can say yes or no. “What soup do you want? Dad has tomato, chicken, mushroom, parsnip, I have all the best ones. Baby, let’s have soup and sandwiches.” 

“Mayo-yaise?” 

“Is that what you want? Like, a grilled cheese, or just toast and mayo?” He grins at his little weirdo. “You don’t even want the cheese, do you?” 

“No, I don‘ even wan’ the cheese,” Jude grins back. 

They make soup together. Spencer sits Jude next to the stove, positioning him between legs so he can’t fall or touch the saucepan. He opens two cans of tomato soup and adds fresh cream from the fridge to reduce the sourness, letting Jude pull basil from the window plant to sprinkle in after he’s brought it to a boil and then cooked it back down to a simmer. He gives it time to cool for at least ten minutes, stirring, and pressing the bread spread with mayonnaise into a sizzling frying pan, Jude mumbling at his side the whole time. Some stuff he understands, and some is jumbled nothing. “I think we can,” he says as Spencer pours the soup into two bowls. He leaves more than enough for you in the pot. 

“What do you think we can do?” Spencer asks. 

Jude only smiles. 

Jude takes a long, long time to eat his soup. Spencer heats it up again once, but Jude doesn’t mind it cold. Spencer finishes his in about five minutes and spends the next thirty waiting for you to come home. Over. Not home. 

“Have some more?” Jude asks. 

“You want more?” Spencer nearly chokes on his breath. 

“You and me.” 

“Sure,” Spencer says, standing, “babe,” —he kisses Jude’s head— “you can have,” —he gives another kiss while he's there— “as much as you want.” 

“Thanks thank you thanks.” 

“More sandwich, too?” 

“Can I have–” Jude struggles. “Dad, can we have bread without mayo-yaise?” 

“Just bread, not toasted? Still soft?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Sure, baby. Whatever you want.” 

Spencer likes that having a baby has made affection easier in every part of his life, he’s kinder to every child he meets because it’s easier now to call them lovely or beautiful or ask where their mom is, probably as a side effect of being loved resolutely. Jude loves Spencer so Spencer loves the world. It’s not exactly new rhetoric. 

Jude has managed a second piece of bread sans crust when you slip the door open across the house. Spencer grabs a paper towel to wipe Jude’s face and hands quickly.

“Hello?” you call gently, melodic in your cadence. 

Jude sits ramrod straight, batting Spencer’s hands away. “Hello?” he calls back. 

“Is that my Jude?” you ask, footsteps drawing nearer, your shoes clipping the wooden slat flooring, and then suddenly there in the kitchen doorway. “Hi, angel. I can’t believe you’re not feeling good, you look just the same as the last time I saw you!” You don’t take your bag off your shoulder, but you let the tote in your hand fall to the floor by the fridge. 

“Hi,” he says, like he’s in awe. 

Your expression softens further. “Hi.” 

Jude slides off of his chair and you go on one knee to reach for him, laughing softly as he digs his face into your neck, throwing his arms around you, too short to close. You hold his back in one arm. The other —Spencer’s heart feels squeezed in your palm— rests in the waves of his hair where they kiss Jude’s nape. 

“I’ve been so worried about you,” you confess, your hand turning to a fist on his back. You drag your knuckles up and down. 

“I miss you.” 

“Sorry, handsome, I didn’t mean to be away that long.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I missed you too.” 

Jude takes a breath somewhere near sobbing and startles both you and Spencer. “I miss you,” he insists. 

“Bud, it’s okay.” 

Jude takes in another horrible straggly breath that nearly forces Spencer onto his knees. 

“Miss you,” Jude says, clinging to you with white-knuckled hands, “miss you, don’t go.” 

“Baby, I’m not going.” 

“Miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” you say, locking eyes with Spencer over his head, your lashes like willow, wide in confusion. 

Jude swallows harshly but nods like you’ve said something he can agree too. 

You shift Jude against your chest and stand. In your winter peacoat, your scarf and your silky black tights, you aren’t shy about squeezing poor rumpled Jude to your chest, ignoring his frizzed hair and his soup-stained t-shirt, all love as you rub his shuddering back. “Jude, you okay?” you ask quietly. 

“You was gone for too long.” 

Spencer can hardly hear him. 

“I was, huh?” 

“Too much.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d miss me this much. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” 

“You’ll be in the bed with me?” 

“Is that what you want me to do?” you ask patiently. 

“Yeah.” 

“If dad says it’s okay, we’ll sleep in the big bed.”

Jude spins in your arms, imploring Spencer desperately, “Please, daddy? Please?”

Of course you can stay in the big bed. It’s not unusual for you to spend the night, and you stopped suffering the couch a long time ago. 

The moment Jude knows you aren’t going home, he starts to act like himself again. He stops the shuddery breath that makes Spencer hot behind the eyes. His mumbling turns to a more curious probing —Why were you gone so long? Did you miss him? Can I come with you nex’ time? 

You don’t baulk. When Jude knocks the door while you’re changing and again while you’re freshening up, you don’t mind. You open the door with water running down your arms and chin and sit him on the sink basin while you brush your teeth. Spencer isn’t offended that you’ve taken over, it’s love. Like, his stomach aches with fondness watching you with Jude. You’ve been gentle from the beginning, loved Jude since he was a furious little baby crying himself sick in Spencer’s lap, and now you’re somehow more than that. You answer Jude’s why’s and when’s with the best you have. You pretend you aren’t tired, waiting for the three of you to sardine together in the dimly lit bed before you let out your first yawn. 

“Are you tired?” Jude asks you knowingly.  

“Not too much. How about you, are you tired?” 

“Not too much,” he echoes. Jude turns to Spencer, looking his age again. “Are you tired?” 

“I’m the most tired I’ve ever been,” he says. 

He doesn’t have his schoolboy heart attacks seeing you in your pajamas anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still find it special and secret when you rub your bare face and settle on your pillow, one eye hidden, the other sluggish. “Maybe we can rest our eyes with dad,” you suggest in a whisper, “he can sleep, and you can give him a cuddle.” 

Jude reaches for your hand. 

You hum softly. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

Slowly, Jude reaches for Spencer with his other hand. 

“Me neither,” he says. 

They ‘rest their eyes’ until Jude falls asleep, snoring in snuffs by your head. Spencer takes his glasses and folds them up for the nightstand, before curling into him. 

Cautious not to disturb Jude, you reach over to hold Spencer’s arm, locking Jude in, and giving Spencer some much needed reassurance. You don’t talk. Your thumb rubs into a ridge, a sore spot, and after a moment it’s sore in a new way. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t realise it was you,” he says. 

“Realise what?” 

“Jude missed you. It was you.” 

Your smile is gaussian. Happy and smudged. You pull Spencer closer to you, which in turn brings Jude right up on your chest. Spencer isn’t too cowardly to curve the arm you're holding right up over you in turn. His fingertips flirt with the dip in your spine, but stay. 

“You’re not saying all this fuss was about me being away.” 

“I’m wondering if it was.” 

You don’t respond. 

“You know how he gets when he can’t see me for the day,” Spencer says, afraid of waking Jude and of saying something too obviously adoring, “I should’ve guessed he missed you.” 

“He doesn’t love me like he loves you, Spencer. Jude loves you like you’re… it’s… I wish you could see him when he’s with you, it’s like you’re the same person…” You smile apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t know how to say it.”

Spencer doesn’t know how to answer. He stares at Jude’s neck. “I know how he loves me, ‘cos it’s how much I love him. I just think after seeing him tonight, it’s obvious what was going on with him.” 

“Don’t speak too soon, okay?” you say. “Let’s wait until tomorrow to decide he’s alright again.” 

Spencer draws a line down Jude’s nose. What a kid. Exhausting, beautiful Jude. 

“I missed you,” he says under his breath, not looking at you. “Don’t think I realised how much, either.” 

“I missed you, too,” you say. When you laugh, it’s like your voice has split and feathered into softness he can’t touch. “I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone like I missed you both. I kept thinking about Jude, when he used to do all that gibberish babble between real words and you’d ask him to repeat himself and he’d be too shy to do it. And his eyes, and his curls, I… I really love him. I’m so lucky that you let me.” 

I love you, Spencer thinks. From the day we met, and again when you called yourself my friend. Again, when you spent the first week of Jude’s homecoming sleeping on the couch and waking with every cry, soothing tears no matter who they came from, patient and tired, endlessly pretty. 

“I didn’t let you,” Spencer says. “You’re ferocious.” 

“Ha!” you whisper. “Ferocious. I like it.” 

“I like you,” he says. It’s all he’s brave enough to confess. 

“I’m a little sweet on you, Spencer Reid,” you say, turning your head up with a yawn. “I’m so tired.”

“Then sleep. We should sleep, I’m tired, too,” he says, sure he’d meant to say I love you, I want you to stay, I want to reach over and hold your neck and stay here for days. 

You whisper goodnight, your face tickled by a small head of hair.