✎ᝰ.•Johnnie Guilbert•Jake Webber•Carrington •Matt Sturniolo •Chris Sturniolo•Spencer Reid•Aaron Hotchner-I mainly create fluff and angsty content as I feel these are my stronger genres!
₊˚♬ ﾟ. mom jeans, lana del rey, clairo, ayesha erotica, lil peep, steve lacy, montell fish, alex g, gigi perez, arctic monkeys, cigarettes after sex, tyler the creator,kesha, pierce the veil, crystal castles, billie eillish, phoebe bridgers, radiohead, 3OH!3
summary: earlyseasons!spencer and nonbau!reader’s relationship is new.
wc: 400+
cw: established relationship, awkward spencer?, fluff fluff fluff
yours and spencer's relationship was fresh, he had asked you out three months ago at the local bookstore you visited together, after being hyped up by morgan and garcia, but it was safe to say spencer was completely and utterly in love with you.
Wise men say only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you
Spencer had just got back from a long case,your legs lay across his thighs as he holds his book in one hand, the other hand placed on your knee. elvis presley played on the vinyl in the background, while you shamelessly stared at your boyfriend.
he looks up catching your eyes on him, smiling he speaks, “what?” he closes his book placing it on the armrest. “nothing,” you smile shaking your head in reply. he hums moving your legs off his to lean closer and press a soft kiss on your lips.
Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with you?
you giggle tangling your fingers in his hair, kissing him back, his weight fall onto you. “missed you” he mumbles into your mouth. you press your hand against his chest pushing him back just slightly. “I missed you too spence”
he blushes his head dropping onto your shoulder, you tangle your fingers in his hair again brushing out the knots, he sighs peppering light kisses on your collarbone and neck.
Like a river flows, Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be
“baby?” Spencer whispers lifting his head up, his big hazel eyes staring up at you with so much adoration, you hum softly mirroring his stare. “what’s up spence?” you furrow your brows at his silence.
Take my hand, Take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you
“i..uhm” Spencer hesitates sitting up fully taking your hands into his. “I don’t know if it’s too soon or if you even feel the same way but I need to tell you. I can’t keep it a secret anymore.” he blurts out nervously.
he takes a deep breath, “I love you,” he quickly says and before you can reply he speaks again. “You don’t have to say it back right now, i just needed to say it.” he looks down at your hands shyly.
Like a river flows, Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes. Some things are meant to be
your soft voice breaks the silence, “spencer, look at me..” he listens diverting his gaze to look at you. “I love you too” his eyebrows raise. “more than you know” you add smiling at his reaction.
he leans in capturing your lips in a deep kiss making the both of you fall back onto the couch. You wrap your arms around him deepening the kiss.
Take my hand Take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you For I can't help falling in love with you
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a/n: thank you for reading I hope you liked it. this is very short so I do apologise. I feel like I’m doing a lot of angsty stuff so here’s some fluff. any advice is greatly appreciated. if you want to be on my taglist you can comment/message me.
summary: secretwife!reader is not so secret anymore
wc:1k
cw: kidnapping, r is tied up, r is minorly injured + in hospital, fem!reader, gun use, unaliving of unsub
No one on Spencer's team knew you existed. Definitely not the ring on your left hand displaying your three year marriage, keeping it a secret from nearly everyone, in order to keep you and your future family safe from the unknown nightmares of his job.
Safe. Until you weren't. The call came while Spencer was at work finishing some paperwork.
An unknown number.
Spencer's chest tightened with unease as it rang.
“Hello?” Heavy breathing followed through the speakers then a voice. Your voice. Weak. In pain. “Spence..” The call cut off. He tried calling again, no answer.
“Pretty boy?” Spencer hadn't noticed Morgan now standing in front of him. “Are you alright?”
No he wasn't. Not even close to alright.
“I got a call.” he answers. A now confused Derek stares back at him. “From who?” Reid sighs running his hands through his hair “I don't know, well I know who but not the number.” All of his team now look at him. “It was her.”
If it was even possible the room went quieter at his words. “My wife, y/n.” Everyone's expressions were now shocked “your what?” Emily blinks
“We've been married for three years. We decided it'd be safer to not tell anyone given this job.” Spencer says the words coming faster now. “But that was her,” his voice breaks. “There's something wrong.”
the shift in the room was immediate.
Hotch stands. "start from the beginning."
Spencer sighs pushing his hair out of his face. "unknown number. she sounded tired... uh, disoriented. that was it."
Garcia is moving before anything else could be said. "send me the number boy genius, ill work my magic."
"talk to me reid. your wife what's her routines, has she mentioned anything out of the ordinary?" Morgan steps closer.
Spencer hesitates. "she works at a clinic. works monday through friday. leaves at around seven and," his voice falters "she comes home just after five."
Hotch orders Garcia to check and cameras surrounding her daily routine. Spencer zones out picking at his fingers the sounds of the room distorting. Morgan's hand lands hard on his shoulder pulling him out of his trance.
"this is my fault." spencer whispers his voice betraying him. Morgan shakes his head, "we'll find her."
Spencer nods even though it feels as if his world is crumbling down. But he chooses to stay strong because somewhere out there, you're hurt, alone and scared.
"Reid." Garcia's voice cuts through the room. "ive got something, traffic cam, two blocks from your home, you can see her getting into a car."
Spencer stills, his heart echoing painfully.
"voluntarily?" Hotch asks
Garcia frowns "no. she's being forced."
----------------
They've been here for hours.
Spencer felt like he hadn't breathed.
After hours of checking different locations Garcia got a hit on the vehicle you were last seen in.
"A blue sedan was seen on the edge of a road near mount pleasant."
"how long ago?" Spencer stood up.
"twenty minutes ago. traffic cam caught it turning off onto a service road. nothing but old industrial ground and a few abandoned outhouses." Garcia says without hesitation.
"send me the coordinates." Hotch orders "we move now."
Spencer didn't wait, chair scraping against the floor.
"Reid." Morgan speaks.
"i'm coming." He calls back. his mind set on nothing else other than finding you.
The drive felt endless.
Spencer had to believe that you were okay.
--------
The building was run down, vines engulfing the walls hiding the years on neglect beneath it. The wood creaked as the wind blew against the structure. the team surrounded the building breaking the barrier between the light and the darkness within. Morgan stepped first clearing the main entrance. The place was silent, too silent.
"you're gonna want to see this." Rossi breaks the silence staring down at the floor. The group turned instantly. spencer stomach dropped, the air in his lungs leaving.
Hotch lifts his gun up nodding at Rossi to open the hatch. The rest of the team followed aiming their guns at the wooden door. The door creaked echoing through the house.
For a second there was silence. then a sharp cry. spencer's body tensed.
"please.. stop" you plead weakly.
"Go on." Hotch orders watching as Derek already moves. Spencer doesn't wait his feet moving before he can even think.
The room was big but empty. nothing but a chair that held you, tied up tears mixed with blood streaming down your face. The man in front you was holding a knife to your cheek pressing down. You squeal in pain, your body trying to move away from the guy.
"FBI. don't move." Aaron shouts. The unsub turns around rapidly lunging forward.
A shot rung out and silence followed after as the unsub falls to the ground in front of you.
Spencer didn't wait a second before moving to your side pulling out his pocket knife to cut the rope.
"hey, you're okay, you're safe." his voice broke out as he gently rubs your wrists. you wrap yours arms around his waist weakly, your body collapsing onto him.
------
You wake up a few hours later in hospital bed, the bright led lights stinging your eyes and sending a sharp pain through your head. you look around the room seeing spencer sat, his head down on the bed, hand tightly grasping on top of yours.
"spence.." you say weakly your voice hoarse. his heads shoots up his eyes soften when he sees you awake.
"your awake." he breathes relief overcoming him.
you smile weakly tilting your head to look at him. He stands, his hand gently cups your face rubbing his thumb against your cheek.
You try sitting up wincing slightly at the pain in your side. Spencer’s hands move quickly to your shoulders.
“hey, stay still” you look at him with pleading eyes,
“I want to go home” you say leaning into his touch. Your husband nods “I know sweetheart, you will soon.”
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a/n: thank you so much for reading I hope you enjoyed. The end is a bit rushed I’m sorry! any advice is greatly appreciated. if you want to be on my taglist you can comment/message me.
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, grief, family trauma, abuse, emotional distress, nostalgia and bittersweet moments, vulnerability, centered a lot around Hotch's trauma regarding his dad.
Summary: Hotch brings you to his home town of manasses virginia for the first time. His mother just died, sean is in prison and he has to get her house in order to get it sold. The whole ordeal rips up old memories for him some good, some bad.
A/N: I feel bad for being so MIA lately, so I've been hustling, working on this all day instead of the school stuff I actually had to look into. Oops 😬
The front door clicked shut with a sound so soft it should have been silent in the normally noisy apartment, but tonight it landed like a gavel in the quiet. You’d been curled on the couch for the better part of an hour, a novel in your lap that you never really got past the first page of, and the same paragraph kept blurring every time you tried to read it. The lamp on the side table beside you cast a warm circle of light around you, but the rest of the living room felt shadowed, as if it were waiting for Hotch to return.
Hotch barely stepped into that light. In the shadows, he looked like a man carrying an invisible weight that had finally become too heavy, and crushed the last bit of composure he had left in him. His suit was still immaculate, crisp, no wrinkle in sight, but the tie hung loose around his neck, the knot barely holding it together. His shoulders curved inward just enough for you to notice how defeated he looked. Dark hair slightly disheveled where he’d run a hand through it too many times on the drive back home from the lawyer’s office. And his eyes… God, his eyes. They were red-rimmed, not from tears, he wouldn’t allow that in public, but from the effort of holding them back for hours. Grief and something sharper, something like anger, simmered beneath the surface, locked down so tightly it made your chest ache with sympathy from the things he and his brother had had to endure the past week.
You placed the book aside on the table and stood slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Aaron?”
He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, he shrugged out of his suit jacket with mechanical movements, hanging it on the rack by the door as if the small act of order could somehow impose control on the chaos raging inside him.
His jaw flexed once, twice even. The muscles jumped under the low light.
You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking slightly at the shifting weight. When you reached him, you stopped just inches away, close enough to smell the faint trace of courthouse coffee and the cologne he’d worn that morning... the one you’d bought him for Christmas. You were close enough to see the faint tremor in his fingers as he loosened the tie completely and let it slide free.
“How did it go?” you asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.
He exhaled through his nose, a long, controlled breath that did nothing to ease the tension radiating from him. For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then, voice low and rough like gravel under tires, he spoke. “Everything was left to me to divide between us.” A bitter edge crept in, barely there but unmistakable as he spoke. “Sean was granted permission to attend the reading... judge’s courtesy, I suppose,” the last part came out as a mumble. “Sat there in his prison jumpsuit looking like he still couldn’t believe any of it was real. But the estate, the decisions… all of it falls on me.”
You watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. The frustration was there, the kind that never raised its voice but could level everything around it. And beneath it, deeper and much rawer, was the grief. Fresh and unprocessed. His mother’s death had come so suddenly, no one knew she had been sick. A quiet heart attack caused by her medication had taken her. Taken her in the house he’d grown up in, she’d been found by her nurse two hours too late, and now this: being handed the keys to a life he’d spent decades trying to outrun.
Everything was crumbling down around him.
“I’m so sorry,” you murmured. Your hand lifted instinctively, hovering near his arm before settling lightly on his forearm. The muscle beneath your palm jerked slightly; you could feel his nerves reacting to your touch, to the pain and grief, to the stress of having to figure out what to keep and what to toss. “That’s… that’s an impossible burden to put on you right now.”
He gave the smallest shake of his head, eyes fixed on some point just past your shoulder. “It’s what she wanted. Or at least what her lawyer interpreted. No clear instructions. Just… me, deciding what Sean gets. After everything.” His voice cracked on the last word, so faint you almost missed it. He cleared his throat, forcing it back down. “I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”
You could see it, the walls slamming back into place. They were thicker than ever, reinforced by years of training himself to compartmentalize his childhood, to lead, to never break in front of anyone. Not even you, not fully. Not yet. Pushing would only make him retreat further into that stoic silence he wore like armor.
Instead, you stepped closer, sliding your arms around his waist and pressed your cheek to his chest. His heart thudded hard against your ear, too fast for the calm exterior he was projecting. For a long moment, he stood in place, rigid, as if further touch might shatter the rest of him. You wish it would. He needed to fall, to break down, to grieve, to let everything out.
Then, slowly, his arms came around you. One hand settled between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel you there, feel that you were real and alive. The other rested at the small of your back, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.
You didn’t speak. You just held him, breathing in sync with the rise and fall of his chest, letting the silence stretch until it felt almost too sacred to break. His chin came to rest on the crown of your head, and you felt the faintest brush of his lips against your hair.
Grief rolled off him in waves, tangled with the old resentments toward his father, toward Sean, toward the boy he’d once been in that house in Manassas. You felt every ounce of it in the way he clung to you, in the subtle hitch of his breath, in the way his fingers flexed against your back like you were the only thing anchoring him to the present right at this moment.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. His eyes met yours, and you saw the depth of it all laid bare for a fleeting second before he blinked it away.
“I need some time,” he said quietly. Not a rejection. Just a fact. Stated so clinically that you couldn’t help but worry about his state of mind.
You nodded, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I’m here when you’re ready. Or when you’re not. Either way.”
He managed the ghost of a nod before retreating to the bedroom, the weight of the day still clinging to him like a second skin.
Hours later, the bedroom was wrapped in darkness, broken only by the thin silver blade of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains. The apartment was quiet. Jack was with Jessica for the weekend, his father not needing to see how broken he had become. You lie on your side facing him, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting lightly on the mattress between you. Sleep had been teasing you for a while, but you stayed half-awake, attuned to every shift of his body beside you.
Hotch was on his back, one arm slung over his eyes, the other hand resting on his stomach. His breathing was too even, too controlled, too... normal. He wasn’t asleep. You could feel the tension still humming through him.
The silence stretched. Then, ever so softly that you almost thought you’d imagined it, his voice broke through. “Come with me to Manassas.”
Your eyes opened fully. He hadn’t moved, but his hand found yours beneath the covers, fingers threading through yours with a grip that was almost desperate, compensating for the lack of emotion in his voice.
“I have to go through the house,” he continued. “Clean it out. Get it ready to sell. There’s… so much in there. Furniture she never replaced. Boxes in the attic I haven’t touched since I was twenty. Photos. Letters. Things that remind me of who I was before I was sent to boarding school.” Hotch paused. His thumb stroked over your knuckles, like the motion itself was enough to steady him. “I’m not sure I can do it alone. Not without...” He trailed off, never finishing his sentence.
The raw honesty in his tone hit you like a physical blow. Hotch rarely asked for help. He didn’t admit weakness. But in the safety of your bed, the grief had cracked him open just enough to allow him to finally ask. His parents’ house, the one that had held every sharp word, every slammed door, every lesson in what love wasn’t supposed to look like, was waiting for him roughly an hour away. And the thought of walking back into it, of sorting through the remnants of her life, of his life, while Hotch’s own still felt fractured from everything that had happened since he moved out, was more than he could shoulder without you.
You squeezed his hand, shifting closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. “Of course I’ll go with you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be right there, every step of the way.”
He turned his head then, dark eyes finding yours in the moonlight. They were glassy, the grief no longer fully contained. A single tear slipped free before he could stop it, trailing down the side of his face and disappearing into the pillow. He didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he pulled you closer, rolling slightly so you were tucked against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.
“Thank you,” he breathed against your hair, the words cracking open with everything he couldn’t say. The love, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion of having to be the strong one for so long. His hand stroked down your back in slow, soothing passes, but you could feel the tremor in it. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”
You pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
Tomorrow, the drive to Manassas would begin. Tomorrow, the house would open its doors and let the ghosts out, whether he wanted them to or not.
The drive from Quantico to Manassas had been quiet. Hotch had kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing yours where it rested on the console between you. You tried to fill the silence with soft conversation about Jack’s latest school fair you’d attended while Hotch was away on a case, the book you were reading, anything to keep the tension from swallowing him whole. But as the familiar Virginia roads narrowed and the suburbs gave way to the older, tree-lined streets of his hometown, the words between you, mainly yours, faded. Now, only the low hum of the engine and the crunch of tires on pavement remained.
The car rolled to a slow stop at the curb in front of the two-story red house. The paint, once a vibrant brick red that probably stood out proudly in the neighborhood many years ago, was faded and peeling in long strips, revealing the weathered gray wood underneath. The white trim around the windows and porch was chipped and dingy, years of neglect showing in every cracked shutter and sagging gutter. Overgrown grass and weeds choked the front yard, reaching up to the knees in some places, dotted with dandelions and patches of clover. The concrete pathway leading to the front steps was stained with moss and dirt, cracked in several spots where roots had pushed through from below.
Hotch killed the engine.
The sudden silence felt deafening.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and glanced over at him. He sat perfectly still in the driver’s seat, hands still gripping the wheel even though the car was off. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle ticking, eyes fixed straight ahead on the road, almost as if he was considering turning the car back on and speeding off. His breathing was measured, deliberate, the same way it got right before he entered a hostage negotiation. But this was different. This was way more personal than he would like for it to be.
You didn’t rush him. Instead, you opened your door first, stepping out into the mild air. It smelled like cut grass from a neighbor’s lawn and distant rain, with an undercurrent of damp earth from the overgrown yard. The big oak tree in the front yard was massive and ancient-looking, its branches stretching wide over the property. From one thick limb hung the remnants of a wooden swing, the ropes frayed and green with moss, the seat itself darkened and warped, probably rotten thoroughly through after years of exposure to nature. You could almost picture a young Aaron there, legs pumping, laughing, or maybe just escaping whatever waited inside the red house.
The image made your heart twist.
You walked around the front of the SUV to his side and gently opened the driver’s door. “Aaron?”
He didn’t move at first. His gaze remained locked on the house, eyes tracing the familiar lines of the porch, the second-floor window that must have been his childhood bedroom based on how long his eyes lingered there, the overgrown flower beds his mother probably had tended with meticulous care once upon a time.
Then, slowly, he released the wheel. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, a rare tell of the storm building inside him. He turned his head toward you, and for a moment his eyes were wide and unguarded, filled with a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. Grief, anger, nostalgia, maybe all of it all at once, and a deep, aching reluctance.
The house wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was every night he’d lain awake wondering why love in this family felt like walking on broken glass when it came to his father. How his mother had been to scared to stand up to him when he got really bad, how Sean was the golden child, and he was the lost cause. And now, with her gone, those memories were about to flood back the second he stepped inside and started sorting through her things, her clothes, her letters, the photos that would force him to confront the boy he used to be.
“I’m okay,” he said, but the words came out hoarse and unconvincing. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just… need a minute.”
You nodded, reaching in to rest a hand on his shoulder.
He gave a small nod and finally swung his legs out of the car and stood. He closed the door with a soft thud and stood beside you on the cracked sidewalk, staring up at the red house again. His hand found yours almost instinctively, fingers lacing tight.
The wind rustled through the oak’s leaves, making the rotten swing creak faintly on its frayed ropes. A bird called from somewhere down the street. Otherwise, the neighborhood was quiet, as if it too was holding its breath for Aaron Hotchner to face his past.
“It’s just a house,” you whispered, trying to ease the tension, even though you both knew it was so much more. “And you’re not the boy who grew up here anymore. You’re the man who built something better.”
Hotch swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. His free hand came up to loosen the collar of his shirt. He took one step forward, then another, leading you both up the dirty pathway toward the front porch. His grip on your hand never loosened. With every step, you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. The overgrown yard brushed against your legs, the scent of wildflowers and decay mixing in the air. The porch steps creaked under his weight as he climbed them, pausing at the top to pull the key from his pocket.
He inserted the key into the lock but didn’t turn it yet. Instead, he stood there, forehead nearly touching the faded door, eyes closed.
“I haven’t been inside since Haley died,” he admitted quietly, voice thick with emotion. “Mom always came to me because she knew how much I had on my plate. It’s going to be… a lot. The smell of her perfume. Her coat on the hook. The kitchen table where we used to...” He cut himself off, jaw clenching again. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can,” you said softly. “And even if you can’t, I’ll be here.”
He turned his head to look at you. The love and gratitude in that gaze hit you hard. Hotch leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.
Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he turned the key.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
And the memories rushed out to meet him as the front door creaked open on hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years, releasing a stale wave of air that smelled of old wood, faded lavender sachets, and something faintly like death.
You stepped inside behind Hotch, the floorboards groaning under your combined weight like they remembered every footfall that had ever crossed them.
The living room was dim, heavy curtains drawn halfway across the windows, filtering the afternoon light into dusty shafts that cut across the worn Persian carpet. Everything looked frozen in time: a faded floral sofa with sagging cushions, a side table still holding a half-empty glass of water that had long since evaporated, leaving a ghostly ring of lime on the inside of it.
Picture frames lined the mantel, some with photos of a much younger Hotch in a cap and gown, others of Sean as a gap-toothed kid, a few family portraits where everyone’s smiles looked strained, like they’d been ordered to pose.
Hotch moved forward slowly, shoulders rigid, each step deliberate as if the house might swallow him if he wasn’t careful. You stayed near the entrance, leaning against the doorframe, giving him the space you could sense he needed. This was his childhood. His ghosts. You could see the way his eyes swept the room, cataloging, remembering, bracing himself for what he might be reminded of.
His breathing had grown shallower. He disappeared down the short hallway toward the kitchen and the stairs, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly, then fading.
You didn’t follow. Instead, you remained in the front room, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, listening to the creaks and sighs of the old house settling around you. The air felt thick.
You could almost picture it: a young Hotch doing homework at the coffee table, his father’s voice booming from the next room, his mother’s quiet sighs. It made your heart ache for the man he’d become, the one who carried so much without ever complaining because anything and everything was better than the way his father had treated him.
Minutes ticked by. You heard him moving upstairs briefly, then back down. When he finally reappeared in the doorway of the living room, his face was pale, jaw set in that familiar line that meant he was holding everything together by sheer force of will.
His eyes were distant, unfocused, like he was looking through the walls rather than at them.
He stopped just inside the room, gaze landing on the old leather armchair tucked in the corner by the window. It was a monstrous thing, cracked, faded brown leather that had split in several places, stuffing peeking. The arms were worn shiny from years of use, the seat permanently indented. It looked like it had survived decades of abuse and somehow endured.
Hotch stared at it for a long moment. Then, completely unprompted, his voice came out low and dull, almost monotone, like he was reciting facts from a case file rather than dredging up pieces of his own life.
“That was my father’s chair.”
The words hung in the air. He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the armchair, as if it might bite if he glanced away.
“He sat in it every night after dinner. Read the paper. Watched the news. Never let anyone else near it.” A pause. “I don’t think Mom ever sat in it. Not even after he died. She just… left it there. Like some kind of shrine to him.”
You watched him carefully, heart twisting at the undercurrent of old pain in his tone. You knew the stories, or at least the fragments he’d shared over late nights and quiet mornings when the memories dug their way out.
The relationship with his father had been anything but warm. Expectations that cut deeper than any of the bruises the man had ever given his son. Seeing that chair now, still occupying its throne in the corner, clearly stirred something unresolved in him that he likely wouldn’t resolve ever if you knew him right.
Hotch’s shoulders had tensed further, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to clench them into fists but wouldn’t allow himself the release.
He crossed the room in a couple of slow strides and stopped in front of the chair. Without hesitation, he reached down and slid his hand deep into the crevice between the cushion and the armrest, fingers probing into the dusty, grimy darkness.
You winced visibly, nose wrinkling at the thought of what might be living in there after all these years... crumbs, lint, God knows what else accumulated over decades. “Aaron…” you started softly, a gentle prompt laced with mild disgust, but he didn’t seem to hear you.
He rattled his hand around, the sound of coins clinking together breaking the heavy silence. When he pulled his hand back, his palm was cupped with a small pile of quarters, dimes, and nickels, some tarnished, some surprisingly bright.
He stared down at the coins. “Dad never emptied his pockets. Ever. Mom would yell at him every time the washer would rattle and bang like it was about to explode because he’d left a handful of change in his work pants again.” A faint, humorless twitch spread at the corner of his mouth. “She’d fish them out afterward, stack them on the counter, and tell him he was going to break the machine one day. He’d just grunt and go back to his chair.”
He let the coins spill slowly from his hand onto the side table beside the armchair, the metallic clatter loud in the quiet room. They scattered across the dusty surface, some rolling off and onto the carpet. Hotch didn’t move to pick them up. He just stood there, staring at the empty chair, lost in memories that clearly weren’t kind ones. His expression remained closed off, eyes shadowed, the grief and old resentment mixing together.
You took a small step closer but stopped yourself, sensing he wasn’t finished. The house seemed to hold its breath around you both, waiting for whatever else was about to surface.
The afternoon light had shifted, slanting through the half-drawn curtains and casting long golden rectangles across the living room floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, stirred up by the constant movement of boxes being dragged down the narrow attic stairs. Hotch had been at it for nearly two hours, climbing up and down with quiet determination to get everything emptied out of there by tonight. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and a fine layer of attic grime already smudging his forearms and the knees of his jeans. Each trip brought another cardboard box, some labeled in his mother’s neat handwriting, others unmarked and bulging at the seams. The living room was slowly transforming into a maze of cardboard and memory.
You had claimed a small clearing on the faded carpet, sitting cross-legged with your back against the old floral sofa. A worn shoebox balanced on your lap, its lid long discarded. Inside were dozens of loose photographs, some in color, some faded black-and-white, edges curled from years of neglect.
You were completely absorbed, fingers gently sorting through the pile, a soft, wistful smile tugging at your lips as you lingered on each image. The house had grown quieter around you, the earlier weight of Hotch’s silence giving way to the rustle of paper and the occasional creak of floorboards.
You didn’t hear him approach this time. His footsteps were softer now, tired from the physical labor and the emotional toll. He stopped a few feet away, a fresh box balanced on his hip, and watched you for a moment, head tilted, eyes softening at the sight of you so intently focused on his past.
“What are you doing?” His voice was low, rough from disuse for the past couple of hours, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath the exhaustion.
You startled, shoulders jumping slightly as the shoebox nearly tipped in your lap. A small laugh escaped you, embarrassed. “God, you scared me.” You glanced up at him, cheeks warming. “I was just… looking. Sorry, I got lost in these.”
He set the box down with a dull thud and wiped his hands on his jeans before lowering himself to the floor beside you, his long legs stretching out as he leaned back against the sofa. His shoulder brushed against yours.
You lifted the photograph you’d been studying and held it out to him. “Look at this one. This little boy looks so much like Jack it’s uncanny. Is it you or Sean?”
Aaron took the photo between his fingers, his expression shifting as he studied it. The corners of his mouth twitched, just the barest hint of a smile breaking through the guarded lines of his face.
The image showed a small boy on all fours on a cracked concrete path, grass stains on his knees, a determined scowl on his face as he looked at something just out of frame. Dark hair falling into his eyes, the same serious brow even then.
“That’s me,” he said quietly, voice thick with something unnameable. “About six. I think we were at the park near here. I was trying to catch a frog or… something. Mom always said I was too stubborn for my own good, even back then.”
You leaned in closer, your shoulder pressing more firmly against his as you both looked at the picture. The resemblance to Jack was striking, the shape of the eyes, the set of the jaw, that same intense focus even in play. It made your heart squeeze.
Hotch set the photo aside gently and reached into the box, pulling out another. This one was a family shot: Hotch, older than the last picture, maybe fifteen, standing between his parents at what looked like a backyard barbecue. His father’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, his mother smiling stiffly in a sundress. Hotch’s own smile was cautious.
“Fourth of July,” he murmured, distant but present. “Dad had just bought that ridiculous grill. Burned half the burgers, but Mom made it work. Sean was still a baby then, probably napping inside.” He paused, thumb brushing over the edge of the photo. “It was one of the better days. No yelling. Just… normal.”
You nodded, sorting through a few more. One caught your eye: Hotch as a teenager, lanky and serious, pimples scattered across his face, sitting on the front porch steps with a law book in his lap, the big oak tree and its swing visible in the background. The wooden swing looked new then, ropes bright and sturdy.
“Happy memory?” you asked softly, holding it up.
A faint, rueful chuckle escaped him. “Sort of. I’d sit out there for hours to escape whatever was going on inside. Reading, thinking, pretending the world outside this house was simpler.” His voice dipped lower, the dull edge from earlier creeping back in. “Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.”
The stack revealed more layers. A school picture of Hotch in a too-big blazer, hair neatly combed, looking every bit the overachiever even at twelve. Another of him and Sean, building a snowman in the front yard, both of them laughing with red cheeks and mittens. Sean clearly having more fun than Hotch. You pointed to that one, smiling. “You two look like you were having fun.”
“We were,” Hotch admitted, leaning his head back against the sofa. His arm draped casually behind you now, fingers absently tracing patterns on your shoulder. “Sean was always the one who could make me laugh when things got heavy. Before… everything changed, and I was sent away.”
There were harder ones too. A Christmas photo where the tree lights were bright but the tension in the room was almost visible, his father’s face stern, his mother’s eyes tired, young Aaron holding a gift as if it were fragile. You didn’t want to ask him about it, but you noticed the slightly pinkish handprint on his mother’s cheek. Aaron’s gaze lingered on that one longer, his jaw tightening. You knew he knew.
“Dad hated the holidays,” he said flatly, the words coming out removed, as if recounting someone else’s life. “Too much noise, too much mess. He’d drink more than usual. Mom would try to keep everything perfect, and I’d just… try to keep quiet.” He exhaled slowly. “This one was the year he smashed the ornaments because the neighbour kids were too loud. Mom cried in the kitchen afterward. I tried my best to clean it up, but ended up cutting my hand open.”
Your hand found his free one, squeezing gently. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned another photo toward you, a simple, everyday shot: his mother in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, Hotch as a teen setting the table in the background. No big smiles, no posed joy. Just life.
“Regular days,” he murmured. “Most of them were like this. Not terrible. Not great. Just… days. Mom trying to hold it together. Me learning how to disappear into responsibilities so I didn’t have to feel too much. Sean took this one.”
You rested your head against his shoulder, the shoebox still open between you. The pile of photos had grown into two small stacks, one for keeping, one for deciding later. Hotch’s breathing had evened out slightly. His thumb continued its slow stroke on your shoulder, grounding him as much as you.
The last of the daylight had softened into a warm amber glow by the time you both stepped out onto the back porch. The attic boxes still sat half-sorted in the living room. For now, you had called a gentle truce with the house, needing to get away from the ticking time-bomb of emotions that would eventually explode once Hotch started digging deeper into his childhood.
The air outside was cooler, carrying the faint scent of blooming honeysuckle from the overgrown fence line and the earthy dampness of the neglected garden beds. Crickets had begun their song.
Hotch lowered himself onto the old wooden porch. He held out a hand to you, and you took it without hesitation, letting him guide you into his lap. You curled up against his chest, knees drawn toward your body, one arm slipping around his waist while the other rested over his heart. His arms came around you immediately, one hand splaying across your back and the other settling at your hip, holding you close.
The sun hung low, painting the sky in streaks of rose, gold, and deepening lavender. It dipped slowly behind the line of trees at the back of the property, casting shadows across the yard. The shadow from the big oak out front was visible from here.
Neither of you spoke for a long time. The silence was serene. Hotch’s chin came to rest gently on top of your head, his breath warm and steady against your hair. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the faint beat of his heart. His fingers traced lazy, absent patterns on your hip.
The tension that had gripped him all day had eased, if only a little.
After several minutes, his voice rumbled softly against your scalp, barely disturbing the tranquility of the moment.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being here today.” His arms tightened fractionally around you. “I know we’re nowhere near done. There’s still the rest of the attic, the bedrooms, her clothes, all the things I haven’t even faced yet. But having you here made it… bearable. More than bearable.”
You felt the words settle warmly in your chest. You nuzzled closer into the crook of his neck, pressing your face against the warm skin just above his collar, breathing him in. Your fingers curled gently into his shirt, holding on as the last sliver of sun slipped below the treeline, leaving the sky awash in soft purples and lingering golds.
“Always,” you whispered back, the single word so simple and heartfelt, carrying the weight of every promise you’d ever made to him. “No matter how many boxes, how many memories, how many hard days… I’m always going to be right here with you, Aaron. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”
He didn’t reply with more words. Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. His hold on you deepened, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as he tucked you more securely against him.
The two of you stayed like that as twilight settled fully over the yard. The red house behind you was still full of ghosts and unfinished work. Hotch’s breathing grew slower, more even, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him in the safest way possible: with you safe in his arms, the sunset fading into night, and the quiet assurance that tomorrow, however difficult it might be, wouldn’t have to be faced without you by his side.
summary: spencer gets let out of prison and comes home.
wc: 600+
It had been three months since you watched your husband be put in handcuffs and taken out of the court room. three months since everything became quiet.
At first you visited him, each time his appearance becoming scruffier, more worn down, his face painted with exhaustion, a sight that broke your heart even more every time. After a while you were taken off the visitors list, finding out he had been injured through Penelope and that he didn't want you to see him in that state.
It had now been close to two months since you'd seen or spoke to spencer, you lay on the couch of your apartment shared with him rain pattering against the window. no matter how loud the tv was or the music, the deafening silence was louder, reminding you of the emptiness of your home. You stare at the tv an old film playing, you weren't really watching it more staring, the memories of you and spencer sitting on the couch together eating overpriced pizza and talking about nonsense flashed in your mind. tears well up in your eyes at the thought of knowing he was alone, hurt and locked up.
a voice brings you out of your daze, so quiet you barely heard it at first you thought it was your head playing tricks on you until you heard it again, your name. soft, weak and a voice you very much recognized.
You jolt up looking behind the couch seeing the familiar face you adored so much except drained, you gasp frozen on the spot your eyes run down his body before landing back on his face, his shoulders slightly slumped, eyes dark and tired.
"hi." he says quietly his eyes soften behind the obvious exhaustion.
"spencer oh my gosh." you breathe out rushing over to stand in front of him wrapping your arms around him.
he sighs in relief his arms coming up to wrap around you, "you're here." you mumble in his shoulder. he hums closing his eyes breathing you in like you were his lifeline.
"I'm sorry. I took you off the list." he mutters his arms tightening around you, you shake you head pulling it back to see his face.
"its okay." you say gently offering him comfort. "your hear now that's all that matters" you smile your hands brushing the tear that had fallen down his cheek. "I missed you so much, the thought of coming back to you kept me alive in there." spencer confesses leaning into your touch another tear falling.
"i missed you too spence.." you reply walking him over to your bedroom, his nightstand untouched from the last time he was there, his book still on the table, the bookmark you'd gotten him on the last read page.
for a second neither of you move like if you do he may disappear again.
you look into his eyes, concern filling yours, he notices almost immediately. "I'm okay." he says quickly. too quickly. his hands fidget at his sides, a nervous trait he's always had.
you reach for his arm grazing it slightly before he pulls back, flinching slightly, your brows furrow, a worried expression falling over your face. "what happened to you?" you whisper your voice wavering.
spencer breaks. "I tried-" he stops. both of his hands running down his face.
"I tried to keep to myself." he breathes shakily. "they just-" his voice breaks. he blinks hard not finishing his sentence.
after a moment of silence he speaks again. "I didn't eat." he sighs.
"not because I didn't want too, because it wasn't safe to be there." he admits, his voice barely a whisper.
you listen, your hand taking his rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand. he looks up at you "i'm.. sorry. I just thought I could handle it."
he sits down and you follow sitting beside him pulling him into you, his hand grasp at your shirt as he sobs.
your nails run down his back, "ive got you, you're safe here."
This time he doesn't hide. he doesn't need to with you.
a/n: thank you for reading! I'm kinda proud of this so I hope you enjoyed. any advice is greatly appreciated. if you want to be on my taglist you can comment/message me.
SHELTER FROM THE STORM ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: in the cold aftermath of a fight left unresolved, you & spencer get stranded as a storm rolls in. with the roads underwater and only one vacant room at the motel, you’re left with nowhere else to run but straight into him.
genre: angst, hurt/comfort, smut tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI. reader is elle's sister, big argument, panic/anxiety, forced proximity, one bed trope, long conversation with lots of genuine apologies, reader admitting to Big Feelings, making out, and…drumroll please…SMUT! dry humping, brief nipple play, fingering, oral (f receiving), protected p in v, lil sprinkle of size kink (he’s got a big dick and reader likes that. sorry not sorry), spencer reid is Not A Virgin. pet names (sweetheart, angel girl, good girl), convo mid-sex scene about intimacy issues, no use of y/n.
a/n: request | the long awaited one-bed fic is finally here! this is a 10.7k word monster (longest fic I’ve ever written), my apologies lol — I’ve been working on it little by little since I first started greenaway!reader and had a lotttt I wanted to cover. I hope it lives up to all of your expectations 🥲 ily xo | GIF by @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
Rain pins the world to the windshield in sheets, wipers ticking like a metronome set a hair too fast. Two-lane blacktop. No shoulder. Pines crowd the edges and spit their needles into the air like confetti for a parade no one asked for.
You keep your hands at ten and two because it feels like control, like you can muscle the weather into behaving if you hold onto the wheel hard enough. Like you can fix more than just the weather.
Spencer’s sitting shotgun with a paper map because the GPS keeps losing its mind — “Recalculating. No satellite signal. Recalculating.” His knee isn’t bouncing in that annoying way it usually does. He’s gone eerily still. You hate that so much more than the bouncing.
“Next turn is in approximately two-point-three miles,” he says evenly.
“Got it,” you reply.
Silence hums along to the rain. Somewhere, miles back, is the easy, bright version of the two of you — the version that traded coffee sleeves and private jokes and secret kisses in parking lots. You can feel its ghost in the car, sitting in the backseat, arms crossed, refusing to look either of you in the eye.
A deer jumps out of the treeline and freezes in your lane. You brake — hard — and the car skids to a stop. The deer stares, flinches, bolts. Your heart lodges in your throat and hangs there, choking you.
In the middle of the panic, Spencer’s left hand slapped to the dash. Not to your knee to steady you. Not across your chest to hold you back. Not to you at all.
The sound of his palm hitting plastic lands louder than the storm.
“Sorry,” you say, because apologizing for a deer feels easier than touching anything else going on between you. Your voice comes out flatter than you meant it to.
“It’s not your fault,” he answers.
He means the deer. At least you think he does.
You swallow. Your throat tastes stale, like the bad coffee you didn’t finish because the mug smelled like old pennies. You ease your foot off the brake and the car crawls forward again.
—
(48 hours earlier)
You burned out of the precinct on a hunch and didn’t come back for four hours. Your phone went from one bar to no bars and stayed there. You told yourself you’d only be gone twenty minutes. You told yourself if you left a note on the whiteboard or gave the team a heads up, someone would try to talk you out of it, and then you’d have to stand there and defend yourself, and that would slow you down. You told yourself confidential informants bolt the second they smell an entourage. You told yourself, Move. Think later. That trick usually saves you. Sometimes it slices you open.
But you were right. The CI did show. He talked. He gave you something usable.
So you came back with grit on your boots and adrenaline in your chest, already halfway through composing the I told you so in your head.
Spencer was waiting where the asphalt met the chain-link, his lanky silhouette tensed, phone white-knuckle clenched in his hand.
“Where were you?” he asked, stepping out in front of you to block the path from the parking lot to the sheriff’s office.
Not how did it go? Not are you okay? Not even hi.
“Following a lead,” you said.
“The lead Hotch specifically told you was too dangerous to follow alone?” His voice was low and controlled in a way that made the air around you feel thin. “The lead you were supposed to bring me in on tomorrow, with a tactical team in place, in case things went sideways?”
You rolled your shoulders back, irritated at the tone. At the implication. At him, of all people, acting like you couldn’t be trusted with your own job. “I got something we needed,” you said. “The CI might’ve just given us a major break in this case. We don’t get that if I show up with a battalion.”
“I am not a battalion,” Spencer replied, and it came out cracked. You heard the edge of panic under the anger. Then, quieter: “You don’t always have to do everything alone.”
The sentence hit you low, right in the part of your spine that convinced itself long ago that asking for help means showing weakness.
“I can handle myself,” you said. “And I never asked you to worry about me.”
“Yeah, well, I did it anyway,” he snapped, and the snap was so un-Spencer-like that it stunned you into stillness. He let out one small, humorless breath of a laugh and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “I called you seven times. Seven. Hotch was five minutes from sending Morgan and two sheriff’s units to sweep the city looking for you. Do you—do you understand what it felt like to look up and you were just—” His jaw worked. He swallowed hard. “Gone?”
The word hung there between you — gone.
It wasn’t theatrical, or manipulative. It was just naked.
And then he added: “In the middle of a case like this.”
You knew exactly what this meant. This meant six women in four weeks. All in their twenties and thirties, roughly your height, your build, your coloring, all physically capable of fighting back but knocked unconscious before they had the chance. All abducted and killed and horrifically mutilated in the same neighborhood as that warehouse you’d gone to.
“I thought you were hurt,” he went on, steamrolling through his own panic now that it had found a crack. “Or—or worse. We got a call about a body in an alley, in the unsub’s comfort zone, but it was too mutilated for a visual ID, and—”
“You assumed I was dead,” you said for him. “Breaking news: I’m not.”
“That isn’t the point,” he said instantly.
“The point is I did my job and it paid off.” You shifted like you were going to step around him.“If you can’t handle—”
“What I can’t handle is not knowing where you are when we’re hunting a guy who kills women who look exactly like you,” he cut in. “He’s smart, and he’s dangerous, and we don’t have him yet. And I—You’re—” He caught himself on the edge of saying something too raw and too obvious and too big. “You’re too important to me to lose,” he said instead.
It was too intimate. Way, way too intimate. Way more than you could hold in the open air like this. So you did what you always do with things that threaten to rearrange you: you knocked it out of his hands before it could stick.
“I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Spencer.”
You heard the words leave your mouth and couldn’t pull them back. You felt them hit him.
He froze. You watched it happen in real time — the way his face went from heartbreak to self-defense to anger, all in one brutal flicker.
“That’s not—” His voice cracked. He swallowed it down and tried again. “Christ,” he said, finishing the sentence with your name like an angry punctuation mark. “We’re—” He cut himself off and pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes. When he looked at you again, his tone was lower. “Don’t pretend that we’re strangers. At this point, the word girlfriend is just semantics that terrify you, and I’ve been too polite to push you on the labels thing, even though it’s starting to eat at me. Don’t act like you don’t know what you are to me. Don’t act like you don’t know what I am to you.”
Heat rose under your skin so fast it almost made you sway.
He wasn’t done.
“And don’t make it sound like I’m trying to put a leash on you, because you know I’d never want to control you,” he said, softer but somehow more intense. “I just can’t keep doing this thing where you disappear for hours in the middle of a case and I have to stand there pretending I’m fine while my chest feels like it’s being crushed in a vise. I mean, seriously, you do this constantly. Constantly! You show zero regard for your own safety and you don’t seem to care at all what that does to me. I’ve seen what happens when the line between instinct and impulse gets blurry. I watched it happen to Elle. I won’t watch it happen to you.”
You felt your face go hot. Shame and anger and something almost like guilt crackled in you, sparking in every direction at once.
The worst part was, you heard the truth in it. You heard the care, and the fear, and the feeling you won’t let either of you name.
But under all of that, you also heard one unforgivable word: Elle.
“Don’t,” you warned, and your voice didn’t even sound like yours. “You don’t get to compare me following a lead—a lead that got us what we needed, by the way—to what Elle did just because you’re pissed off and scared and your giant genius ego is bruised that I won’t stamp a label on us.”
He flinched. You hated yourself for how good that felt for half a second.
“And you sure as hell don’t get to weaponize my sister’s actions against me like that,” you went on. “You don’t get to use her name to scare me, or guilt me, or punish me.”
“I wasn’t—” He broke off. “That’s not what I was trying to do.”
“Felt like it.”
He exhaled, shaky, losing some of the fight left in him. “Next time, just loop me in,” he said quietly. “Please.”
It would’ve been so easy to say yes. It was sitting on your tongue: Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you because if you’d asked me not to go I would’ve stayed. I didn’t bring you with me because I care about you too much to force you into danger you don’t have to be in. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you.
But the yes was stuck in your throat like a fish bone. You couldn’t get it out without bleeding.
“Yeah, sure. Next time,” you said instead, sarcastic and shitty on purpose, shouldering past him and through the station door before you could hear him answer.
You and Spencer barely spoke for the rest of that day. Or the next. You only talked when it was about the case, and even then it was like you had gloves on.
Then Hotch assigned the two of you to drive hours out of town to interview a key witness the following morning.
That authoritative, meddling bastard.
—
Back in the car, the road narrows around a fallen tree branch. You take it slow. Spencer checks the time, then turns to look out the window again. His profile is all clean lines and tension. You want to lick your thumb and smudge those lines, just to prove you still can.
“The bridge might be dicey,” he says. “The river last crested a few hours ago, but that was before this new storm cell moved in.”
“Mhm.”
He clears his throat. “If the bridge is under water, we’ll cut over across Route 11. Adds twenty minutes.”
“Fine,” you say.
If this were you from three days ago, you’d poke fun at him for carrying an actual paper map like it’s 1979. You’d tell him to hit you with a county road fun fact. You’d let him light up. You always liked watching that happen. You’d pocket it and carry it like a handwarmer.
But this is you today, so you keep both hands on the wheel and keep your mouth shut.
Another mile swallows itself. Pines. A billboard for a fireworks warehouse that probably violates six state laws. A dented mailbox shaped like a trout. The sun dipping below the horizon.
Spencer’s phone buzzes in the half-second when service returns—flash flood warning—then dies back to black. He sets it in the cupholder and clutches the map between his fingers again.
He used to put his hand palm-up on his knee, a quiet invitation you’d take without thinking. You used to lace your fingers with his and rest there like you’d always have this.
You want to tell him you’re sorry about the four hours you disappeared. You want to explain that you didn’t tell him because if he’d asked you not to go you would’ve stayed, and that scared you more than the CI did. You want to tell him you’re sorry for saying “I’m not your fucking girlfriend” and for pretending this thing between you is undefined when there’s barely been a single night in weeks that didn’t end with one of you asleep on the other’s shoulder.
You want to be honest and you want to be kind but you don’t know how to be both at once, so you settle for just being quiet.
Outside, the rain keeps coming. Inside the car, you’re already under water.
—
The witness’s house is the color of wet cardboard and wrapped in a porch that sags. You flash your badges and get ushered into a living room that smells like mothballs.
The job slides over both of you like a uniform you don’t have to think about. You take the chair closest to the witness, angle your body open, let your voice go warm. Spencer hangs back a foot to the left — non-threatening, softened posture, eyes careful. You ask the simple questions; he gently pulls out more details. It’s an old rhythm that fits so well it almost hurts.
Back at the car when you’re done, you barely look at each other.
“Good work,” he says, quiet.
“You too,” you mumble.
You radio the team the broad strokes. They radio back a clipped “Copy, drive safe.”
The rain gets louder as you pull back onto the road. The job is taken care of. Nothing else is.
—
The river you crossed earlier has officially eaten its bank. Two police cruisers block the bridge; a deputy in a poncho waves you down with his flashlight.
“Closed both ways,” he shouts through your cracked window. “Route 11 is washed out, too. County’ll reassess at dawn, try to get things reopened.”
“Any other routes?” Spencer asks.
“Not unless you got a boat. Best bet is to wait the storm out ‘til morning and try again at sunrise.” The deputy jerks his chin toward a side road you hadn’t even noticed through the rain. “Pioneer Motor Lodge is about a quarter mile that way.”
You nod and thank the officer. You do not look at Spencer, and he does not look at you. You just U-turn in slow motion and follow the road to the motel.
—
The Pioneer Motor Lodge looks like the set for a movie titled “Places To Go When Your Life Falls Apart.” Single-story horseshoe, doors that open to the parking lot, soda machines on one side. A clerk sits behind the counter, watching the weather try to peel the world from its edges.
“Two rooms,” you say, and it sounds brisk enough to pass as professional.
“Wish I could help ya there,” the clerk says, sympathetic. “We’ve only got one left. Storm’s filled us up with stranded travelers.”
You feel Spencer tense beside you.
“We’ll take it,” you both say in the same miserable tone. The clerk slides over a key that’s seen better decades and a blue pen. Spencer signs; you swipe your card and pretend not to feel your pulse in your ears.
The walkway is slick. Your room is last on the strip, next to the ice machine and water fountain with an “out of order” sign that looks permanent. When you walk in it’s pitch black, and all you can smell is damp carpet, lemon cleaner, and the faint linger of years-old cigarette smoke.
Spencer finds the light switch, and that’s when you see it:
Only one bed.
Fucking fantastic.
He does a much better job at pretending to be unaffected than you do — while you’re frozen in place, he’s performing a routine sweep of the room the way he does in every hotel — checks the functionality of the smoke detector, makes sure the windows are latched, scans the mattress for bedbugs. You force your feet to work and set down your go-bag, which you miraculously had the forethought to throw into the trunk.
You both go through the motions: unzipping duffels, taking out toiletry cases, finding your pajamas. It’s silent and tense and the air feels like it’s made of pea soup.
After a few minutes, Spencer points his chin at the dilapidated armchair in the corner. “I can sleep—“
“No. That’s stupid,” you cut in, too fast. You don’t know if you mean his chair offer or this whole arrangement or the way your heart is acting like it absorbed caffeine intravenously. “We’re adults. It’s a queen size. It’s fine.”
He nods once, too drained to start another argument. You watch his throat move as he swallows.
“Do you want to shower first?” he asks, neutral, an olive branch disguised as logistics.
You shake your head. “You can go ahead.”
You listen to the water beat the tile, then sputter for a moment when someone flushes a toilet in the room next door. You stand at the window and watch the rain thrash the parking lot like it has a grudge. Your phone coughs out a single bar just long enough to text the team an update before it collapses again.
Spencer emerges in the world’s most modest t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, hair damp, contact case in hand and glasses fogged. He keeps his eyes carefully on the carpet when he says, “All yours.”
You take the fastest shower of your life and still feel like you’re in borrowed skin you don’t know how to wear. When you come back out, he’s sitting on the far side of the bed on top of the covers, watching the weather report on mute.
You sit down on the mattress (as far away from him as 60 inches of width will allow), and your weight dips his side just enough that you both feel the shift. He clicks the TV off. You reach for the bedside lamp. It hums, then gives up, plunging the room into the kind of darkness that feels thick.
“Goodnight,” he says to the ceiling.
“Night,” you say to the wall.
You lie very still. The storm hammers at the windows, the heater rattles, and somewhere under all that is whatever you’re not saying. You wait to see what’ll give first — the power, the storm, or your ability to pretend you don’t want to roll over and ask him for one true thing.
—
You hold out as long as you can.
You lie on your side, facing the wall, hands shoved under the motel pillow because you don’t trust them not to reach for him in your sleep. The rain hammers the windows, steady and mean. You count the seconds between the lightning and thunder.
It doesn’t work. Your thoughts keep circling the same place.
Meanwhile, Spencer is glued to his half of the bed like someone drew a chalk line down the middle of the mattress and ordered him to respect the boundary. His back is to yours, one arm folded under his head. You can hear him not sleeping. His breaths are too measured. You know he only breathes like that when he’s trying not to unravel.
“Spencer?” you whisper.
“Yeah?” he answers, quiet and wrecked and awake. The reply was immediate, like he was just waiting for you to speak first.
Your chest does a dumb little stutter at that.
You’re still staring at the wall when you say, “I can’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” he admits.
Another few beats go by. You realize you’re holding your breath and let it out slowly.
“Can you—” You stop. The words feel huge, like lifting something heavy. “Can you look at me?”
There’s a pause, and then he rolls.
You feel the mattress move under you, the dip of his weight pulling you a fraction closer. You roll to face him, and now there’s maybe eight inches between you. It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
His glasses are off. His hair is still a little damp and curling at the ends. The light from the parking lot sneaks in through the curtains and cuts a faint line across his cheekbone. His expression is sad in a way that says I’m barely keeping it together.
“Hey,” he whispers.
You swallow. “Hey.”
You sit in that for a second, just looking at each other in the dark.
Then you say, because if you don’t say it now you’re going to choke on it, “I hurt you.”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
“You hurt me too.”
His eyes flicker. “I know.”
Your pulse is in your throat. You pull in a breath. “You compared me to Elle.”
He flinches; it’s tiny, but you feel it because you’re close enough to, and something bittersweet twists under your ribs at the proof that he still cares what you think of him.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says.
“I know you didn’t mean it like that,” you say. Your voice comes out tight, too sharp. “But you still said it. I’ve told you so many times how much I hate being compared to her. I trusted you enough to tell you that, and you still did it. I can’t—” Your throat closes, just for a heartbeat. You push through it. “You don’t get to hold her over my head like a threat. You don’t get to take one of the worst days of her life and aim it at me because you’re scared.”
He’s very still. You can hear his breathing. You can hear your own.
Then he says, quiet: “You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought her into it. That was wrong.”
You were braced for him to explain himself, defend himself, anything. The simple that was wrong disorients you.
“It wasn’t fair,” he continues quietly. “What happened with Elle was not the same thing as you going after a lead. I wasn’t—” He breaks off, swallows. His voice goes softer. “I wasn’t trying to say you’re like her.”
You breathe out slowly. “Then what were you trying to say?”
“Knowing that you’re walking toward something dangerous and not being allowed to go with you makes me feel like I’m going to throw up,” he says. “And that’s not… rational. I know that. I know what our job is, and I’d never want us to get in the way of it. But it’s like—” He winces at himself. “It feels like the universe has its hands wrapped around my throat and they’re just… holding. Not squeezing yet. Just taunting me, letting me know they could.”
The picture hits you so hard you actually feel it, phantom fingers pressing up under your jaw.
“And I hate it. I hate not being in control of it, and I hate that I’m putting it on you. You’re not responsible for what my nervous system does when I worry about you. That’s on me. But I—” He swallows hard. “When you were gone, I was standing in a parking lot thinking, ‘She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone,’ and then you walked up all smug, and my brain just—” He makes a helpless little motion with his hand. “I said something unfair, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you intentionally. I was just terrified.”
You stare at him in the dark and your chest aches in a tight, unhelpful way. You hate how much you needed to hear that.
“I know you were,” you say quietly.
“Do you?” His voice frays a little. “Because I don’t think you do. I honestly don’t think you can understand how it felt. You were just doing what you always do — you had a lead, you trusted your instincts, you thought you’d be fine. And, to your credit, you were. You weren’t wrong about that.” He takes a breath. “But for four hours, twenty-one minutes, and thirty-seven seconds, I thought you could be dead. I was genuinely terrified that they were going to tell me the mutilated body in the alley was yours.”
“Oh,” you whisper.
He laughs, broken and humorless. “Yeah. Oh.”
You’re quiet for a full, solid beat, letting that sink under your skin and settle.
“I should’ve told you where I was going,” you say finally. The words scrape on the way out, but you say them. “I just—I knew if I told you, you’d ask me not to go, and if you’d asked me not to go, I wouldn’t have gone.” You pause, then add: “No one else holds that power over me.”
Something shifts under his expression, fast and deep and not at all subtle.
“But we needed that CI. I thought putting the case first was… I don’t know. Noble, or something. Professional.” You shake your head against the pillow. “But it wasn’t only that. It was me trying to prove to myself that how much I care about you doesn't have to mess with the job. And I thought if I didn’t tell you, then you couldn’t interfere with me being ‘objective.’”
Spencer swallows. “And how’d that work out for you?”
You let out a weak little breath that’s almost a laugh. “Well, you spent four hours thinking I was dead, so… not great.”
He exhales through his nose.
“And for the record,” you say, quieter, “I know I scare you. I know I run too hot. I know I move first and think later, and that I act like I’m never afraid.” You swallow. “I am afraid. I just… I don’t know how to show it without feeling weak. And I hate feeling weak in front of anyone.”
He nods, eyes locked on you. “I’m not just anyone.”
“No,” you whisper. “You’re not.”
“I know you thought I was mad at you for doing your job, but I wasn’t,” he says. “I just can’t keep being put in situations where I have to pretend I’m fine while I’m picturing you covered in blood on a metal slab. I need you to try to be a little less reckless on the job. I’m not asking you to not be you, but you can’t keep operating like you’re indestructible, or like no one would miss you if you were gone.” His breath catches. “And I know I didn’t say it right. I know I made it sound like I was trying to control you, but I swear, that’s not what I meant. I just— I can’t lose you. I can’t. Not before I’ve even told you—”
He cuts himself off.
Your pulse trips. You nod, steady. “I know, Spencer. I know.”
He shifts a little closer. It’s barely anything — just an inch, maybe two — but it might as well be an earthquake.
“I shouldn’t have said I’m not your girlfriend,” you force out. “That was mean. I knew it would hurt you and I said it anyway because I panicked and needed to get the attention off the fact that you—” Care about me. Like me. Maybe even…more than like me. You swallow the words and change course. “—the fact that you said I’m important to you.”
Spencer’s eyes go very shiny for a second, and you have to look down at the cheap motel duvet to keep talking.
“And you’re right,” you add, barely above a whisper. “We’re not strangers. We haven’t been strangers for a long time. I know what we are to each other. But I keep thinking if I just don’t call it anything, I can’t break it. Which is… stupid. I know it’s stupid.”
“I didn’t like hearing it,” he admits, voice small and honest.
“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
He bites his lip. “I—I know you’re not mine in the way I want you to be. I’ve gotten used to that, mostly. But… I’m yours.” His voice wavers, then steadies. “You may not realize it, or want to hear it, but I am. I don’t know how to be okay pretending I’m not yours when I am. When that's all I want to be.”
Oh.
Something inside you — some stubborn barricade you’ve had up for years — gives a little under that.
“Spencer,” you whisper, and your hand moves before you can second-guess it. You slide your palm over the mattress, find his wrist in the dark. “I know you are.”
He closes his eyes like relief is physically painful.
“And I’m—” You breathe. Swallow. You owe him this much. “I’m yours, too. I just don’t know how to do it out loud yet.”
His eyes snap open. He looks wrecked and stupidly happy and still terrified all at once.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Your thumb presses gently where you’re holding him, like you’re warning him and soothing him at the same time. “But you can’t expect me to know when you want something without saying it. I’m a good profiler, but I’m not a mind reader. I didn’t know the title thing was eating at you. We could’ve talked about it earlier.”
“Is it really all that surprising?”
You sigh softly. “No,” you admit. “But I’m already so far out of my depth here. So unless you say otherwise, I’m going to assume everything’s fine, because I need it to be fine. I don’t let myself think about the alternative, because then I’ll have to deal with the fact I can’t give you what you deserve—yet. I’m working on it, I promise, but… I’m not there yet.”
He nods. “I know. I should’ve said something. But—for the record, I’m not trying to push you into something you aren’t ready for. I’m just…hoping you will be ready for it, one day. On your own time. But I do want that. I want to call you my girlfriend. I want you, and I can’t pretend I don’t. I can’t be casual about you.”
The word — girlfriend — pops and fizzles beneath your skin.
“I’m glad you still want that,” you whisper honestly. “I kind of spent the last two days thinking you were done with me.”
His eyebrows pull in, and he reaches out to brush his thumb along your cheekbone. “I could never be done with you, sweetheart.”
God.
You feel it hit low, dizzying. Under any other circumstances you’d chastise him for the pet name, but not now, not when he said it like that.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay. Good.”
For a second you both just lie there, staring at each other, breathing the same air. The hurt is still there, but under it, something else finally breaks through the surface — relief, hot and bright and shaking.
His voice drops, barely audible over the rain. “Can I—”
“Please,” you whisper, already moving, already finding his lips with yours.
The first kiss isn’t hungry — it’s overwhelmingly tender. It’s you’re here pressed mouth to mouth. It’s I’m sorry / I’m sorry too / Don’t ever do that to me again / I promise I won’t / I forgive you / I missed you so much I thought I’d crawl out of my skin / I missed you more / Impossible.
The second pass of his mouth over yours goes deeper without either of you meaning to. The sound you make is embarrassingly needy; the sound he answers with is worse. Your hand slips from his wrist to his jaw, then to the back of his neck. He inches closer across the sheets until his chest is pressed to yours, warm through cotton.
You break just long enough to breathe, foreheads touching. You’re both shaking.
“Spence,” you whisper.
He exhales like he’s been waiting days to hear you say his name like that. He whispers yours back.
There’s a beat where you could stop. You both know it’s there — you feel it hover between you like a hand on the brake.
Neither of you takes it.
Instead, your noses brush. His thumb is on your jaw. Your knee slides forward under the sheets and bumps his thigh.
When you kiss him again, it’s with intent, with gravity, with every hour of silence and every unsent apology and every inch of want you’ve been starving out of yourselves.
The night tilts.
—
You keep kissing because relief tastes like oxygen and you’ve both been underwater for two days. You kiss because you can. You kiss because stopping would feel like cutting off circulation.
You edge closer, and he meets you halfway like gravity. The mattress dips, and your knee slips between his thighs, and all at once you’re half over his hips, half draped across his chest, not even pretending to be polite about it.
“Need you closer,” you breathe.
He makes a noise that sounds torn out of him and moves under you — a slow roll of his hips up into yours that drags his cock against the heat between your legs through all the thin, flimsy layers in the way. The friction is instant and indecent. Your mouth stutters open on a gasp, and for a moment, you’re suspended like that.
“Hi,” Spencer whispers against your lips, bringing you back into yourself, voice so stupidly tender you could break.
You answer by kissing him messier. Less careful. You fist both hands in his t-shirt, straddle him completely, and roll your own hips this time.
He slides one palm down, grips the back of your thigh and starts to rock you, slow and filthy, helping you grind against the hard line of him. You whine into his mouth and feel him swallow it like it’s holy.
The rain outside is hammering so loud you couldn’t hear the voice in the back of your head if you tried. You give up on keeping quiet and let out desperate little breaths every time the pressure hits just right; he falls apart in soft curses that sound new in his mouth. He’s warm and solid under you and you can feel his pulse everywhere you’re touching him.
He pulls away just enough to breathe. “Can I—” His fingers hover at the hem of your top. “Do you want me to… Can I take this off?”
Everything in you goes still. You’re bare under the shirt, and you know — bone-deep know — that if you say yes, you’re not coming back from it. This is you stepping across the line and letting him see all the parts of you no one else gets to see without armor.
You hear yourself say, very small and very sure, “Please.”
He slides his hands under the fabric, palms warm against your ribs, like he’s telling your body what’s about to happen. Then he eases the cotton up, slow, reverent, knuckles ghosting over your stomach, the undersides of your breasts. You sit back on his hips to help him, arms raised, and he pulls the shirt off over your head and drops it somewhere you’ll worry about later.
Cold air hits your skin. You feel it pebble over you, and then you feel him looking at you.
Spencer goes silent in that awed, scientific way of his, like he’s staring at a comet that only passes by once a century. “I am trying very hard not to ruin the moment by telling you the precise number of milliseconds I’ve spent thinking about seeing you like this,” he admits. Then, simpler: “You’re so beautiful.”
Something warm blooms in your chest. You want to deflect the compliment — you’re wired to deflect — but the earnest look on his face won’t let you. It would feel cruel not to accept it.
“Spence,” you whisper. “Touch me.”
He makes a sound you feel in your spine as his hands come up to cup you with both palms, thumbs brushing over you in slow, reverent circles. You arch into him without a second thought.
“God,” he murmurs. He leans up to kiss your throat, the thin skin where your pulse beats high, then lower, his mouth tracing the line of your collarbone, the soft slope of your breast. He mouths at you like he’s grateful, like he’s starving.
“I need this off,” you whisper, shoving at his shirt like it offended you by existing.
He sits up on instinct, letting you push it up over his head. Underneath he’s all long lines and unfair softness — collarbone and sternum and that ridiculous waist you’ve thought about way too many times. You smooth your hands over him, just to feel. His chest jumps under your palms and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“This okay?” you murmur, tracing down, following the thin trail of hair below his navel, familiarizing yourself with skin you’ve only ever stolen touches of through clothes.
His eyes flutter. “Yeah,” he whispers, a little ragged. “Yes. Anything you want.”
Your heart does something dangerous at that.
You lean back in to kiss him and lose time for a while. Everything turns slow and greedy, unhurried but inevitable. Your nipples drag against his chest in a way that makes him groan into your mouth and makes you chase more just to hear it again. He sucks gently at your lower lip, and you answer by rolling your hips in a way that makes the both of you gasp into each other’s mouths.
Then his hands move, one at your waist and one at the back of your neck. You feel a shift in him — something steadier, more intentional settling in his shoulders.
“Lie back for me?” he asks, almost nervous, voice rough.
You let him roll you underneath him, your spine meeting the mattress. He hovers over you on his forearms, and you’re already breathing too hard, already slick, already trembling a little with adrenaline and want.
His mouth is on you again immediately, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, along your collarbone, down to your breasts. His tongue drags slow over your nipple and you arch clean off the bed, fingers diving into his hair. He groans against you like your reaction hit him straight in the spine.
“Spence,” you gasp.
His hands slip lower, following the curve of your waist, the flex of your stomach, reverent and a little shaky. He pauses at the waistband of your pajama shorts. Looks up. Waits.
You nod so fast you’re almost embarrassed.
He slides his fingers under the elastic, drags them down, and it’s so careful you could cry. There’s no hurry in it. No desperate ripping. Just his hands easing your shorts and underwear down your thighs, over your knees, past your calves. He discards them somewhere, and then he’s just looking at you.
You know that should make you feel vulnerable enough to crawl out of your own skin, but instead, you feel… wanted. Worshipped. Safe.
He touches you, finally. Long fingers tracing the outside of your thigh, then up, higher, higher, until he’s cupping the heat of you, feeling the way you’re already so, so wet for him.
“Oh,” he whispers, like you’ve just answered a question he’s been too polite to ask. “Here?” he murmurs, thumb circling your clit, featherlight at first, letting your reactions guide him. His middle and ring finger slip through your slick and gather you, just testing, just mapping.
“Spencer,” you say, needy and unpretty and not ashamed, and that’s his answer. He slides one long finger into you, slow.
Your hips chase it immediately, your body taking him deeper. He curves his knuckles and you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, and he makes a soft, reverent sound that should not be as filthy as it is.
“Like that?” he breathes.
“Yes—oh—yes.”
He doesn’t talk a lot after that — he just listens.
Every time your breath catches or your thighs tense, he adjusts. He slides a second finger into you when he feels you stretch for him, and the fullness makes your mouth fall open, your back bow off the mattress. His thumb finds your clit in these slow, tight circles that turn into perfect pressure when you whimper please, please, please without even realizing you’re saying it.
“That’s it,” he whispers, quiet encouragement that goes straight to your center, and for a moment you think any ounce of praise from him could probably make you come on the spot.
Your heel drags up the back of his calf, trying to get him even closer, pulling him into you. Your hand is in his hair because you need to hold on to something, need to ground yourself in him.
He starts kissing his way down your body while he works you. First the soft space between your breasts, then the underside of your ribs, then lower, down your stomach, slow enough to make you dizzy, giving you a hundred and one chances to tell him to stop.
You’re not going to tell him to stop.
By the time he settles between your thighs and looks up at you — curls mussed, pupils blown — you’re wrecked.
He waits, and you nod.
His mouth closes over your clit and you swear you see actual stars behind your eyes. His fingers keep fucking into you, curling up, finding that sensitive spot he located unbelievably quick (such an overachiever, as always). You’re babbling again without meaning to — yes, right there, fuck, don’t stop please don’t stop — and he just groans against you and does exactly what you ask like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.
You feel it build: warmth into need, need into pressure, pressure into please.
The coil in your stomach tightens, tightens, tightens—oh.
You come hard around his fingers, his mouth still on you through it, and you say his name the way you never say anything, like it’s the only word you know. Your whole body goes white-hot, shaking, and he holds you through it, stays with you, working you gently through the aftershocks until you’re trembling and over-sensitive.
He doesn’t stop until you ask him to. He withdraws slow, presses one more kiss to your inner thigh, and moves back up your body.
It hits you then, square between the ribs, just how stupidly beautiful Spencer is. It’s catastrophic.
The plush of his mouth, still a little swollen. The uneven stubble along his jaw that rasped against the inside of your thigh a minute ago. The long lines and soft edges of him — chest and shoulders and that ridiculous waist. The little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The single freckle over the arch of his brow. All of him, right here above you, chin and fingers still slick with you, looking at you like you’re the best thing he’ll ever look at in this life.
You’ve always thought he was handsome. Even on day one, when he couldn’t hold eye contact with you for longer than three seconds, your stomach still did that humiliating, dizzying little swoop. But this is different. This is not just attraction. It’s not just god, you’re hot. This is… too much to process. This is no one has ever looked at me like this before but you’re somehow doing it like it’s the most natural instinct in the world.
You’re peeled open in a way you don’t normally let happen. Not with anyone. Not ever. But here you are: naked, breath uneven, nerves still buzzing where his mouth had you, and he’s above you, steady, eyes blown and soft and full. He’s bare for you, too — not just his skin, but all the careful, controlled parts of him, wide open and offered.
And then there’s the way he’s looking at you.
If you could bottle that look and take a swig anytime you needed it, you could fix yourself forever. Your worst days, the spiral ones where you’re convinced you’re hard to love / too much / too sharp / a liability — one taste of the way he’s looking at you right now and poof. Gone. It’s ridiculous and infuriating and dizzying all at once. It lights up under your breastbone like someone struck a match in all the places you thought were doomed to stay damp and dark forever.
It’s too much. You have to look away.
You turn your head into the pillow, gaze skittering to the wall, his shoulder, the wrinkle in the motel sheet by your hip — anywhere but his eyes, because if you keep feeling that much tenderness you’re going to do something irreversible like cry or tell him every secret you’ve ever had.
“Hey,” he whispers, tenderly nosing at your cheekbone and pulling you back into your body. “Where’d you go?”
You blink. Then blink again, and again, until you can force your eyes back to his. “‘M here,” you whisper, voice embarrassingly thin. You reach for him to ground yourself, fingers curling around his forearm.
He kisses your cheek before lifting his head to look at you again. “Physically, maybe. But your mind went somewhere else just now.” He studies you, concern knitting his brows together. “Was that… not okay?”
You snap back to him so fast your neck almost twinges. “What? God, no. Wait, I mean — yes, of course it was okay.” You groan, covering your face with your hand for half a second. “I’m screwing this up. Sorry. Let me try again.”
His mouth curves, worried and amused all at once. “Take your time.”
“It was more than okay,” you tell him. That part comes out clean. “Spencer, that was—you were unbelievable. Like, so good it’s insulting. I didn’t ‘go somewhere else.’ I just…” you trail off, searching for the right word and not finding one big enough. “I think I’m feeling more feelings than I’m used to feeling in…this particular situation, and my mind doesn’t quite know what to do with all of them.”
Smooooth. How many times can you possibly use the word “feeling” in one sentence? New record!
His eyes search yours for a few quiet moments before he speaks, confusion washing through his features. “Feelings like…?”
You blow out a slow, shaky breath. You hate this part. You hate saying the quiet thing. But you do it anyway, because it’s Spencer, and this is, apparently, what he’s turned you into: mush. Emotional, honest, vulnerable mush.
“I can’t remember the last time something like that felt so… intimate,” you admit. You feel the word catch in your throat on the way out. “I mean, I know the act itself is intimate, obviously. I’m not a robot. But I mean… you. You, doing that. Looking at me like that while you’re doing it. I haven’t— I don’t…” you swallow. “That was the first time in a long time I’ve done anything like that with someone I actually care about. And I’ve never done that with someone I care about the way I care about you.”
Spencer’s breath hitches so sharply you can feel it against your ribs. He looks as if all the oxygen in his body has been knocked out of him, and his face does that thing that half looks like he wants to laugh and cry and thank you and swear and maybe throw a parade, and half like he’s still terrified he messed something up.
“Is that a bad thing?” he manages.
“Of course it’s not,” you say immediately, a little too fast. “No. Just different. It’s a good thing, at least it’s supposed to be.” Your laugh scrapes out, self-conscious and breathless. “It’s just new for me, letting my feelings touch the rest of me. I usually put them in a box, shove the box into a dark corner and pretend that corner doesn’t exist. I’m very high-functioning that way, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He huffs a little, fond, because yes, he has noticed.
You don’t look away from him this time when you go on. “But I can’t do that with you. I’ve tried. Like, my god, I have tried.” Your voice drops. “But I can’t compartmentalize the way you make me feel. Especially not with this,” you say, gesturing weakly between your bodies. “You don’t belong in a box. You never have. I can’t get you to stay put.”
You watch him process that, calculus and probabilities firing behind his eyes. He swallows, nods, and when he speaks next, his voice is softer than you’ve maybe ever heard it. “Do you want to stop? I know it’s a lot for you right now. We don’t have to keep going.”
Another realization hits you at that moment: no, god no, you don’t want to stop. It’s not just that you’re turned on and want to keep going — it’s that the idea of going back to before makes something inside you bare its teeth. You have this sudden, terrifying clarity that you never, ever want to go back to starving yourself of him on purpose. You don’t want to go back to wearing a straitjacket you strapped on yourself. All the months of careful waiting, of kissing on couches but stopping when it got too real, of touching yourself after he’s gone just to try (unsuccessfully) to soothe the ache the restraint left behind — all of it has led here, to this.
You reach for him, both arms looping around his neck to pull him back down over you.
“No,” you breathe. “No. I don’t want to stop. I really don’t want to stop.”
You find his mouth in the dim — soft, grateful, a little ruined — and kiss him in hopes you can give him that answer in a language you’re actually fluent in.
When you finally part for air, you hold his face there, inches from yours. “I want you,” you whisper. “All of you. If you’ll have me.”
Spencer makes a sound that is not polished, not composed, not anything but yours. You feel his forehead settle against you like he had to bow just to keep from coming apart. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I’ll have you.”
Thank the fucking universe.
You push his pants eagerly down his hips and they catch at his ankles, sending you into a fit of giggles. He laughs with you until he finds the strength to kick them all the way off, and for a second he’s just there, gorgeous and flushed and shaking over you.
His boxers are still on, tented and marked by a small damp spot where the tip of his cock rests. You gently palm him through the cotton because you need to feel him, need to know him in your hand. His forehead drops to your shoulder with a strangled “oh,” but you’re the one who goes a little dizzy.
He’s big. Much bigger than you’d expected.
“Oh my god,” you blurt, and he makes a mortified noise before starting to apologize. You cut that off immediately with a kiss, your hand stroking firmer, letting your thumb trace the shape of him through the fabric. “Don’t you dare be sorry,” you say against his lips. “You’re perfect.”
You feel him shudder. Then you feel him believe you.
He fumbles one hand blindly toward the nightstand, still kissing you, and comes back with his wallet. He fishes out a foil packet with shaking fingers.
You blink at him, breathless and fond. “You would keep a condom in there. Did Derek teach you that?”
His cheeks flush. “Preparedness is—”
“Sexy,” you finish.
He huffs out a broken laugh and pushes his boxers down. You help, because you want to, because you need his skin on your skin. The fabric slides away and then he’s bared to you for the first time and god, you’re overwhelmed.
He’s thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and the sight hits you so hard you actually whimper. You wrap your fingers around him and he groans like you shorted out all of his higher brain functions on contact. You stroke him once, slow, and watch his mouth fall open, feel the way his hips twitch. You grin, high on the power of it, and help him roll on the condom. He’s concentrating so hard on not embarrassing himself that you could die from how much you adore him.
When he’s ready, he looks back up at you. He swallows. “Still okay?”
“Yes,” you promise, plain and sure. Your hands frame his face like you’re swearing on it.
He settles between your legs, one hand braced by your head, the other smoothing down your thigh, guiding your knee up around his hip. The first press of him against you is all heat and anticipation and stretch.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice right there with you, low and steady. “Look at me.”
You open your eyes back to his. You didn’t even realize you’d squeezed them shut.
And then finally, finally, he starts to push in.
It’s a slow, claiming slide that makes your lungs forget how to function. Your nails bite into his shoulders, not to stop him, just to hold on. You feel every inch, feel your body make room for him, feel yourself give.
“Spence,” you gasp, half laugh, half prayer.
“I know,” he gets out, equally wrecked. “I know. You feel—” He loses the end of the sentence like his entire vocabulary disappeared and just kisses you instead, as if that’s the only method of communication left.
He bottoms out with a low groan, hips flush to you, and just stays there. He’s shaking. You’re shaking. You can feel his pulse inside you, and it’s obscene how good it feels. It’s obscene how right it feels.
“You okay?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.
You nod, desperate. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Please move.”
Something like relief punches out of him. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”
He doesn’t start pounding. Of course he doesn’t — you knew he wouldn’t. He rocks into you slow, controlled, deep, like he’s memorizing the way you take him. It’s the kind of steady, dragging rhythm that makes you feel every inch of him, every withdrawal and push, sparks jumping low in your belly.
Your hand finds his forearm and holds, like you need him right there. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, so gentle you could almost sob.
You can hear yourself. You’re not quiet. You’ve admittedly never really been quiet in bed, but this is different. You’re making all these desperate, needy little sounds into his mouth every time he hits that spot, and you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care. You feel wild with it — not just the physical, but the fact that it’s him, that this is you and him, and no one else has ever had exactly this.
He’s not quiet either. You catch the soft curses he usually seldom uses, the reverent little oh my god, the way he whispers your name like it’s gospel. Every time you roll your hips up to meet him, he chokes on air.
“Just like that,” he pants into your mouth when you catch a rhythm that makes both of you see stars. “Yeah, just like that, that’s perfect, you’re— God, you’re so perfect.”
You clench around him and he nearly collapses.
“Jesus,” he gasps, burying his face in your neck for a second like he needs a safe place to fall apart. He rasps a strained “good girl,” but it isn’t filthy like that phrase normally would be. It’s just praise, pure and wonderful, straight from his heart.
After a few slow, rolling minutes like that — sweat sticking your chest to his, his hair damp at the nape, your legs wrapped high around his waist — something hungry wakes up in you.
“Spencer,” you whisper, smiling against his mouth, sweet and breathless. “Switch with me.”
His eyes go dark at that. He moves willingly, immediately, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him, hands steadying you at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll float away. You sink down onto him and both of you make a sound you’re pretty sure would get you evicted if anyone could hear you over the storm.
“Oh, fuck,” he blurts out, head tipping back, eyes squeezed shut. His hands flex hard at your waist, like he has to physically restrain himself from gripping you hard enough to leave marks.
You plant your palms on his chest and start to move.
It’s slow at first, exploratory. He’s flushed, mouth open, eyes glassy and desperate every time he blinks up at you. One of his hands slides up, cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple, and you whine, moving faster, chasing more.
“Yeah,” he pants, encouraging, voice so raw it barely holds shape. “Like that. You look—” He swallows hard. “You look unreal. You’re so beautiful.”
You find a rhythm that grinds you down where you need it and pleasure spikes, white and hot. Your head tips back. A sound falls out of you, loud and unpretty and honest.
He groans like you just took him apart molecule by molecule. “Angel girl. That’s it, just like that.”
Angel girl hits you like a train. You practically sob from how good it feels in your ears.
Your thighs start to tremble. He feels it instantly, hands slowing your hips to steady you. He sits up, chest to chest with you for a heartbeat, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside.
Then, with a gentleness that guts you, he murmurs, “Let me take care of you,” and flips you once more.
It happens so fluidly it doesn’t even register. One second you’re on top; the next you’re on your back again and he’s above you, braced, eyes blown, hair a total disaster, looking exactly like every dream of this moment you’ve ever had but better. So much better.
You wrap one leg around his waist. He pushes your other knee gently up toward your chest, opening you, and then thrusts in deep.
You see stars.
Your breath leaves on a noise that’s half moan, half plea. “Spence—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and you believe him down to the bone. He slides one of your hands up over your head and laces your fingers with his, pinning it there against the pillow, holding you down in the sweetest way possible, owning you but only because you offered.
His other hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit without fumbling, circling with the exact pressure he’s already learned you like. It’s devastating. It’s perfect. It’s him, focused and shaking and so, so determined to make you fall apart again.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low and steady even though you can feel how close he is, how much he’s holding in. “That’s it. Let go.”
Your body answers before your mouth can. Your climax slams into you, a bright, overwhelming crest that arches you up against him, clenching tight around his cock. The moan that rips out of you is helpless and raw, and you barely even register you’re saying his name like a prayer until he groans at the sound of it.
He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, through every shaking aftershock, whispering it’s okay, I’ve got you, god you’re so pretty when you come, that’s it until the pleasure rolls and ebbs, leaving you ruined and open and panting.
You’re dimly aware that he’s falling apart above you. His rhythm goes ragged, hips stuttering like he’s right at the edge and trying to hold himself back just to be sure you’re all the way there.
“I’m—” he chokes, voice breaking. He’s so close he can barely talk.
You pull him down into a kiss and roll your hips up to meet him, giving him everything you have. “Please,” you whisper against his mouth, dizzy and wrecked and happy. “Come for me, Spence.”
He does.
His whole body locks, then shudders, and he lets out this strangled, gorgeous noise you feel all the way in your cells. He buries his face in your neck and gives himself to you, hips pressing deep as he spills into the condom. You hold him there, arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers in his hair, murmuring his name while the last pulses work through him.
He goes heavy in a good way, boneless and trembling and laughing into your skin like he can’t believe any of this is allowed.
Then he remembers himself. Of course he does. He’s careful the second his brain comes back online.
“Hold on,” he murmurs, sweet and apologetic, easing out of you slow, like he’s afraid to hurt you now that the edge is gone. You hiss at the sensitivity and he winces in sympathy, kissing your cheek like sorry, sorry, sorry, and you cut it off with a lazy kiss because stop apologizing for my favorite thing that’s ever happened. He gets out of bed—much to your chagrin—and slips off the condom, tying it with the same precision he applies to solving homicides. You might laugh at that if you weren’t still actively floating.
He’s back almost immediately with a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom. He cleans you up with this soft, focused tenderness that makes your eyes sting, checking in with a quiet “okay?” every time you twitch.
His boxers go back on. Your t-shirt comes back over your head. He helps you into it, like he can’t stop taking care of you now that you’ve finally let him.
And then you’re back under the covers, both of you loose-limbed and wrecked and stupidly gentle. You end up half on top of him without discussing it — your thigh slung over his hips and head against his chest, his palm splayed across the small of your back and nose tucked into your hair like he’s decided that’s just where it goes now.
He tries three times to speak before anything comes out. “I—” He laughs softly at himself, breath still uneven. “Are you okay?”
You tip your face up and kiss along his jaw, lazy, affectionate. “So okay,” you murmur, voice hoarse and happy. “You?”
“Same,” he says, and the word comes out so full you feel it in your chest. He nudges his nose against your temple. “You were—” He shakes his head, abandons it, finds something braver. “Thank you. For trusting me.”
Something warm and liquid rolls through you at that. “Thank you for making it worth the wait,” you whisper.
He makes a helpless sound that’s half laugh, half groan, and tightens his arm around you.
You lie there, too giddy to sleep and too wrung out to have another Serious Talk, so you don’t. You talk about stupid, safe things instead. How the rain sounds like a thousand people sprinting on a high school gym floor. How this motel has the worst wall art you’ve ever seen. How one day you’re absolutely going to make him tell you the number of milliseconds he spent thinking about seeing your boobs.
You admit, smug and sleepy, that you’re going to remember the way he called you angel girl for a month and use it against him whenever you want something. He blushes in the dark, the heat of it against you.
He asks if you’re warm enough. You are, because you’re basically plastered to him like a second skin, but he still hauls the thin motel quilt higher around your shoulders and tucks it in like a cocoon.
You make a lazy promise to act totally normal at work once you make it back to town. He makes a lazier promise to try not to stare at you like everyone should know you’re his. That makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the part of you that’s finally, finally letting itself be his.
Eventually your bodies go heavy in the right way. You’re still tangled — his hand at your waist, your fingers laced in his hair like you plan to keep him — both of you buzzing with the good kind of ruin.
You fall asleep mid-smile in a room that feels like it belongs to both of you.
Outside, the flood keeps the world shut. Inside, you’re his and he’s yours and there’s nothing between you but heat and breath and the slow, steady fact of tomorrow.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
synopsis: in which being spencer’s safe space means getting to know just how clingy he really is
pairing: spencer x reader
genre: fluff!
wc: 1k
notes/tags: no plot just cuddles. lowkey i just wrote this bc i wanna cuddle him SO BAD. bet hes so soft and cosy and he smells so good☹️
masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoyed it helps promote the fic so much!!
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It happens in the middle of the night. When the nightmares feel too real and the dark feels too forboding. Like second nature, his body searches for yours in the shadows. He tries not to wake you up but truthfully, in his tired state, he has all the grace of a toddler who doesn’t quite know their own strength yet as he clambers on top of you. You stir but you don’t say anything, you just smile lazily as his arm drapes over your waist and his head settles on your chest. Lacing your hands through his hair you press a kiss to his crown as his breath fans against your neck- ticklish, but you don’t mind. It’s an awkward situation what with his tall frame and lankly limbs but somehow the two of you fall into place perfectly. You stay like that, barely holding yourself awake until you feel his sleepy sighs even out, his body slumping impossibly further onto yours like a weight- safe.
It happens in the morning as you’re making breakfast or pouring coffee. He thinks he’s being sneaky as he comes stumbling out the bedroom still half asleep. You pretend not to hear the shuffling of his socks against the wooden floor or the whispered curses as he trips on the rug (again). You pretend not to hear his yawns as he pads into the kitchen, jumping slightly to humour him when two long arms snake around your waist from behind. Instinctively, your head tilts to the side and makes room for his in the crook of your neck, his nose to your shoulder. You wonder if he can even breathe from how tightly he’s pressed to you but it doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Morning,” you always say. Quiet, peaceful.
“Morning.” He always half-grunts half-says in response, a gentle squeeze to your waist filling in the gaps in conversation he doesn’t have the energy for yet.
“Sleep well?” You ask, leaning back into him.
“Better.” He murmurs. “Thanks to you.”
The kind of tranquil silence you only really find standing in the kitchen on a Sunday morning fills the air as you both fall quiet. He sways you in his arms slightly, left foot, right foot, again and again like a metronome. You let him. You’d let him guide you anywhere you think, especially when his soft hair is brushing against your cheek like that and you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. Occasionally you nudge his head up with your shoulder, popping a sliced fruit or a small piece of toast or whatever you’re making into his mouth like it’ll make up for all the breakfasts he misses while he’s away, laughing when he immediately plops his head back down as if pulled by a magnet. He told you once he believes you’re lucky. He needs to start his day as close to you as possible, soaking you in, or the day just won’t go right.
It happens in the evenings when his body makes it through the door before his mind. The rest of him still back at the case, back at the office- back at the crime scene. You see the look in his eyes and you beeline to the door, his body folding in on you before he’s even really realised you’re there. He slumps around you, arms clinging to your shirt and cheek to your hair or your shoulder, your body heat warming up whatever ice has frozen him over this time. He’s quieter than usual, the only sound in the room his shuddering breath against your skin and your gentle coos whispered into him. You comb your hands through his hair as if you’ve been programmed to, never stopping for a second. Eventually he’ll pull away and offer you a silent nod, an ‘I’m okay’, as you wipe beneath his eyes. You’ll take his hand and lead him wherever he needs to go- the couch, to bed, the shower- only letting go when he does.
It happens in the days he’s home. You two never do anything strenuous, both content sitting in each other’s company with some coffee and an old movie rather than dragging him out of the apartment when he’s been given a rare chance to sit and be still. You’ll lie on the sofa with a book, legs outstretched and clothes plush and comfortable like an invitation and before long he’s shuffling over. He used to be shy, he used to fidget and twitch and hesitate like he was afraid of taking up your space. Now he knows it’s exactly where he belongs. Like a practiced routine he plops himself down on the couch before crawling over you, tangling his legs in yours and tucking his head beneath your chin. It always makes you giggle when he practically deflates on top of you, something suspiciously resembling a purr leaving his lips as he melts into your arms. His own arms snake around you as best as they can, clinging to you like you’re going somewhere, though you never would. Not when the scent of his shampoo is clouding around you like a dreamy haze and his warm hands find their way to your waist beneath your shirt. He clings to you like he’s trying to make up for all the time apart, or perhaps he’s simply stocking up for future time away from you.
“This is nice.” He mumbles, barely comprehensible but you’ve got the language of Sleepy Spencer mastered.
“Hmm.” You hum softly, running a hand up and down his arm.
He lifts his head up slightly, just enough to gaze up at you through heavy eyelids. You’re blurry but he still thinks you’re the most ethereal thing he’s ever seen. “I’m not hurting you am I?” He asks every single time, his body instinctively lifting off of you just a tad.
“Never.” You murmur back, smiling to yourself when you feel him relax again, his weight sinking into you like a blanket.
“You’d let me know?” He says, words turning into mush along the way as he falls asleep to the sound of your heart through your shirt.
“Shh, baby.” You whisper, pressing a kiss to the curls tickling your chin. “This is exactly where I want to be.”
you are tipsy and flirty with spencer after a night out, leading to soft kisses, drunk rambling, and sleepy cuddles
pairings: spencer reid x reader
warnings: alcohol consumption, no gendered language (I don’t think at least, let me know if there is), tipsy reader, sensual undertones but nothing crazy, flashback of sex scene but it's not too descript, drunk flirting, established relationship, lots of sleepy affection, mild undressing, domestic fluff, mutual pining but already together
wc: 1.6k
You collapse onto the pillows in a sprawling, uncoordinated heap, giggling helplessly into Spencer’s mouth as he lands right after, warm and solid and perfectly weighted. You imagine some celestial force eavesdropped on your wishes and promptly deposited him on top of you.
You remind yourself to thank them and gravity. Tonight, at least, it’s completely forgiven for all those stubbed toes and spilled coffees.
And gravity is making your limbs feel like noodles. No, scratch that, noodles would have infinitely more structure. It’s possible you’re not even a person anymore. Perhaps you’ve melted straight into the mattresses, becoming one with it, all fluff and sighs and goofy grins.
Is that a thing? Can people turn into beds? You’ll ask Spencer later.
Right now there’s kissing to do. Right now, your fingers are stumbling over a jawline so sharp and lovely and you think he smells like laundry straight from the dryer. You suffocate in it as your nose nudges to the hollow beneath his throat.
And his hands — oh, his hands — they’re now under your shirt and it tickles and you think you’re giggling again, because what else is there to do when heaven is handsy?
He sighs, hands sinking into the plush curve of your waist. It’s a familiar sigh you love hearing, one of those overly dramatic, pretend-exasperation sounds to signal his patience is running thin. Except you know better. Intimately so. Because beneath that theatrical huff is a smile he can’t quite hide, not when you can almost taste it if you turned your head just right.
He loves this, you’re certain, even if he refuses to say it. But that’s fine. You’re smart, even drunk-smart, and knowing is basically just as good as hearing. Actually, it’s even better because now you’re filled with the giddy determination to chase after that invisible grin with your lips, to hunt down the saccharine concealed there until it blossoms fully into laughter.
“I think,” you whisper loudly, your own smile mashed sloppily into the roughness of his cheek, “you just wanna get me naked.”
Spencer snorts. "I think you need to drink more water."
Spencer gently lifts your arms, pulling off your shirt in one very smooth, very grown-up motion. Textbook Spencer Reid, all responsible bedtime procedure and absolutely zero funny business.
But your brain is champagne bubbles, pleasantly fizzy and a little devilish, so your fingers mound absently, tracing warm, languid circles along your newly exposed skin.
You watch him shamelessly, delighted when his cheeks flush just enough that he’s forced to look away, trying to convince you both he’s entirely unaffected.
"Don't need it," you murmur, eyes half-lidded and full of affection. "Just need you, thanks."
"Nice try, angel."
You sigh, softening like butter left too close to the stove as his fingertips coast feather-light down your back while coaxing you upright.
He takes his time, smoothing out each bump of your spine vertebrae by vertebrae. C1 all the way to C7. Then, with a sigh of his own, he pulls back, a moment stretched too thin, and reaches for your pajama top.
You take the time to look at him. Really look.
His belt hands low on his hips, leather biting into the fullness of his stomach, and you ache, physically ache, to trace that little line where cotton gives way to skin. His dress shirt, rumpled and sleep-wrinkled, clings across his chest like it wants to be closer too, buttons tugged taut over the breadth of him.
His tie is gone. Hours ago, probably. Lost to some hallway or couch or whatever innocent piece of furniture was first to fall victim to your pawing hands.
Spencer tugs the pajama top he fished from the drawer down your arms, moving slowly so you don’t lose balance, not that you’d fall when you’re glued to the bed and using him as a human anchor, arms looped around his neck.
“You know,” you begin, lips dragging along his jaw like a love-drunk GPS, “Penelope is so funny.”
"Mhm."
"No, like, funny-funny. She made songs. About people. Little jingles. Did you know Derek has a theme song?”
"I did not."
"Well, he does. And so do you."
Spencer pauses. "Should I ask?"
"No, because you'll be mean about it."
"I'm never mean to you."
You narrow your eyes at him, or try to. They’re a little too heavy to cooperate.
“Spencer. You once corrected my math during sex.”
He shrugs. “In fairness, it was a bold miscalculation.”
He exaggerates.
Spencer had been beneath you, hands clutching greedily at the back of your thighs, his pupils blown so wide you could drown in their inky hunger — hunger he never bothered trying to disguise. You were gasping, half-lost on the exquisite stretch of him inside you, feeling so full it was like your body had molded itself around him, rewriting its shape in his image.
In the hazy gaps between thrusts you murmured a proud little tally into the air. Three times, maybe four. You couldn’t remember, didn’t care. It felt triumphant enough. Spencer, it seemed, had not.
He corrected that the first time wasn’t technically full sex, so the current count stood at two. You could still remember how your palms had flattened on his chest.
He looked up at you with a smirk that said, what? It’s true.
And you kissed him hard enough to shut him up. Not because he was wrong, but because you absolutely refused to let him be right.
“So you’re admitting you’re mean to me on,” you say, squinting at him as you try to remember the word you were looking for, “occasion.”
Spencer’s lip tugs upward as he puts a hand to his chest. “Slandered in my own bed.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” you gasp, cupping his face. “You are the opposite of mean. You’re… you’re nice. You’re, like, aggressively nice. Stupidly nice. But you’re not stupid. You’re so smart. And — you’re the best boyfriend ever. Literally ever.”
“There's a lot of praise tonight, sweetheart.”
You groan, face smooshed right into his chest as embarrassment wars with your lingering bravado. Blame the tequila. Blame your poorly-timed confidence at the bar, when you sidled up to him, inspected him head-to-toe like he was some stranger, and purred, what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone?
Never mind the fact that you arrived together. Never mind the fact that he had been holding your purse.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
His voice spills out all velvet and sweet enough that your brain happily gives up on forming a coherent rebuttal. Gentle fingers squish your cheeks together, molding your lips into a pout that you’d probably laugh at if he weren’t already leaning in to kiss it.
And he does, of course, soft lips pursed just slightly, showing you a peek at that deeper, cherry-stained color hidden inside.
Lips shouldn’t look that edible, should they?
But with him, everything feels bite-worthy, nibble-able, lickable, and utterly unfair in how pretty he is. You constantly remind him, watch as his ears bloom pink, eyes narrowing in an attempt to deflect your adoration, especially when you’re in public.
You know he struggles with it. The receiving. The enormity of being loved without proof, without conditions, without demands. But that’s never scared you off. If anything, it draws you closer, makes you cherish every reminder, every repetition, every soft retelling of the truth he’s still learning how to hold. Because one day, maybe, you’ll say it so many times that even he can’t deny it anymore.
“You know,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as your finger taps his lower lip, voice slurred like honeyed bourbon. “That thing you did earlier, kissin’ my wrist all slow — mm-hmm — was that on purpose?”
A low laugh escapes him as he guides your form onto the bed, sliding down to lay beside you. He props his head on one hand, studying you.
“On purpose? As opposed to… what? A spontaneous wrist-kissing seizure?”
You wrinkle your nose, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes.
“Spence, there’s accidents, and then there’s… purposeful stuff, right? Like when someone just does things because they wanna make you feel good. Little things, like kissing wrists, and… remembering your favorite cereal and —” You lose yourself briefly, blinking sleepily. “And it just feels really, really nice when someone does things on purpose for you, ‘cause it means you’re worth noticing, I think. And you do that a lot.”
He smiles, thumb dragging a lazy arc along your cheek. You lean into the touch like a cat, nuzzling closer.
“I love your mind. Drunk Socrates, but cuter,” Spencer teases, pulling you closer so your head rests comfortably against his chest. “You probably won’t remember any of this in the morning,” he adds, “but I will and… I don’t know, noticing you has never been something I try to do.”
He exhales slowly.
“It’s actually harder not to,” he continues, “You know, yesterday you left your book on the counter, spine cracked and bookmarked with a receipt, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what part you’re up to. I actually looked up the chapter summaries to figure it out.” He chuckles under his breath. “You’re just constantly… there. In my head. Background processing, even when I’m thinking about something else.”
You dissolve further against him, the lines between your bodies blurring pleasantly, warmth pooling so deeply that your outlines vanish. You silently plead with yourself to remember this clearly in the morning, and that your expression in daylight won’t too obviously reveal how completely you’ve fallen in love again.
“So what you’re sayin’,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around him, nipping at the slope of his shoulder, “is I’m basically a parasite you can’t get rid of.”
“Exactly,” Spencer says, fingers digging into your side. “Mutually beneficial symbiosis. I’d let you take over my entire life if you wanted. Full infection. No cure needed.”
“Mmm, you’re gonna regret sayin’ that when you wake up stuck with me forever.”
“I’m counting on it.”
And you believe him.
💌 masterlist
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summary: in which aaron is being a clingy sleepy boyfriend.
pairing: - aaron hotchner x fem!reader
warnings/info: fluff | cuddles | aaron being clingy | no use of y/n | no pov I use of she/her pronouns
a/n: hey everyone hope you like this short piece, i love this kind of plot bc i love the idea of a clingy aaron hotchner as my boyfriend like ugh the dream really.
It was a lazy Saturday evening, mid-February. The last of the winter weather was causing a cold, blustery wind through the small cracks in their windows.
The heat was on low, and the old decorations they bought a while ago, slowly started leaving the living room shelves. Creating a homey, cozy feeling once the spring weather started to come through.
He slowly walked over to her as he woke from a nap. He went to the gym this morning and did some shopping. When he got back, he showered and fell asleep on the couch in his home office.
Obviously working on files he brought home from the BAU.
His bigger sock-covered feet patted across the hardwood floors over to the couch where she was. She looked up immediately, a smile forming on her soft lips.
“You’re awake.” She stated. She was wrapped up in a soft cream colored plush blanket, in sweat pants, one of his hoodies, fuzzy socks, and her computer playing a old movie.
“Mhm…” He rasped. He fell on top of her making her laugh and attempt to push him off. “You’re so soft. Smell so good.” He mumbled into her hoodie.
“You’re so heavy.” She whined playfully.
“Shut up and love me.” He replied. His voice mumbled against the hoodie.
She could hear the smile in his voice. It made butterflies crawl over her body. She wrapped her arms around him as he rested his head on her chest.
“Missed you.” She muttered into his messy hair.
“Missed you too sweet girl.” He responded.
Soon enough he fell back into a soft slumber on top of her chest with her fingers massaging his scalp.
A half hour later with her following right after him, the only noise that came from their home were soft snores and the old movie coming to an end.
Mal’s Notes: This… Is… Porn. That’s all… Nearly 60 pages of pure filth, and very little plot… In fact, what plot? I regret nothing.
Love,
Mal🩶
Acknowledgments: @cringeiknow and @theghostofcosmichorrorpast I could not have done this without either of you! I love you both to pieces! You're the best friends and Beta readers a girl could ask for!
Pairings: Hotch x reader, Emily x reader, Spencer x reader
Warnings and tags: DDDNE, 18+ MDNI, you’re responsible for your own media consumption but for the love of god MDNI, Buckle up Folks this list is a doozy, Explicit Sexual Content Past This Point, Discussions Pertaining to reader’s sexuality while reader is not present, reader is female, reader is bisexual, reader has sex with both men and a woman in this fic, if that’s not your thing you should probably move along, mentions of wet dreams, praise kink, implied female masturbation, massage that leads to sex, bisexual Emily Prentiss, Bisexual Aaron Hotchner, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Canon Characters Do Not Engage In Sexual Activity With Each Other, They Do All Engage In Sexual Activities With Reader (at the same time (no d/p I wasn’t feeling that brave)), voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dom/sub and Switch Dynamics, dirty everything, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, EVERYBODY GETS SOME HEAD, Almost everybody gives some head, bodily fluids, ingesting bodily fluids (just cum, male and female, nobody panic), PinV sex, sex on a plane, rough sex, rough oral, biting, bite marks, bruises, post sex bruises, hair pulling, hickies, nipple play, pet names, finger sucking, very slight (microscopic) breath play, begging, reader begging, hand job, Hotch spanks reader twice but it’s minor, unprotected sex WRAP IT UP PEOPLE, deep throating, Aftercare, teasing, subspace, plot what plot, reader tells Hotch to Fuck her like he owns her.
Word Count: 17.8k
Back to Mal’s Masterlist
AO3
The case had been a rough one; with JJ stuck back at home having had her new baby, Rossi away on a book tour, and Derek out on an injured knee from a renovation incident. JJ’s liaison duties had fallen to you, to your silent horror.
It wasn’t that you were bad at public speaking or presenting. It’s just, your palms got all sticky with sweat, your legs shook, and there was a tightness in your chest that you knew was going to stick around for hours.
Which was not exactly ideal when trying to impress your hot boss.
So you stuffed your anxiety down and did what needed to be done. Because even false confidence had to become actual confidence at some point, right?
As of that moment though, you wouldn’t dare let Hotch know you felt out of your depth. Not while you had something to prove, and especially not when any amount of his attention gave you butterflies in your stomach.
With you on PR duty, the stress that Emily and Spencer were under had doubled.
And with Rossi gone, Hotch had no one to split the administrative duties with.
Which left you all so busy that you had barely seen much of Spencer and Emily. While you and Hotch had been alone together at the station the entire time, with little more than orders and questions conveyed back and forth between the two of you.
Until Hotch had gathered you all into a conference room together to go over the evidence and write up the profile—press releases and administrative bullshit be damned.
Which left you reeling, because the three of them were just as stressed as—if not more so than—you, and when they got stressed...
They tended to get undressed.
Not completely—obviously—just a suit jacket here, a few popped buttons there, maybe some rolled up sleeves and messy hair.
But a girl could dream.
And God, did you dream vividly.
Nothing about Hotch escaped your notice. The width of his shoulders and chest made you itch to splay your hands over them. His thick hair would look so tempting between your thighs. You wondered if he would like the way you’d tug on it as he devoured you. Even the way the man dressed drove you crazy. His suits must have been tailored, because they fit far too well for your sanity. His silk ties looked soft and pullable. Your fingers itched to give them a good tug, preferably while guiding him to your lips.
Your attraction to Spencer was different from how you lusted after Hotch.
Spencer had an innocence and pureness about him that was impossible not to adore… An innocence you fantasized about corrupting. You often watched Spencer read, a habit you couldn’t break. It was so hard to look away, however, when he drug his fingers down the page, gentle and reverent. You wondered how that would feel against your ribs. Or lower. His sweet smiles often tempted you to tease him mercilessly. The way his amber eyes lit up when he rambled on made your stomach fill with butterflies. His soft voice always left your heart pounding and your pussy throbbing. Not that he knew that—thank God—though even if he did, it would just embarrass him.
Emily was, well… Emily.
Confident, strong, sassy and could break you in half, something you definitely wished she would do. Her dark hair and porcelain skin were a thing of beauty. The way she held herself with such surety was enthralling. Her clever and bold personality was absolutely deadly, both to unsubs and your libido. You often wondered how it would feel to earn her attention. She had a ‘take charge’ attitude in the field that you were almost sure would extend to the bedroom as well. You found yourself daydreaming about her scarlet lips giving commands of the erotic variety, smiling, and calling you a good girl… Among other things you imagined they would be very good at.
In layman's terms you were metaphorically fucked.
If only you could get physically fucked… specifically, by one of them.
Alas, it’s against regulations to fuck your co-workers. So your imagination, that new vibrator, and—if you were lucky—a wet dream or two would just have to do.
Being alone with one of them was truly a battle between your common sense and your carnal imagination.
However, being in a room with all of them… that was enough to put you in a mental crisis of truly epic proportions.
Just to make everything astronomically worse, you were pretty sure they had started to notice.
They had all started to notice.
You had been so relieved to wrap up the case and finally head home. Until you realized that heading home meant being on that cramped jet for several hours with just the three of them.
Hotch, who was sitting across from you, had immediately noticed that something was off with your demeanor. You were usually so exuberant, talkative and flirtatious in a way that rivaled even Penelope.
Now your eyes darted around the cabin, never lingering longer than a second on anything—especially a person. Your cheeks were flushed, like you were a little overheated or had spent just a little too long in the sun.
His biggest clue, however, was the way your chest expanded in small rapid breaths. He was growing concerned and was about to ask if you were alright.
Before he could, you offered a quick excuse to Emily—who had been chatting animatedly to you—and headed toward the restroom.
“Okay, has anyone else noticed that she’s been acting strangely all day?” Spencer asked the other two, once the bathroom door latched behind you.
Hotch nodded his head, agreeing with Spencer’s assessment of your odd behavior.
“I agree, she’s not been quite herself this week.” Hotch murmured, raising his brows and shaking his head. “She definitely hasn’t been nearly as flirtatious as she normally is.” The usual crease in his brow returned to its proper place. “She didn’t say anything remotely off-color in front of me at all this week, now that I think about it.”
Your quiet, nervous state was so unlike you—not that he had watched you enough to know.
Usually, you would crack a poorly timed joke or two, earning a disciplinary glare, and he would have to bite back a grin all the way through it.
There were no jokes today, no flirting, just intense focus. Your eyes locked on the evidence board. Never straying for a second, not even when he made an attempt to draw your attention. You only responded when asked a direct question and only made eye contact when absolutely necessary.
He had easily noticed your skittish state. How you seemed to duck out of a room as soon as he entered, or disappear for a while and come back laser focused on anything that wasn’t him.
You were usually quite confident. Or at least did a very effective job at hiding it when you weren’t.
“No kidding.” Emily snorted in halfhearted amusement. “I’ve been trying to snap her out of it the entire flight, and apparently, my flirting only made it worse.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like girls, Em.” Spencer joked with a smug grin.
“She definitely does…” Emily countered, giving Spencer a healthy dose of side-eye and a knowing smirk. “She flirts with me all the time, and Penelope told me that she has an ex-girlfriend. If anything she doesn’t swing your way.”
In Emily’s humble—expert—opinion, you practically had a flashing neon sign above your head that said: GAY!
Hotch chuckled and shook his head, smiling faintly, “I think you’re both wrong.” He refereed. “She’s bisexual, at the least.”
He glanced up from his case file, his brows raised and a smug smirk on his face.
“She very well could be.” Spencer admitted, his face stuck in that expression that said he was overanalyzing every detail about you that could ever apply to this situation. “We could test that hypothesis…”
His eyes were sparkling with a curiosity that was definitely scientific.
“It’s not a bad idea…” Emily mused. “It could be fun… and we do have five uninterrupted hours of airtime left…”
“Ground rules would be necessary,” Hotch added, murmuring almost as if to himself. Pretending to be lost in the case file again. His eyes traced boredly over the lines of text on the page, “and clear consent, from everyone.”
“Now we’re talking.” Emily smirked, sitting up a little straighter. She had been waiting for a chance to take her harmless flirting into a more serious pursuit. “I'm surprised though, you’re seriously gonna let us do this Hotch?”
“I can’t say I’m not curious to see where it goes…” He admitted, smirking a bit. However, his eyes barely lifted from the page, seemingly disinterested.
He was, in fact, very interested.
He saw the way you looked at him—and the other two—on a regular basis. He knew you were attracted to them.
What he didn’t know—with certainty anyway—was how you would react to an advance by all three of them at once. He was certain, however, that you were in for the surprise of your life—and a very good time—if you let it get that far.
“It’s settled then.” Reid smiled in self satisfaction. “When she comes back out we’ll conduct a little… experiment.”
Then the three of them produced a hurried plan.
When you exited the restroom a few minutes later you were no better—if not worse—off than you had been before. Trying to get yourself off had not only failed, it had also made the problem almost painful. However, staying in the restroom any longer would not only be embarrassing, but suspicious as well.
You tried not to look at Emily when you sat back down, looking anywhere else would be safer. So you shifted, only to catch Spencer’s eye, who was studying you with a strange expression.
The last time you felt so scrutinized, you had been defending your thesis to earn your Master’s.
You decided it was probably safest to stare at your lap instead, fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. Anxiously rubbing circles in the cotton fabric between your fingers in an effort to soothe… something. Hoping, praying, that none of them knew it had been hiked around your waist only moments before… with your hand tucked between your thighs.
“Hey, are you alright?” Emily asked softly.
You could feel all three sets of eyes burning into you, you didn’t dare look up. The racing of your pulse was only getting faster.
“Mm hmm.” You nodded, continuing to play with the seam of your skirt and then trying to smooth a run in the delicate black nylon of your stocking. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Your voice was a little higher than normal, and you knew they hadn’t missed it.
“Hmm, I don’t know…” Emily responded, you could hear slight teasing in her voice. “You haven’t been acting fine. In fact, you seem a little stressed,” You could practically feel the grin on her face as she turned, “Hotch, doesn’t she seem stressed?”
“Incredibly stressed.” He agreed, and if you’re not mistaken, that was amusement in his tone.
You flush even brighter.
“You should relax a little.” He suggested in that stupidly hot low timbre of his. He didn’t even have the decency to toss you a glance. You often wondered if anything could tear the man away from his file. God, maybe one of these days you’d strip down and stand in front of him butt-ass naked, just to see if that would do it.
You couldn’t help the little snort of indignant laughter that escaped you, because Hotch’s tone was practically sinful—proving that, yeah, you could get wetter than you already were—and the fact that Hotch, of all people, told you to relax.
“You’re one to talk.” You retorted before you could think better of it. A slight feeling of panic washed over you at your brashness and you risked a glance up at him, his expression was frustratingly neutral.
His eyes, however, held a peculiar spark. A spark that still somehow gave you nothing.
Emily scooted a tad closer to you, turning her body to face yours and pulling her knees up under her on the bench seat.
“Turn around.” She commanded, twirling her finger around in a circle. You raised a brow at her questioningly, unsure of what she was about to do. She rolled her eyes. “Just trust me.”
You sighed—long sufferingly—and did as she asked, turning to face the other end of the jet. Your back now facing the others. You had little indication of what Emily intended to do with your back facing her, but you didn’t have the energy, or the nerve, to argue with her. The only hope in your mind was that she didn’t touch you and send you spiraling down another unfortunate slip-n-slide of arousal.
Then you felt the french pin slide out of your hair, which promptly unfurled and cascaded down your back. The pressure lifted off your scalp, leaving behind a dull ache.
Why had you twisted it so tight that morning?
Oh, that's right.
So you could at least appear put together when you’d realized that it would only be the four of you on the jet home, with no case briefings to distract you.
You could only dream of where you wanted this to go.
Hot mouths, desperate grabs, pleasured moans… snap out of it before you let one slip, holy shit.
You stiffened, very aware that this was a bad idea and tried to pull away.
“Relax…” She cooed, alarmingly close to your ear. You bristled a little further. “I only want to help…”
Her hands slid into your hair then, nails raking over your scalp gently before her fingertips began firmly massaging your temples. Your eyes closed involuntarily and most of the tension fled your body without warning. A little sigh escaped your lips and you felt your cheeks start to burn as you sunk into her hands.
“There, isn’t that better?” She murmured softly, a lilt to her voice you couldn’t quite place yet.
“It does feel nice…” You admitted nervously.
Her fingers trailed down from your temples to the back of your neck. Working into the muscles, tight with the start of a tension headache.
“I bet it does, your knots have knots.” She hummed sympathetically, if not a little disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t let it get this bad. It’s not healthy and it feels painful.”
“It’s been a long week…” You responded a little defensively. “I don’t think I can handle many more cases without JJ and Rossi around.”
The words are almost strangled, her hands on your neck both a blessing and a curse. Then they slide down to your shoulders. Kneading and digging into your traps in an earnest attempt to banish the tension there.
“Why is that?” She asked curiously, but there was something more… sensuous, about the way she said it. It sent a small shiver down your spine that, luckily, was easy enough to conceal. But you still wondered if she felt it.
You tensed up slightly again.
“Because, I am not a trained press liaison. JJ does a much better job, and we’re all better off with more of us in the field. You guys almost ran yourselves ragged trying to get everything done, and Hotch didn’t have Rossi to delegate administrative tasks to. Not to mention the locals were being a pain in the ass the whole time. It honestly felt like a bit of a clusterfuck.” You confessed, though that was only half the truth.
“You did a wonderful job with the press, JJ even texted me to tell me she was proud of you.” Hotch murmured from across the aisle, giving you a rare compliment. You glanced over at him in surprise, you hadn’t known JJ had sung your praises to Hotch as well. “But she told you that herself earlier. So why are you really so anxious?”
“It was just a lot for the four of us to take on, that’s all.” You insisted, but Emily’s hands started to work their way down your spine. She found a particularly sore spot and dug her thumb into it mercilessly, forcing a moan to escape your lips without permission.
“Sorry.” You murmured in absolute mortification.
“Don’t apologize.” Emily hushes you, a sly knowing smile on her face. “I like it when you're vocal.”
That startled you so thoroughly that you actually jumped a little. Any other day and it wouldn’t have phased you at all. That type of flirting was normal from Emily, she liked to make you blush. Tonight, however, you were woefully underprepared for her raunchiness. You laughed nervously, knowing that she would expect you to laugh on a normal day.
“Mmmm, I’m with Hotch.” Spencer hummed, finally entering the conversation. “I think something else has you all worked up. You’re missing Morgan, JJ, and Rossi because they’re a good buffer.”
You almost choked on air, he couldn’t possibly have worked that out so easily.
“I don’t know what you mean.” You lied.
He didn’t respond, and instead shared a glance with the others behind your back. Hotch gave a subtle nod to Emily, and she smiled in pure glee, before pulling your hair to one side and tracing her nose down the side of your neck. Her breath caused goosebumps to rise on your skin.
“You don’t? Are you sure?” She murmured, voice taking on a blatantly seductive tone.
You shot a worried glance in Hotch’s direction, only to find his eyes glazed over. Something heated hiding just beneath the surface.
“I- I’m sure.” You stuttered, every bit of that false confidence you’d been building ripped away in an instant. Leaving you a mess, you squeezed your thighs together once more trying to silence the throbbing ache between them, and his eyes flicked down to track the movement.
“You can’t lie to us. We’ve all been paying attention, sweetheart, and we see everything.” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and husky. “You know better.”
Sweetheart? Oh god. What on earth was happening?
You looked away from him quickly, hoping the truth wasn’t on blatant display in your eyes.
He chuckled softly.
Emily’s hand cupped your chin gently as she turned your head to face her, to face all of them.
“Emily?” You murmured in apprehension. She started to lean in closer to you, much closer. Too close for you to keep your wits about you. “What are you doing?”
She was searching your eyes intently for any hint of discomfort or fear.
She found none.
“This.” She whispered and then her lips met yours.
It was a gentle, seeking kiss. Her lips sure and firm against your own. You couldn’t help but lose yourself in it for a moment. The world narrowed down to her.
Her soft lips against yours. The way her mouth moved, seeking more from you. Her hand skimmed up your jaw from your chin and tangled in your hair as she deepened the kiss, pulling a soft whimper from your throat.
A whimper that was echoed by Spencer, just a few feet away.
His soft needy whine pulled you back down to earth, or rather, inside the jet. Where it suddenly dawned on you that Emily was shoving her tongue down your throat, in front of the team. In front of the team and your boss, who was-unfortunately–a stickler for rules.
Jerking away from Emily, you looked over at Hotch.
“Emily!” You gasped quietly, scrambling backward away from her on the seat. Despite your very, very willing participation. She followed you slowly. “What has gotten into you!?”
You were panting, your breaths shaky, your hands even shakier.
She smiled at you softly and threw a glance back over her shoulder at the others. Her gaze seemed to project, I told you so, as she crawled a little closer to you. You looked around at them then—panicked and breathless—the throbbing between your legs not at all helping you to make sense of the situation.
You focused on Hotch. Your eyes searched his frantically, knowing a reprimand would be swiftly coming your way. Or the inevitable glare of disappointment. Or worse, suspension.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor when he smirked at you instead.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He murmured, his voice thick and low, a slight rasp starting to come through. “It was just starting to get interesting.”
What. The. Fuck.
“W-w-what?” You stuttered, unsure if you had maybe misheard him, or imagined the whole fucking thing.
“You heard what I said.” He shrugged at you. “Don’t stop.”
Your mouth opened and closed, trying to form words when you were pretty sure your brain was on a hiatus.
“But-” You started to argue and he furrowed his brows at you.
This absolutely could not be happening. It was impossible. Any second now you were going to wake up and employ that new toy you had ordered specifically to deal with this issue.
“Are you saying you don’t like it when Prentiss kisses you?” He asked, his expression making it clear that he already knew the answer was no. You searched his eyes intently, looking for any sign that this would end poorly for you. What you saw instead was pure, unadulterated lust. The deep hazel of his eyes was almost consumed by his pupils and dark with hunger. He wanted you, he wanted to watch you make out with Emily, wanted to hear your moans and it was driving him crazy. So you shook your head no. Because you definitely did like the way Emily had kissed you and you wanted more. “Then close your mouth before I use it, and let Emily make you feel better.”
“Okay.” You murmured, barely louder than a whisper.
That was all Emily needed to hear.
Her mouth crashed into yours again and she pressed you back against the seat, slowly laying you down. Her body hovered over yours, the sweet scent of her perfume curling around you and numbing your senses. A moan ripped its way out of your mouth and she devoured it whole as her hand rested softly on your leg, just below the knee length hem of your skirt, and began to push it slowly up your thigh. The coolness of the air on your newly exposed skin made you shiver, a small shuddery breath accompanying it.
Emily grinned against your lips.
“Garters, huh? Can’t wait to see if they match your panties.” She murmured, Hotch and Spencer both groaned.
The idea of the two of them watching the two of you and enjoying it… was enough to make you squirm, the throbbing between your legs became agonizing again. Your thighs were rubbing together seeking any amount of friction…
Until Emily forced her knee between your legs, forcing them apart and not allowing the friction you so desperately needed. Her fingers still slowly dragged your skirt up the expanse of your thigh until she had it hiked up around your waist again.
“So pretty…” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and rough.
You turned your head to look at him, not at all phasing Emily who began kissing your neck instead, and found him sitting with his legs spread. His pants were undone and his long thick member was firmly gripped in his palm. If you weren’t so occupied with the fact Emily had found a spot on your neck that made your entire body tingle, your eyes might’ve bugged out of your head.
Emily’s lips managed to coax another soft moan from you and your attention was temporarily diverted. Your head rolled back a little to give her space to work, which made her chuckle. A sound that you were sure was pure sin.
You heard another sound, a soft moan from across the aisle, and you realized that Hotch…
Wasn’t the only one.
Spencer had taken his out as well, watching you intently while stroking himself slowly. A loud and surprising moan erupted from your lips, pulling soft groans from the three of them in response.
You didn’t know what you wanted more.
Emily’s mouth… or either of the cocks now standing at attention in front of you.
However, the decision would not be left up to you.
Emily’s hand was now popping open the buttons of your blouse one by one. Working her way down your stomach, her mouth following her hands slowly. She was taking her sweet time, kissing, sucking and biting gently. Sucking your skin into her mouth and rolling it softly between her teeth, probably leaving some little red marks. Her head dipping lower and lower toward the apex of your thighs.
More little moans escaped through your heavy, panting breaths.
Her mouth finally hovered over the place you wanted it most. Emily’s breath was hot as she slowly closed her lips around your clit over your black lacy panties. A strangled cry breaking free as you threw your head back, your mouth wide and your eyes closing tightly.
Hotch knelt down behind you, pushing his shoulder under your head, forcing you to look down at Emily between your legs. His hand brushed your hair out of your face gently.
“Do you like having Emily’s mouth between your legs, sweetheart?” He hummed against your temple, placing a tender kiss there.
You opened your mouth to answer, but Emily had other plans, sucking harder on your clit that she had been previously, while flicking at it with her tongue. Your panties weren’t even off yet and she had you nearly in tears from the pleasure.
A strangled, half moan, half gasp left your mouth in the place of words.
Hotch chuckled softly and his breath moved your hair, tickling your forehead.
“Where did that clever mouth go? It was working so well earlier.” His fingers curled around your open blouse, and he gently pulled it off your shoulders. He guided you back onto his shoulder again as he placed kisses to the side of your neck, and then tossed the shirt to Spencer, who brought it to his nose and took a deep breath of your perfume.
“She smells so good…” Spencer mumbled softly, still palming his own erection and watching Emily's head move between your legs.
“You have no idea how good she smells.” Emily groaned, biting the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting and then started to suck a hickey over the indentations her teeth had made.
“Why don’t you take her panties off and tell us how she tastes.” Hotch suggested with a smirk, you groaned softly in agreement. Your hips bucked slightly and that knot in your core squeezed tight.
“You like that idea, huh?” He teased gently, you could feel his grin against your temple. Then he threaded his hand through your hair and pulled your head back to mouth hot kisses down the line of your throat.
“I definitely do.” Emily smirked, then hooked her thumbs into the waist of your panties and slowly began to drag them down your hips. Her fingers deftly unclipping your garters from your stockings, then continuing to drag your panties down your legs until she had freed them completely and tossed them to the floor. Her warm breath fanned out across your skin and yours hitched at the sensation. Much to Emily’s delight, goosebumps pebbled your thighs and she ran her fingertips over them slowly. Which only made them worse.
“It’s not braille.” You hissed at her impatiently. “It’s not going to magically spell anything out.”
“That fucking mouth…” She mumbled as she finally closed the distance between her mouth and your pussy. Your hips bucked at the heat of her tongue as she licked a path from your entrance to your clit.
A strangled cry flew from your lips. Emily’s laugh puffed against you, and the only thing keeping you aware of anything at all was the combination of Spencer and Hotch’s laughs filling the space as well.
“Not such a smartass with a tongue on your pussy are you?” Hotch’s gravelly voice reverberated in your ear before he took your ear lobe in his mouth and bit it gently. “Be good for us and we’ll see just how many times we can make you come.”
You only had the mental capacity to nod… because Emily had just sucked your clit into her mouth and was rolling her tongue over it. That—combined with the gentle suction she so mindfully applied—meant whimpering, nodding, and squirming was all you could manage to do.
The warmth of her mouth was obscene, the slick firmness of her tongue enough to make you see stars. She gave a particularly rough pull of suction against your clit and you couldn’t contain yourself.
“Fuck!” You gasped, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.
Hotch wasn’t having that though.
Especially since Spencer was barely containing his own whimpers and moans from the chair across the aisle, where he was watching the entire scene with rapt attention, soaking in every detail. Hotch took your chin in his hand and forced you to look at Spencer.
“Look at him.” He commanded, growling in your ear. “Look at what you’re doing to him, Sweetheart, and you haven’t even touched him.”
You made eye contact with Spencer then, his eyes full of longing, sweat glistening on his brow and his hand struggling to maintain a steady rhythm on his cock. His chest was heaving from the effort it was taking him to remain in control, you could clearly hear his ragged breaths from your place across the cabin. His cheeks were flushed–a ruddy pink–and his hair was disheveled from his fingers, which he kept dragging through it.
“Spence…” You murmured softly, for no other reason than you felt the need to say his name. To acknowledge him and make sure he knew you saw him. To be certain he knew that you appreciated what you saw.
His cock was so hard it was closer to pink than his natural skin tone and you were anxious to do something about it. It looked almost painful.
You felt like you could hear everything he was thinking as he broke eye contact to study the length of your body, then brought his gorgeous amber doe eyes back yours.
“Tell her how beautiful she looks Reid, talk to her, she loves it when you ramble.” Hotch urged him gently. “Don’t you, pretty girl?”
You really did and the pleading look in your eyes was all he needed to see to know that was true.
“You should see yourself right now, Angel…” Spencer murmured softly, hesitantly at first but the heat in your eyes as you gazed back at him was undeniable, and the boost in confidence he needed. “You’re stunning, absolutely ethereal, bewitching even. From the luster of your hair to the delicate curves of your legs, you look like a dream. Your perfect breasts look so firm and smooth, I want to cup my hands around them just to see how it would feel.”
You moaned softly at that and Hotch hummed his agreement and approval of Spencer’s pretty words. He had to admit he was impressed, Reid seemed to have a way of waxing poetic. He watched with glee as your body reacted, both to Emily’s ministrations and Spencer’s words as he continued to speak. “Darling you are divine, the very smell of your perfume is intoxicating. Your lips are tantalizing and I can only imagine the feel of them on mine would be soft as silk.”
You hung on every word, his voice mesmerizing you as he spoke. You had no idea that Spencer had such a way with words. His poetic phrasing had your heart racing and your stomach fluttering.
Emily’s warm tongue slowly drifted away from your clit, trailing down your pussy to the wetness of your entrance… and she began to leisurely fuck you with it. You moaned so loudly it startled you and bit your bottom lip to stifle the noise.
“They can’t hear you in the cockpit, Angel. The door is too thick and the engines are too loud. Not to mention, they’re wearing headsets to communicate with air traffic control.” Spencer explained quietly.
Hotch’s hands started to travel down your body. One slipping into the black see-through mesh and lace of your bra, the other sliding slowly down your stomach and finding your—recently abandoned—clit. He circled it with his fingertips gently. His other hand firmly massaging your breast and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You heard him, Sweetheart. No one can hear you but the three of us, and like Emily said: we like it when you’re vocal.”
You let out a soft whimper and he hummed in approval.
Emily drew most of your attention back to herself as she replaced her tongue with two fingers, stretching you wider and filling you more satisfyingly than before. She stayed between your legs though, sucking and biting at your thighs as she made her fingers match the pace of Spencer’s hand.
You knew that’s what she was doing because you were still watching him from the corner of your eye, and for every downward stroke of his hand, she thrust her fingers inside you at the same moment. Hotch caught on to what she was doing, and he also began to match that rhythm and pace, kissing and nipping at the column of your throat as he played with your clit and nipples.
“Let go babe, we’ve got you. I can feel how close you are, you’ve got my fingers in a vise.” Emily murmured against the skin of your thigh, pressing a kiss to the place she had just bitten. Hotch hummed against your neck.
“Are you gonna come on Emily’s fingers, Sweetheart?” He murmured, before biting your exposed throat gently and laving at it with his tongue.
All you could do was moan in response.
Emily’s mouth found its way back to your clit, nipping Hotch’s finger playfully to make him move it. He looked down at her with a smirk and flicked her forehead teasingly before bringing his hand up to your other breast.
She rolled her eyes at him and flattened her tongue against your clit, then circled it and finally began sucking on it again as she continued to fuck you with her fingers. Hotch was rolling both your nipples between his fingers and returned his mouth to your throat, you were almost certain he was leaving marks there.
He was and it was completely intentional, it was the weekend, and he intended to give you all two extra days off at the start of next week. They would fade.
Emily was getting worked up herself and the sound of your little pants and moans were driving her to distraction. When you let out a particularly loud whimper, she hummed in satisfaction and the vibration made you throw your head back farther and moan so lewdly that Hotch picked his head up to look at your face.
Your eyes were squeezed shut, your supple lips were shaped in a wide ‘O’ and he couldn’t help himself anymore, your mouth was just begging to be filled.
You were vaguely aware that he had lifted your head off his shoulder and moved to stand, but you were too focused on Emily—and her mouth— to wonder why.
Then something warm bumped your chin.
You opened your eyes and found Hotch standing in front of you, his cock bouncing just out of reach of your mouth. You looked up and met his eyes, questioningly.
He smirked down at you, reaching out and cupping your jaw in his hand. His calloused thumb rubbed a small circle on the smooth skin of your cheek.
“I told you to close your mouth or I’d use it.” He murmured, voice low and rough. His thumb stretched to pull your lip down just a little and let it snap back into place, then brushed the corner of your mouth softly.
You didn’t respond, you just opened your mouth a little wider and offered it to him.
“Fuck.” He murmured, barely louder than a whisper.
Em chuckled quietly and the vibrations ran straight up your spine then down your legs, making your toes curl. You threaded your hands through Emily’s hair, needing something, anything, to hold on to.
“A little wider sweetheart.” Hotch prompted you.
You obeyed immediately, opening your mouth as wide as you could and maintaining eye contact with him. You knew he would like the attention and he did, rewarding you with his thick cock as he slid it slowly into the warmth of your mouth.
He tasted clean, but salty, and the precum that was already leaking from him was sweet as well with a slightly bitter—but delicious—aftertaste. You groaned as you closed your lips around him.
“How does her mouth feel?” Spencer’s voice was strained, he still hadn’t moved to touch you, content to observe.
To learn.
“She’s perfect.” Hotch groaned, his hand buried in your hair fisting it firmly but not roughly. He began to use it to pull you slowly up and down the length of his cock. “Fuck sweetheart, you feel amazing.” He murmured looking down at you affectionately, “You’re so warm, and you’re being so pliant for me.”
You kept eye contact with him, trying to focus on him… While also being on the verge of coming from Emily’s tongue on your clit, her finger pumping in and out of your pussy. All three of them were still matching pace with each other, and it was intoxicating. In and out and in and out, all at the same time.
Realizing how close you were, just needing a little push to fall over the edge, Emily reached up and started rolling your nipple beneath the lace of your bra. Then she slightly changed the angle of her fingers, curling them slightly to brush against your g-spot with every thrust.
You uttered a very strangled cry, the sound muffled around Hotch’s thickness. “Whatever you just did, she liked it. Didn’t you, pretty girl?”
You moaned in response and his hand tightened in your hair, a low hiss sliding through his clenched teeth.
Emily chuckled and kept her pace steady, but the vibration of her laughter around your clit as she sucked on it was all it took to send you spiraling into blissful oblivion.
Your body felt fuzzy and warm and your pussy was pulsing uncontrollably around Emily’s fingers. Your legs were shaking and you finally broke eye contact with Hotch as you scrunched your face up in pleasure. Eyes closed tightly as she fucked you through it, then licked your pussy from bottom to top as though savoring the taste of your orgasm.
Your body slowly relaxed again and when Emily pressed one more kiss to your clit then stood from the couch, you opened your eyes again to look up at her. Panting heavily as you realized now, that Hotch had pulled out of your mouth so that you could breathe through your orgasm.
Emily smirked down at you and then held her two glistening fingers up to the light for Hotch to inspect. He looked at them with a feral sort of hunger in his eyes.
“Do you want to taste her?” Emily asked him, a sly grin on her face as she offered her middle finger up to him. “She’s delicious…” She purred, and Hotch glanced down at you, recovering from your orgasm with a look of pure adoration for Emily in your eyes.
Then he turned his head toward her and grabbed her wrist with his free hand, before drawing her finger into his mouth… and sucking it clean.
You groaned and let your head rest against his hand that was still tangled in your hair.
“Fuck, she tastes like heaven. Reid, you wanna taste?” Hotch asked the younger man, then turned his attention back to you, tugging lightly on your hair. “Get down on your knees for me, Sweetheart.” He coaxed gently.
You obeyed him, getting down on your knees in front of him, but watched Reid and Prentiss as you did it. She was offering her ring finger to him and he was licking it clean and groaning, as he stroked himself a little harder.
Spencer… Spencer who didn’t shake hands because of germs… was licking Emily’s finger, just so he could taste you.
Fuck…
You whimpered softly and Hotch chuckled quietly, using your hair to tilt your face up to look at him .
“You can have him as soon as I’m done with your pretty little mouth.” He murmured teasingly. “Open up sweetheart.” You let your mouth fall open in what you hoped was a sexy expression. “So pretty…” He whispered for the second time that night as he slid his cock back into your mouth.
He used your hair—again, to your delight—to guide your mouth up and down his considerable length. He was taking it slow, going easy on you… you didn’t like that, not one bit. So you surged forward on his cock, taking as much of him as you could without gagging and he let out a sharp, gasping, string of barely intelligible obscenities.
You tried to pull back a bit to do it again… but he held you firmly in place.
“You want me to fuck your mouth, pretty girl? Blink once for no, twice for yes.” You moaned, looking up at him from under your lashes and pleading with your eyes, you blinked twice.
That is exactly what you wanted.
He chuckled quietly and then gave you a soft look.
“Have you ever had your mouth fucked before? Once for no, twice for yes.” You blinked once—you hadn’t and you were nervous because with his cock so deep in your throat you couldn’t breathe, you were also struggling not to gag—but you wanted him to do it so badly in that moment.
“Then listen closely, so I don’t hurt you.” He warned you, then caressed your neck tenderly. “Relax your throat, soften the back of your mouth.” He instructed gently. “Go ahead, I’ll tell you when you’ve done it right.” You tried to do as he asked, relaxing all the muscles in your throat and opening the back of your mouth. “Good girl, that’s perfect.”
Your head was starting to feel fuzzy from lack of oxygen, but you knew he wouldn’t hurt you so you didn’t panic.
“Keep your jaw loose and let me move you, don’t fight against me or try to help. It’ll make you sore if you do. You can’t breathe right now can you?” He asked, seemingly knowing the answer was no, but you blinked once anyway. “You are going to have to focus on your breathing. Time it so that you take a full inhale through your nose as I’m pulling out.”
He pulled you back off his cock just enough so that your airway was clear, you immediately sucked in a full breath and your head cleared.
“Good girl…” He soothed, stroking your cheek with the back of his finger. “When you take a breath, hold it. Then release it when I pull out the next time. Do you understand?”
You blinked twice.
“Perfect.”
He started so slowly—barely moving at all—letting you get the hang of how to breathe and how to keep everything loose and relaxed.
“That’s perfect, sweetheart, just like that.” He praised you after a minute, and then he slowly increased his pace, going a little deeper as well.
“Look how well she takes it…” Emily purred, kneeling down next to you and brushing a stray hair from your face. “Such a good girl…” She cooed, running her hand down your bare back.
Her words only served to fuel your ego and you preened under her praise.
“She’s a natural…” Hotch agreed and brought his free hand up to your cheek. “Think you can take it a little faster, pretty girl?” He asked, stroking your skin with his thumb.
You blinked twice.
“Good girl, remember to breathe in on every other one.” He both praised and reminded you softly as he picked up the pace. His cock was touching the back of your throat now with every inward thrust. His hand in your hair supported your head and held you completely still. You were like putty in his hands, and Hotch was reveling in it. He loved the way you completely surrendered and trusted him with something you’d never experienced before. “Fuck, Sweetheart… you’re taking me so well. I’m so proud of you.”
The tone of voice he was using—low and rough—was making your pussy throb all over again.
You moaned and he lost a little bit of his restraint, fucking into your mouth a little harder than he had been before, but not hard enough to hurt you. It was making your eyes water, however, and you had tears running down your cheeks. Hotch was enthralled by them, by the mascara tracks they were leaving and the way they changed the shade of your eyes slightly. “Such a good fucking girl, letting me fuck your mouth like this… you’re perfection, sweetheart.”
“Look at what you’re doing to him…” Emily whispered softly in your ear. “He’s barely holding on, you’re driving him crazy with those pouty, fuckable lips and pleading puppy dog eyes… you should see yourself the way he’s seeing you right now… you’re fucking beautiful baby.”
You moaned and it would’ve been loud and obscene if not for the cock in your mouth.
Hotch’s hips stuttered and he cursed, you knew that meant he was close.
“I’m about to come, pretty girl…” He gritted out, his hand in your hair tightening. “Can you take it?”
You moaned and blinked twice at him, then held eye contact. You didn’t know how you knew that would send him over the edge, you just did.
Then he was spilling himself down your throat, and you swallowed every fucking drop, then sucked him clean. He pulled his cock from your mouth and tucked it back into his briefs, then squatted down in front of you. The thumb of his free hand wiped a drop of liquid off your chin and he brought it to your lips, the look in his eyes almost challenging.
You licked his thumb from base to tip, then closed your lips around it and lightly sucked on it. He smiled at you then, pulling his thumb from your mouth and sliding that hand back to join his other in your hair. Hotch pulled you toward him gently as he started to lean in and murmured, “Such a good girl…”
The kiss he gave you was hot, sloppy and branding. He could taste himself in your mouth as his tongue invaded it and he was obsessed with the mingling of his flavor and yours. You moaned into his mouth and tried to deepen the kiss again, but he heard Spencer’s ragged breathing behind him and pulled back.
“You wanna ride Reid’s cock, Sweetheart?” He murmured loudly enough that Spencer also heard him and you both whimpered pathetically at the suggestion.
Hotch and Emily both chuckled, and then Hotch put his hands on your waist to help you stand and guided you over to the chair Spencer was in. Your legs were shaking and you were as clumsy as a baby giraffe stumbling over to him.
Spencer was looking up at you with those big amber puppy dog eyes and you felt even weaker in the knees, luckily you didn’t have to stand for much longer. Hotch steadied you on your wobbly legs until you climbed up onto Spencer’s lap, straddling him.
He was hesitant to touch you, his observation had started this whole thing and when he had suggested an experiment… he hadn’t expected it to end in sex…especially not group sex. When Hotch and Emily had started talking about consent and ground rules—lines that couldn’t be crossed— he had been sent reeling.
When he had asked if they’d noticed you acting strangely it had been out of concern for your wellbeing. When he had suggested they test the hypothesis he had merely meant to prove whether you were into men, women, or both.
He had wanted a scientific experiment, not sexual experimentation.
Not that he was complaining…
He, Emily, and Hotch were all three bisexual. Hotch didn’t really broadcast that fact, especially not in front of the others. Even though Spencer was pretty sure the only two on the team who weren’t queer were Rossi and Derek, and he wasn’t even sure about Rossi sometimes. So it wasn’t a big deal if you were or were not bisexual. He had only been curious.
Curiosity killed the cat or something like that… yet this time he had ended up with your bare pussy hovering over his cock, and he was not at all upset with this outcome. Just incredibly shocked. You were so beautiful, looking down at him with your tear stained cheeks and swollen lips. He still hesitated, however, because he wasn’t sure whether or not you really wanted him, or if he was being included simply because he was here.
You could see that hesitation, that self doubt in his eyes… you hated it.
So you leaned in and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss at first… reassuring and gentle. You were giving him plenty of time to work his nerve up. When he didn’t pull away—and even started to reciprocate—you deepened the kiss and teased at his lips with your tongue.
Requesting entry.
He parted his lips for you immediately, you smiled against him before you let your tongue caress his sinfully. His body was no longer rigid, but he was still tense. You moved to kissing his neck and nipping at his skin.
“Relax Spence…” You murmured sensually, running your hands through his hair and brushing it back from his forehead. “Let me lead, I’ll take care of you.” Pulling back and checking in to make sure, before you went too far, you looked him in the eyes, searching them intently. “Is this okay with you, Handsome?”
He nodded, biting his bottom lip in a way that made you want to bite it too.
“Yes.” He murmured, still hesitating… then whispered, “I just– I’ve only done this twice… I don’t know what to do in this position…”
Oh…
“That’s okay, I didn’t know what to do a minute ago and Hotch talked me right through it… We can do that for you, if you want?” You offered him gently. Your eyes were soft and kind, but let him see just how badly you wanted him. “Besides… I’ll enjoy being able to teach you something for once.”
He laughed softly, and some of the tension melted away from him.
“Okay.” He agreed. “Tell me what to do.”
Then in a burst of confidence, he reached up and tucked your hair behind your ear.
You hummed in approval.
“Touching me would be a great start.” You teased gently, not at all trying to bruise his ego.
“That’s true…” He joked quietly and his hands settled on your waist, then started to slowly trail up your sides. Lightly dancing over your ribs. “What if… I did this as well?”
And then his hands were reaching around to the clasp of your bra and deftly unhooking it. Which shocked you given his inexperience… you’d bet anything that he’d practiced somehow so he wouldn’t fumble when it mattered.
You reached down between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. He sucked in a sharp gasp, jumping at the contact and your soft chuckle was echoed by two more behind you.
“Then I would do this and tell you that you have great instincts if you’ll just listen to them.” You started to slowly pump your hand up and down his length and he groaned. It was an almost tortured sound, as though you were both killing him and pleasuring him at the same time.
He slid the straps of your bra down your arms and you briefly let go of him to toss it to the floor. You sat up a little straighter as he took in the sight of you, sitting astride him in nothing but a garter belt and thigh-high stockings.
“You’re so beautiful, Angel…” he murmured, then leaned forward and pressed kisses to your breasts.
You lost patience then.
“Are you ready?” You asked him as you lined him up with your entrance, barely putting the tip in.
Your hands were trembling and your breathing was rapid and shaky.
“Aren’t I supposed to be the one who asks you that?” He responded, but his voice cracked and you knew he was putting on bravado. He was every bit as desperate as you, his breaths ragged and harsh.
“Spence…” You whimpered, needing his permission to sink down on it. “Please.”
He didn’t respond, instead he gripped your hips firmly and tugged you down onto his cock until you were fully seated on it. You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, and every little twitch it made.
“Fuck!” You moaned, loudly, earning snickers and snorts from the two voyeurs sitting on the couch behind you.
“Shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?” He panicked.
“That was definitely not a sound of pain, Reid.” Hotch murmured.
Spencer looked at you closely anyway, unsure if you were alright.
“You told me to follow my instincts so I–”
You kissed him, to shut him up and stop his doubts from running away with his head. Then you started to ride him slowly. He groaned against your lips and you smiled. The feel of him—filling you up—was exquisite.
“Your instincts are perfect Spencer…” You praised him, letting your hands drift back into his hair. “That was hot.”
His beautiful eyes gazing up at you as you rode him made you feel a little dizzy, he was so fucking pretty. He was gripping your hips tightly and every time you brought them back down he whimpered. The sounds he was making were driving you insane.
“Tilt your hips forward a bit more, sweetheart.” Hotch instructed you, his voice low and raspy. “It’ll help you take him deeper, and feel twice as good for him.”
He was right, and you did know that already, but it was so fucking sexy when he started giving orders.
“And for her.” Prentiss added, you could hear the salacious smile in her tone.
“Like this?” You asked in a faux bashful tone, as if you didn’t know how to do it. Then you did it perfectly, so that you and Reid both groaned, and your ass popped back enticingly for Hotch and Emily.
They both groaned softly and you smiled, winking at Spencer. Letting him in on your antics. He smiled back at you, as amused as he could be—given the circumstances.
“What about this? Do you think this would make him feel good?” You asked, rolling and circling your hips seductively as you rode him.
Spencer hissed out a breath, his eyes rolling back briefly.
“I can confirm that it does in fact feel amazing.” He groaned, you giggled and threw a flirty glance back over your shoulder at the others. Then leaned forward and sucked Spencer’s bottom lip into your mouth, biting it. He slid his hands down to your thighs squeezing tightly, then over your thighs where he looped his fingers into your stockings and peeled them down your legs, tossing them to the floor. Then traced his fingers back up your calves and thighs, back to your hips and you noticed he was avoiding your ass… So did Prentiss.
You felt the heat of her body behind you before you heard her voice, and pulled back to look up at her.
“Don’t be shy Reid…” She purred, her hands landing on his, dragging them back till they rested fully on your ass. “Get a good handful… or two.” She made him squeeze you firmly. You moaned and Emily chuckled. “See… She loves that, don’t you babe?”
“Yes!” You moaned wantonly, and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. Hotch had moved closer and was perched on the edge of the table next to the seat you and Spencer were in. He was watching with a ravenous hunger in his eyes.
“Put her nipple in your mouth, Reid.” He said after a moment. “Suck on it while circling your tongue around it.”
Emily hummed her approval, they were giving Spencer a veritable textbook for How To Make You Come 101. Spencer listened, of course. He’d just watched Hotch and Emily tag team you into an orgasm, their words were as good as gold.
When his lips closed around your nipple you hissed and whimpered a little, picking up your pace as you bounced up and down on his cock. Hotch chuckled in lust filled amusement, reaching over and stroking your ribs with the back of his hand.
“She makes such beautiful little sounds.” He mused to Emily, who nodded and then grabbed a handful of your hair.
She used it to tip your head back then kissed you thoroughly, her tongue caressing yours and you could still taste your pussy on her lips. You moaned and ground yourself down against Spencer, his cock reaching all the way to your cervix, you felt as though you could feel him in your stomach.
Hotch’s fingers were tracing your ribs, or maybe that was Spencer? No, his hands were still on your ass so it had to be Hotch or Emily. Someone was trailing a hand down your stomach to where your body joined with Spencer’s, this hand was larger and callused while the other was soft and smaller. So Emily was tracing your ribs, while Hotch…
Hotch was on a collision course with your clit. You knew when he made impact, you’d see stars.
Spencer switched nipples, still kneading your ass with firmness and your muscles were starting to ache from pulling yourself up and down his cock at this pace. Emily was still lighting you up with her kiss, her fingers traveling down the line of your rib to the breast that Reid had started with. Hotch’s fingers were getting closer and closer, but they were moving so slowly you knew he was trying to drive you wild with anticipation.
It was working.
Your chest was heaving, you were trembling and your legs were aching deliciously from exertion. Spencer’s cock was hitting you perfectly every time you sank down on it. All the sensations combined were almost too much for your sanity. You were so close, again.
“Look at you, falling apart at the seams… you’re so close aren’t you sweetheart?” Hotch murmured, his voice a lot closer than it had last been. What was he, a mind reader? His nose skimmed your neck up to your ear, which he then bit gently. You moaned into Emily’s mouth, a pitiful little whimper, and you felt her smile softly against your lips. “Does Reid’s cock feel so good? Filling you up like that. Stretching you out. I wonder, can you still taste yourself on Emily’s lips? Do you know how good you taste, pretty girl?”
Fuck, was he trying to kill you?
It was like his voice had gained a solid form and had wrapped itself around your throat, cutting off your oxygen and leaving you completely breathless. Your senses were overwhelmed, in a state of near euphoria, and you knew that once Hotch’s fingers reached their destination—and they would in the next three seconds—that the barest graze of them was going to make you explode.
He stopped just short of his target. You whined against Emily’s lips and he laughed at you softly.
“I think she ought to earn this one… What do you think, Prentiss? Should we make her beg?” Hotch asked the other woman, he didn’t ask Reid because the poor man was barely holding it together and all of his focus was split between the nipple he was currently stimulating and not coming inside you without consent.
Emily—reluctantly—pulled her tongue out of your mouth and smirked down at you.
“Hmm, she was being a little bit of a tease a minute ago wasn’t she?” She made a show of looking very contemplative, all the while she continued toying with your other nipple. “Reid?”
She brought Spencer into the conversation—or she tried to.
“Busy.” He murmured against the skin of your breast as he continued his work there, he would not be distracted. You glanced down and saw that he had started marking your skin with hickeys.
You moaned at the sight and let your head fall back.
“You want me to beg, and I’ll beg. Just please don’t make him stop.” Your voice was heavy, rough and breathless. You were so incredibly close, your body was starting to shake, and you knew you’d come, whether they kept touching you or not.
They knew it too, but they also knew they could make it so much stronger… if you were good for them.
“It feels so good, huh, sweetheart?” Hotch asked, his tone slightly condescending. “If you ask nicely, we’ll give you what you need…”
His hand was still stalled on your lower abdomen less than an inch away from your clit. Emily was just barely teasing your nipple and while it seemed like Spencer was ignoring them, you knew he was giving you just enough to keep you on the edge. Sneaky.
However, you expected no less from him. He was a fast and visual learner, he had been watching closely when Hotch and Emily had been playing you like a fiddle. He could have had you screaming all on his own if he’d wanted to—you had no doubt about that— he’d just needed the confidence to get started.
Hotch and Emily had helped with that.
“I’ll be such a good girl if you let me come, Hotch, please…” You gave him the sexiest pout you could muster. His eyes seemed to darken—his hazel irises almost completely drowned out by his pupils—as they zoned in on your lips. “I’ll mind my manners and be so polite, I promise. Pretty please, make me come.”
Hotch was listening, and he had intended to make you beg more than this, but your lipstick smudged lips were just so alluring that he couldn’t focus on anything else at that moment. Remembering what they’d looked like wrapped around his cock several minutes earlier, he found his will rapidly dissolving, and all he really wanted was to watch the way those lips formed a perfect O when you came.
“I knew you’d sound so sweet begging…” He murmured, and his hand started to move again “Let us hear you, pretty girl. Loud and clear.”
“Yes sir.” You murmured confidently.
Emily chuckled and started sucking on your neck, you moaned… Then Hotch’s fingers—finally—found your clit.
You screamed.
Your vision went fuzzy and then white. Your head was buzzing and your body was nearly numb. You went limp and Spencer took over, fucking you through your orgasm, prolonging it. Emily’s hand had begun rubbing soothing circles on your back.
“Good girl…” She cooed. “You look so pretty when you come.”
“Yes she does.” Hotch murmured, reaching over to where your head was resting on Spencer’s shoulder and brushing your hair away from your face. “So fucking pretty.”
You whimpered softly at the touch and he smiled tenderly at you. Your chest was heaving with hard-fought, ragged breaths. You were shaking, but your vision was slowly returning to normal.
“Are you alright?” Spencer whispered gently in your ear. His hands on your waist now, thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fucking fantastic, Spence…” You murmured in return, shifting your weight slightly to sit up and kiss him. He squeezed your hips tightly.
“Please don’t move.” He hissed, pleadingly. “I can’t… I’m gonna… If you don’t get off it, I’m going to come inside you. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”
You froze, your lips just a centimeter from his.
“It’s okay… Don’t panic… They make pills for that, and I intend to take one anyway… I’m a little stuck at the moment though, my knees are too weak to get up.” You met his eyes, the panic in them was astounding. “Hotch, could you–”
The man's arms were already coming around your waist and he lifted you off of Spencer effortlessly, as the younger man bit his lip and hissed as if pained. Setting you on your feet softly, Hotch held you to his chest to keep you from falling to the floor.
“Didn’t you say you’d mind your manners and be polite if we let you come?” He asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.
You looked up at him, searching his eyes for a hint, a clue, anything to tell you what he was up to.
“Mm hmm…” You hummed in response, nodding at him.
“You made a mess Sweetheart…” He told you quietly, then took your chin in his hand and turned your face down to look at Spencer… Who was, in fact, a whimpering mess. “Clean it up.”
You licked your lips and smiled salaciously.
“Yes sir.” You murmured softly and got down on your knees at Spencer’s feet.
Reaching out and taking Spencer’s cock in your hand, you gave him a firm stroke. He moaned and his head fell back against the seat. So he didn’t see you coming when you lowered your head and took him in your mouth, all the way to the base.
“Oh fuck!” He yelped, you hummed in approval at his reaction, then you pulled back so that a manageable length was in your mouth. You put one hand on his thigh to brace yourself and create a little leverage, the other you wrapped around the rest of him. Slowly, you started to bob up and down, moving your hand in time with your head. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Spencer’s hands gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white. That only spurred you on.
The taste of yourself on his cock was tantalizing, the tang of you mingling with the musk of him was something you never thought you would experience. This whole situation was something you never thought you’d experience. You’d considered it of course—more times than you could count— but it was only a fantasy, a daydream. Never had you once thought it might actually happen.
“She’s doing so well… don’t you think Hotch?” Emily’s voice purred on your right.
“Hmmm, I don’t know… she’s capable of more…” He hummed in response from the left, and a hand—that based on the size could only be his—palmed the curve of your ass. He gave it a squeeze and a playful smack and you moaned around Spence's cock. Spencer twitched in response.
“You think she can take more?” Emily asked him, her tone was nothing short of sinful and it made you shiver. Hotch’s following chuckle, however, went straight to your pussy, making you squeeze your thighs together. Suddenly, you were completely desperate again..
“I know she can.” He answered, with a confidence that made your toes curl. His voice tended to do that to you, but when he put that cocky, self assured, arrogant rasp behind it… Goddamn. It was the voice he used when he knew he had the upper hand, when he had an unsub completely caught up in a lie, a trap of their own making. The voice that made your knees weak and your thighs tighten. It went straight to your pussy every time, making it clench around nothing. “Why don’t you help her along?”
“I’d love to.” She purred.
Then Emily’s hand was in your hair, resting firmly on the back of your head.
“You heard him, Gorgeous…” she lilted provocatively as her hand grew heavier on your head, slowly pushing you down the lengthy expanse of Spencer’s cock, until your nose was touching the neat patch of hair at his base.
“Fuck, Angel…” Spencer groaned, his voice husky and strained. “I’m so close…”
You gave him a muffled little hum of approval and that was all he needed to fall over the edge. Spilling down your throat as he moaned loudly, his hands joined Emily’s in your hair and he held you there firmly until he was finished.
You swallowed as much as you could and then—when they released your head—you sucked and licked him clean.
“Thank you, Angel. That was… incredible.” Spencer murmured, reaching up to stroke your cheek tenderly with the back of his forefinger. You leaned into the touch and then gave him a sensuous smile as you climbed back up into his lap. You brought your lips to his before he could say another word and kissed him deeply, letting him taste the mixture of all the flavors that had accumulated on your tongue. It was by far the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. He moaned into your mouth and you pulled back to smile at him.
“You are very. Very. Welcome.” You purred, punctuating each very with a gentle kiss and biting his bottom lip after welcome. “It was my pleasure…”
Hotch and Emily chuckled softly at your antics and you noticed that Em sounded a bit shaky. Then you realized she was the only one who hadn’t come at least once… you’d have to remedy that.
Hotch—astute as ever—immediately noticed when your eyes locked onto Emily’s form. He chuckled again, looking between you and her, then stood and helped her to her feet as well, guiding her to the space between you and the couch you both had started this whole thing on.
“You want Prentiss again, sweetheart?” He asked, his smirk letting you know he knew exactly what was on your mind. You simply nodded your head, never taking your eyes off her. “Hmm… What do you think, Emily? Has she earned the right to touch you yet?”
She smirked down at you, trying to maintain her slightly condescending attitude… but you could read her like a book, and she was so turned on she was struggling to breathe regularly. You smirked back at her and she raised a brow at you.
“I don’t know, she seems a little too cocky about it to me.” She answered him, only prolonging her own discomfort.
“Am I?” You murmured, giving her a teasing smile. “Take it from the boys, Em. I could rock your world…”
She laughed softly.
“I bet you could, but I wanna hear you beg for it…” She purred, grinning at you. “Tell me how much you want it.”
You started to get up and reach for her, to show her how much you wanted her… but she stepped back, bumping into Hotch’s chest. He steadied her without hesitation, his hands stayed planted firmly on her hips and to your surprise, Spencer gripped your own hips. Tugging you back down into his lap so that you now faced the others, he held you in place.
“She said tell her, Angel…” Spencer murmured, his breath tickling your ear. You were shocked at his sudden burst of dominance. Your eyes widened slightly and your lips parted in surprise.
Hotch chuckled and you studied the three of them carefully… they were all smiling at you, their eyes holding the same teasing light. It was as though they were waiting for you to notice something. You just didn’t know what.
“You don’t get to touch her yet, sweetheart… not until she gives you permission.” Hotch murmured teasingly. “You can look though…”
Then his hands slid around her waist to the front of her pants, and he began to unbuckle her belt.
“Oh fuck…” you whispered on a breathy sigh. This would be the death of you, you were sure. Your head tipped back as you looked to the ceiling, as though praying for patience or guidance—or perhaps salvation because you felt certifiably damned—but Spencer had other ideas.
“Don’t look away.” He instructed you, his voice low and commanding as he gripped your chin and made you look back at them. You’d never heard him speak with so much authority, and yet somehow it was still so soft that it was barely audible. “They’re doing this for you…”
Hotch continued his mission to rid Emily of her slacks by unbuttoning and then unzipping them. Then he slipped them down her legs and held her hand to steady her as she stepped out of them. She kept her heels on, now standing before you in just her button down blouse and undershirt.
Your brain was short circuiting.
“Please, Em… I need to touch you.” You murmured softly and she smirked at you, scarlet lips tipping up to one side.
“Not yet…” She taunted.
Hotch reached around her again and started to unbutton her blouse, his pace was agonizing. You noticed that he was careful not to touch her body at all, now that she was only half clothed, and his eyes were locked on you… not her.
They really were doing this just for you.
How they knew you’d find it hot to watch him undress her, you didn’t know, but it was working. They didn’t seem uncomfortable, no… they were enjoying themselves as they teased you mercilessly.
When he slid the blouse down her shoulders and it fell to the floor, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. She was wearing that one red tank top that always made you drool.
“Emily…” you nearly whimpered. “Please…”
She looked smug as she shook her head, reveling in the shakiness of your voice. She knew what that tank top did to you…
“Do you want to see him take it off me?” She asked, sweet as sugar… in a saccharine kind of way.
“I’d rather do it myself…” you implored, giving her a pouty look.
Her breath hitched and you knew… you were going to win this one.
“But if I’m being totally honest… I have this… fantasy… of you, in this exact outfit. I want you just like this, you’ve always looked so sexy in red, Em.” You purred, and you can tell you’ve surprised her for once. She was speechless for a moment and Hotch smirked at you, his eyes showing his amusement at this little standoff between you and Emily. “You know you want me Emily… just give in.”
You licked your bottom lip subtly, then bit it, trying to tempt her by looking up at her as innocent as a lamb. She had spotted your ploy a mile away, seen it coming from the moment you said she looked sexy in red.
It still worked.
“I will.” She drawled sensually, her eyes tracing your body. “If you get on your hands and knees and crawl to me.”
She stepped away from Hotch and sat on the couch with her legs spread wide, revealing red lace panties that matched her red tank top.
“Fuck…” you breathed. “You win… you win Em… just… God, let me touch you… please.” You pleaded. “I fucking need you.”
“Crawl to me, Gorgeous.” She finally conceded, smiling at you triumphantly.
And you let her think she had the upper hand, as you slipped out of Spencer’s lap and to the floor, but you knew once you got your hands on her—your mouth on her—she’d be putty in them.
Hotch moved to Spencer’s side and leaned against the wall—to watch the show of course—and nodded at you encouragingly.
You took your time, crawling seductively across the cabin to her, using every inch of the space to taunt her. She devoured you with her eyes and when you got to her feet, picked her right one up and propped it on your shoulder. You planted soft kisses on the inside of her ankle, never breaking eye contact.
“I have dreams that start out just like this…” you murmured to her.
“So do I.” She admitted, her voice breathless and shaky.
“Mmm…” you hummed softly, then purred, “Then what happens?”
She laughed softly, trying to seem unaffected again, but it was much too late for that. You knew exactly what you were doing to her.
“What’s the matter, Em?” You teased, beginning to kiss your way up the inside of her leg. “Cat got your tongue?” She seemed to lose all semblance of composure and you giggled softly against her soft skin. “Don’t worry… I can figure it out. I’m very creative.”
The roles had been reversed, and you’d never felt more in control than in that moment, kneeling between her legs. You slid your hands up her thighs and around her hips, gripping her ass firmly and then pulled her to the edge of the couch in one smooth motion.
For better access of course.
She yelped in surprise and you chuckled against her skin, never checking up as you continued kissing your way up her leg. You’d made it to her inner thigh and she was trembling. You looked up at her from under your lashes and smirked.
“I like it when you’re vocal.” You teased her, repeating her words back to her and earning a soft laugh from Hotch in return.
Emily started to say something but you flatten your tongue against her pussy—through her panties—and she moaned instead.
You hummed at the sound, reveling in it and lapped at her clit enthusiastically. Not bothering to tease her at all, just diving right in—to shut her up and wipe the smug smile off her gorgeous lips—and showing her exactly how creative you could be with your tongue.
But that didn’t satisfy your hunger for her at all, no… you needed to taste her, without the lace that was currently barring you from doing it.
You gently moved her panties to the side and took in the sight of her, bare and wet—absolutely soaked—all for you.
“Oh Emily…” You purred. “You’re dripping for me… and such a pretty pussy too. I wonder if it tastes as delicious as it looks?”
You were dying for her to regain a little sentience.
Docile, desperately horny Em was cute… but you wanted her sassy, confident self to come back out to play. You puffed a hot, teasing breath over the supple skin of her pussy and slowly, so slowly, licked her from her slit all the way to her clit. You stopped just short of it though, teasing her entrance with your tongue instead.
“Stop teasing me before I change my mind.” She growled impatiently, her hand tangling in your hair and tipping your head back to make eye contact.
You smirked up at her, a bit defiantly, and said softly, “Ask me nicely…”
Her eyes narrowed slightly and her head tilted to the side just a fraction as she stared you down, she seemed to be contemplating her options here. She could either let you get away with that and actually say please, or she could do whatever just crossed her mind and made those beautiful onyx eyes flicker with heat.
“Please, stop teasing me.” She murmured softly, leaning down so that her lips brushed your cheek as she moved to whisper in your ear. “Or I will take care of this pretty pussy all by myself, and make you watch from Spencer’s lap.”
You chuckled, biting your bottom lip as you turned your head to look at her.
“Mmm, I love it when you’re bossy.” You murmured, your nose less than an inch from hers now.
“Do you?” She purred, leaning closer so her lips are hovering just over yours, sharing your every breath. You nodded, yes, and she grinned salaciously at you, moving closer so she could bite your bottom lip herself. “Then stop talking, and do something useful with that silver tongue instead.”
You felt your cheeks heat, whether it was embarrassment or arousal—or a mix of both—you weren’t certain. But you loved the way it felt.
“Yes ma’am.” You purred, your voice dripping with pure seduction.
You felt her hand vacate your hair and didn’t waste time. Leaning forward, you licked her cunt from bottom to top in one smooth motion. Your tongue—finally—delving in to taste her, before you buried yourself between her thighs and ate her pussy like you were starving. She was delectable. Her arousal like honey on your tongue, and she just kept getting wetter.
The more you explored and experimented with her, the more you learned.
For instance, if you suctioned your lips tightly around her clit and rolled your tongue in circles around it, she couldn’t help but squirm as she let out soft little moans. If you added two fingers, curling just slightly upwards, and used them to massage that spot—just past the ridge of her pubic bone—she bucked against you wildly. So you gripped her by her thighs and hoisted them up onto your shoulders, forcing her to lean back on the couch and spread herself wider for you. The new angle gave you more leverage with your fingers and allowed you to apply firmer pressure with your tongue.
She was putty in your hands, just as you knew she would be. Her ragged breaths and quiet whimpers were growing more and more desperate, her hands grappling for purchase on any part of you she could reach. You were unsurprised when they found your hair, threading into it and taking two fistfuls that had your scalp stinging delightfully. You moaned against her and then felt her walls start to flutter around your fingers.
“Don’t stop, don’t change anything, I’m so close!” She panted, her voice raw with desire.
You suppressed the urge to grin, needing to maintain the seal of your lips around her clit, the pressure of your tongue… but you couldn’t help feeling a little smug. Especially as she clamped down hard on your fingers, her thighs quivering and trying to close around your head. Her entire body went taunt, her back arching and her head falling back against the couch as she cried out, “Oh God!”
Only when her body fully relaxed and her grip loosened in your hair, did you allow yourself to smirk against her pussy and look up at her from under your lashes. She didn’t notice—too busy recovering from the mind blowing head you’d just given her—Hotch, however, did.
“Look at you, being all smug.” His voice ran up your spine like molten lava. You didn’t dare peek over at him, choosing instead to pepper Emily’s fevered skin with soft, barely there kisses. First over her inner thighs, then her lower stomach where her tank had ridden up nearly to her breasts. “Are you proud of yourself, Pretty Girl?”
Hotch’s hand perched softly at the nape of your neck, he squeezed gently but firmly. His hand slid down your back slowly, his finger slipping into your garter belt—the only item of clothing left on you—and snapping the elastic against your spine. You moaned softly at the sting and he chuckled softly. He began to guide the belt down your hips, over your ass and thighs, to your knees. Tapping each in silent command. You complied, lifting them one at a time so he could—finally—strip you completely bare. “Such a good girl…”
His murmured praise had you aching again as you continued your worshipful path of kisses up the plain of Emily’s belly. Not stopping when you reached her tank, instead starting to lift it over her head with her willing assistance. You tossed it to the floor and pushed her gently to her back, so that she was lying along the length of the couch. Climbing to settle between her legs again, you began to kiss her chest. Propping yourself up with one hand, you used the other to free her breasts from the cups of her bra, which—conveniently— clipped in the front. She moaned softly as your lips closed around one nipple and your free hand toyed with the other.
Warm breath on your pussy made it clench around nothing. Which made you keenly aware of the fact that you’d left your ass high in the air—and completely exposed. Strong hands gripped it firmly and tilted it up even further, positioning you exactly how their owner desired. “Stay just like this Sweetheart. I want to taste you while you take care of Emily.”
You moaned wantonly at Hotch’s order, spreading your legs a bit more for him. He smacked your ass, just hard enough to make a point. “I said stay still.”
“Yes sir.” You murmured seductively around Emily’s breast and he soothed the sting with a gentle kiss to the spot, just before he buried his face in your pussy. Groaning as he tasted you first hand, he gripped your ass with bruising strength and made you whine. “Fuck…”
He chuckled quietly to himself, his hand traveling down your ass and in between your legs. It wasted no time in finding its target. Your clit. He circled it so lightly, as though he thought it was delicate enough that any firmer touch would damage it.
The effect was maddening.
Emily’s hands found your breasts, toying with your nipples and bringing your attention partially back to her. You trailed your free hand down her stomach, finding her clit again with ease and began to move your finger over it ever so lightly. She whined quietly, and pressed up into your hand with her hips in a wordless request for more pressure.
“You need more, Em?” You asked softly, teasingly, as you kissed your way across her chest, up her neck, nipping her ear and finally hovered over her lips. “Hmm? Do you wanna taste yourself on my lips?”
“Shut up and kiss me.” She demanded, her hand wrapping around the back of your neck and tangling into your hair as she tugged you down to her lips.
The kiss was rough, frantic and heated. Emily was still grinding up into your hand—desperate for friction—so you had mercy and increased the pressure and speed of your hand.
Hotch’s tongue was still leisurely fucking into your pussy as his finger work your clit with precision. He kept making these self satisfied little groans in the back of his throat that were driving you crazy.
And then two more hands were touching you… Hotch’s hands were still on your ass and clit, Emily’s in your hair and toying with your breast…
But Spencer…
He’d been content to watch for a few minutes, but he couldn’t help himself any longer, he had to touch you.
He was tracing the lines of your ribs with one hand and your spine with the other, his touch light and inquisitive. You’d fantasized about him doing exactly this and you’d been right, it felt amazing. His hands on your skin anywhere would have been heavenly, but the way he was following each rib intentionally—reverently—reminded you of the way he traced each line when he was reading a book, the way his fingers skimmed over each vertebrae was making your back arch.
You pulled away from Emily to look up at him.
There was such adoration in his eyes as he studied the expanse of your skin. The hand at your ribs, going up to your shoulder blades and your collar bones. The one at your spine trailing down to the curve of your hip, over the rise of your ass and down the back of your thigh.
“Focus on Emily, Angel…” He murmured softly. “I just wanna touch you.”
You would do anything to have him keep touching you like that, so you redoubled your efforts on Emily. Sliding your fingers down from her clit to her cunt and slipping the middle two inside of her.
She moaned and you silenced it with a kiss, parting her lips with your tongue.
You rubbed her clit with your thumb while you worked her g-spot with the pads of your fingers and she started to squirm. She tried to close her legs but your knees were in the way and her thighs started to tremble.
“Give it to me, Emily…” You coaxed into her mouth, then bit her lip gently. “Let me have it, you can do it… come for me one more time…”
Her head fell back against the couch, so you dipped yours down and drew her nipple into your mouth, rolling it with your tongue. It was just enough to send her spiraling for the second time. A breathy cry falling from her lips as her pussy spasmed around your fingers.
All the stimulation—Hotch’s tongue and fingers, Emily’s cunt clenching around your fingers and her hands pulling your hair and squeezing your breast, and Spencer’s exploration of everywhere else—was nearly too much.
And then Hotch slipped two fingers inside of you… much thicker than Emily’s slender ones, and when he added a third… It was thicker that Spencer’s cock had been. Not as long, but with what he was doing… length didn’t matter.
You came hard. Your pussy clamping down on Hotch’s fingers so tightly you thought you could feel each knuckle and every callus. Your brain went completely offline and your thighs shook violently as your release ran down them.
Your knees gave out, and you collapsed against Emily with a moan. Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes. You laid there unable to move for several moments. Emily wasn’t moving either–except for her chest, which was heaving as she panted for air—so you were in no hurry to go anywhere. You gently slipped your fingers out of her and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.
“Holy–” She gasped.
“--fuck!” You finished for her on a hard fought breath.
Spencer snickered softly as he stepped back to observe the mess of limbs the two of you were tangled up in.
Hotch chose that moment to pull his fingers out of you—making you flinch and whine—and then he moved to lean against the table adjacent to the couch to watch you and Emily untangle yourselves.
“You good, gorgeous?” Emily murmured after a moment, her hand running through your hair affectionately.
You nuzzled into her neck, nipping at her throat playfully.
“I’m great, Em.” You purred, twirling her hair around your finger and then giggled, “Why? You wanna go again?”
“Do you?” Hotch’s voice pulled your attention from the way the overhead light caught in Emily’s hair.
You looked up at him, and found him staring down at you with heated eyes…
And a bulge in his pants.
You swallowed thickly, the amount of times you’d thought about fucking Aaron Hotchner…
Your mouth was suddenly dry and your tongue felt heavy and you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything if you tried.
So you nodded your head, yes.
“Come here.” He murmured, his voice low and rough.
You gently untangled yourself from Emily—dropping one more kiss to her lips as you went—and she propped herself up on her elbows to watch you go.
The three steps it took for you to reach him were the longest three steps of your life. When you came to stop in front of him he wasted no time.
He held the back of your neck and drew you in, gently but firmly, then kissed you.
You could feel the tension in the plain of his chest, the barely restrained strength of his grip, and the quiet urgency with which he kissed your lips.
He was desperate… but he didn’t want to be rough with you…
Which would have been sweet…
If that wasn’t exactly what you wanted.
You bit his lip, tugging it between your teeth and then licking into his mouth like you needed to taste him as much as you needed oxygen. Then you slipped your hand down and gave his cock a firm squeeze through his slacks.
He groaned and pulled you back to look at you, his eyes searching yours.
“Fuck me, like you own me.” You murmured, with much more confidence than you felt.
You saw in his eyes the exact moment his restraint snapped. It was like his whole demeanor did an about face.
The soft spoken, gentle—though slightly condescending and bossy—man that had been treating you with such tenderness and care…
He was gone.
You barely registered the movement, one moment you were standing up, asking him to fuck you…
And the next…
You were bent over the table he’d just been leaning on.
The sound of his zipper coming down made you clench around emptiness and then his hand was firmly planted in the center of your back. Holding you down on the table with an easy strength.
You felt the hard warmth of his cock at your entrance as he lined himself up, but he paused.
“You asked me to fuck you like I own you… are you sure you want that?” He asked again for consent. “I won’t be gentle.”
“I don’t want you to be gentle.” You said clearly, with a surety in your tone that he could not mistake for anything but affirmation. “I just want you to fuck me.”
He didn’t answer you verbally.
Just slid his cock inside you, all the way to the base.
You cried out—hands clutching the edges of the table—-at the shock of it. You’d thought—surely—after coming three times, that you would be good and ready for him.
But he was… thick.
You couldn’t breathe, your lungs had ceased to function the moment he slid home.
Thicker than Spencer had been by a bit—though not as long—and you’d known that since you’d had both of them in your mouth. The way he was stretching you out though, it burned, it was a good burn… but you needed a moment to adjust.
He seemed to know that instinctually, and while he said he wouldn’t be gentle, he wasn’t going to hurt you purposefully either.
So as he bottomed out inside you he gave you a moment to sit with it.
“Breathe.” His voice was commanding, but strained.
You took a deep breath and he felt his hand on your back rise as your chest filled with air.
The burning eased, and you relaxed against the table.
“Good girl…” He murmured and then he started to move.
The stretch was amazing, the way he filled you up had your back arching and your hands white knuckling the table. Then he started to pick up the pace, his thrusts long and deep. Pulling almost completely out of you and then going so deep you saw spots.
You pushed back into him, trying to take him deeper—if that was even possible—urging him to go faster, harder. You wanted to feel him in your diaphragm—you knew that wasn’t possible, but you didn’t particularly care—wanted him slamming into you. Over and over and over…
He grabbed your wrists, pulling them behind your back and holding them in one hand while the other went back to your waist, with a bruising grip. Taking away every bit of leverage you had and giving himself total control of your body.
Then he pounded into you, hard and fast until your hips were bashing up against the table.
You didn’t even notice, because his cock was hitting you so perfectly with every sharp thrust.
“Hotch!” You keened his name, the loudest sound you’d made all night.
“Mmm keep talking to me, pretty girl, I love the way your voice sounds screaming my name.” His own voice sounded different from anything you’d ever heard from him. It was carnal and lust filled, and it had you clenching around him. “Fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that this isn’t gonna last very long, sweetheart.”
You could only moan in response.
There were hands in your hair, gathering it out of your face.
You hadn’t realized you’d closed your eyes, but when you opened them, Emily and Spencer were sitting side by side at the table you were bent over.
“She’s too quiet…” Emily purred, a truly wicked gleam in her eyes. “I don’t think you’re fucking her hard enough.”
Hotch chuckled, the sound ran up your spine and down your limbs until your whole body tingled.
“You think she can take it?” He asked her in return.
But it was Spencer who leaned down, his lips skimming your cheek as he murmured, “You can take it, can’t you Angel?”
“God yes!” You panted, trying to look back at Hotch, though it was nearly impossible to move at all with the way he was pinning you to the table. “I can take it!”
He pushed you back down flat on the table.
“You want it harder, Pretty Girl?” He asked and there was something in his tone… something lethal.
“Yes! Please!” You sobbed.
“Tell me how bad you want it, make it pretty for me sweetheart… I wanna hear you beg.” His grip on your waist got impossibly tighter.
“I don’t want it, I need it! It feels so good, Hotch, please! I’ll be so good! I’ll lie here and take it like a good girl! Just fuck me harder, please!” You pleaded, your voice cracking as he continued to fuck into you. “I need to feel you deeper!”
He groaned, letting go of your arms and taking ahold of your hair instead.
“God, I love to hear you beg…” He growled, pulling your head back so he could lean forward and whisper in your ear. “Hold on to the table, pretty girl. You’re gonna need it.”
You gripped the sides of the table as hard as you could, bracing yourself against it.
He railed into you so hard you couldn’t remember your own name, your hips slamming into the table. His balls were slapping your clit loud enough to be heard over the sound of your cries, which were spilling from your lips with every thrust.
They were unintelligible.
Not even you knew what you were saying, but it was clear what you meant.
Don’t. Fucking. Stop.
“Fuck, she looks so beautiful like this…” Emily groaned to Spencer. “Look at her.”
“I see her… she’s fucking perfect.” Spencer replied. “Watch, she’s getting close… she makes that face every time, right before she comes.”
You were, you were so wrapped up in the moment you hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you until he brought it to your attention.
“I can feel her pussy fluttering… fuck, she’s getting tighter.” Hotch sounded nearly pained. “Come on, sweetheart, let me have it. I wanna feel you come on my cock.”
Emily reached under the table and pressed on your clit.
Your vision went white, a dull roar—like the ocean—filled your ears, your knees buckled and only the table and Hotch’s grip kept you from hitting the floor.
Your throat burned, and you knew you must’ve screamed, but you couldn’t hear a thing.
Both his hands were on your hips now, squeezing like his life depended on, anchoring you firmly to himself.
And it was a good thing too, because you thought that otherwise you might’ve floated away.
Your body was numb, gravity meant nothing to you, neither did time, or space.
Just his hands on your hips and his cock still slamming into your pussy as he fucked you through it.
Your hearing was the first sense to return to you, and you thanked the universe and every deity you knew of—just to cover all your bases—that it did.
Because the sound of Aaron Hotchner coming was something you wanted branded into your memory.
“Fuck! Such a good girl, just like that baby!” He moaned, “You feel like heaven pretty girl! I’m- God- I’m about to come—“
He pulled out of you so abruptly that you whined at the loss.
But then there were warm, wet ropes landing on your back.
You moaned, you wished you could see it, though feeling it was something you’d never forget.
“Fuck.” Hotch panted, then patted your ass gently. “You did so good for me sweetheart. That was…”
You couldn’t seem to speak yet, and your vision was still fuzzy. Your limbs weren’t yet back under your control either. So you just laid there, panting.
“Angel, are you okay?” You heard Spencer’s sweet voice murmur, you could feel his lips near your ear.
And Emily’s hand in your hair, nails brushing against your scalp soothingly.
Hotch was stroking your thigh tenderly.
Then the strangest thing happened… you started to giggle… you couldn’t help it… nothing was funny.
You were just… happy?
Overwhelmed?
Incandescent?
“Is she laughing?” Hotch asked, confusion evident in his tone.
“It would seem so…” Spencer murmured. “I think—you might have broken her.”
“No…” Emily murmured, stroking your cheek, wiping away an errant tear. “She just needs a minute, she’s euphoric.”
There! That was the word you’d been looking for! Thank you Emily, you beautiful, sexy, sapphic goddess!
“I’m gonna get something to clean her up,” you heard Hotch murmur, “I’ll be right back.”
His footsteps retreated toward the bathroom.
You felt so heavy…
You just wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep.
A warm cloth touched your back, stroking up and down, cleaning up after Hotch’s release.
Voices were murmuring quietly around you, and then you felt someone—probably Hotch—lift you from the table.
You barely got your eyes open, just enough to look around.
Spencer was gathering all your clothes, you were resting on Hotch’s lap, Emily was digging in your go-bag—she pulled from it a pair of sweats and a t-shirt—then she brought them over and started dressing you.
You didn’t know at what point she had put her clothes back on… just that she was dressed.
Spencer put your discarded clothes into your go-bag and then he came back over to sit next to Hotch on the couch. He helped Emily get your arms—which were too heavy to move still—into the sleeves of your shirt.
When they had finished dressing you, Emily sat on Hotch’s other side. He gently lowered your head to her lap, and Spencer pulled your legs up into his.
“Are you sure she’s alright?” Spencer asked quietly.
“Mm hmm…” Emily hummed, stroking your hair tenderly. “She’s just exhausted… four times… is a lot.”
Hotch took your hand in his and kissed the back of it.
That was the last thing you felt before you fell asleep.
*Four Days Later*
You’d thought that it would be awkward…
Coming back to work after fucking three of your coworkers—one of whom is your boss—at the same time.
But it wasn’t.
It was exciting.
The four of you were all smiles when you looked at each other, secret smiles that no one else was aware of, and knowing glances had been passed back and forth all morning.
Hotch had accidentally brushed across your hips with the back of his hand when he’d passed you in the bullpen.
There was a bruise there from the table where he’d fucked you, and he knew it. He was reminding you on purpose.
Spencer had been glancing at your lips all morning, a soft pink flush coloring his cheeks each time. Likely remember how he’d come down your throat.
Now, at the round table, Emily squeezed your thigh once under the table. There was a bite mark there that hadn’t yet faded. One that she’d given you.
All their attention was making you feel a bit overheated, so you pulled your French pin from the pocket of your slacks and pinned your hair into a twist.
You noticed, after you’d done so, that Hotch was giving you a very smug look. You felt like there was something else behind it, other than the obvious, but you couldn’t figure out what.
Everyone was distracted, just waiting on the last of the team—Derek and Garcia—to straggle into the room. They’d made it to the door, but Derek was on crutches so they were taking their time and everyone was fine with that.
But then Derek stopped—right behind you—and laughed.
“You uh— you got a little somethin’ somethin’ on the back of your neck, there Lil’ Mama…” He teased.
You reached up to touch your neck, confused, you looked up at him.
“What?” You asked.
“Looks like somebody had a little fun this weekend.” He joked. “That’s a pretty interesting place for a hickey…”
You paled, then blushed, immediately pulling the pin out of your hair and letting it fall down your back to cover the mark.
“Morgan.” Hotch said quietly—to hide the amusement in his tone—his eyes flicking to you briefly over the top of the file he’d been pretending to read. “Leave her alone.”
Derek threw his hands up in surrender and kept making his way to his seat.
One half of the room moved on, assuming that Hotch had just scolded Morgan out of a need for professionalism, and was choosing to cut you some slack over a mark you clearly hadn’t known existed.
But the other half knew better.
Rossi—who had returned from his book tour just the night before—stood to pull out Derek’s chair for him and took one elbow, while Penelope took the other.
While they helped him get settled, you threw Hotch a scathing look.
Because the only one who had left marks on your neck, had been him.
He was already smirking back at you, smug as shit.
Emily and Spencer were biting their lips to keep from laughing and they didn’t dare make eye contact with each other, or they were going to lose it.
You just stared a hole through the smirking Unit Chief, silently berating him for leaving a mark where you couldn’t see it.
And the bastard winked at you.
Then he cleared his throat and you let your expression go blank as the others all came to attention.
