just a little soup

i'm just a little bisexual soup obsessed with traumatic tv shows that I find oddly comforting, okay?

[justalittlesoup]

Friends and lovers, I have had a horrible depressing realization. I do not enjoy writing fanfics. I desperately want to but I just don't like my writing like that and I get no satisfaction or enjoyment from it :(

I do however LOVE to be an english nerd grammar freak, as I have been all of my life (can anyone else hear the English and studio art college drop out screaming in my head? Or just me?). There is pretty much nothing I love more than editing things and giving feedback on works that I did not create...I have a fucked up sense of fun, okay? I also really like coming up with rough outlines of fics.

Anyway, I know beta readers exist but does anyone on here work with a beta reader anymore? Or like know how to become one? I feel like just cold messaging someone might be weird and come off as if I do not think they are good.

I mostly read Criminal Minds and Supernatural fics and I feel like I would like to stay in universes that I already know a lot and can analyze.

Let me know what I should do or any advise you have!💕

[shadowww-bunny]

「𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒉, 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑩𝒐𝒚」 -𝑺.𝑹.

❥ ​5 Ways to Shut Up a Genius (and why one of them works a little too well)

❥ fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance

​Being Spencer Reid’s partner means knowing a million useless facts, having nerves of steel, and constantly looking for a mute button on his non-stop brain.

₊✧.⊹⋆

"…and so, the concept of mass-producing glazed pastries actually dates back to the mid-nineteenth century, although early prototypes of fried dough—"

Spencer stood right in the middle of the squad room, gesturing wildly and single-handedly causing the local police to question their own sanity. The local sheriff was already deeply regretting asking why the donut box was sitting on that specific desk.

You sighed, snatched the fluffiest pink-frosted donut from the box, stepped up to Reid, and—without warning—firmly but gently shoved it right into his open, fact-spouting mouth.

Spencer shut up instantly. His eyes went wide behind his lenses, cheeks puffing out. He froze mid-bite, looking like a startled gopher.

"Chew, Spence. It builds focus," you said with a faint smile, patting his shoulder before sliding the case file right out of his hands.

Behind Reid, Morgan let out a stifled chuckle, and Garcia released a soft "Aww."

₊✧.⊹⋆

November in Chicago greeted the team with biting winds and slushy snow. Spencer stood in the precinct parking lot, shivering in his woefully thin coat, naturally trying to drown out the freezing cold with another academic monologue.

"Mild hypothermia sets in when your core body temperature drops below 95 degrees," he rattled off, teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Shivering is actually the body’s involuntary response to generate heat through—"

Emily, standing beside you, nudged your elbow. "He’s your partner. Go shut him up before he starts calculating our statistical probability of freezing to death."

You rolled your eyes, but stepped up to Reid anyway. With a few quick, practiced movements, you wrapped the loose ends of his long knitted scarf snugly around his neck. The soft fabric pulled up over his chin, mouth, and the tip of his nose, leaving only his huge, bewildered hazel eyes and messy curls exposed.

"There. Now your vocal cords are warm, and my ears are safe," you winked, tweaking his collar into place.

Spencer let out a muffled "mff-mff" through the wool, turned bright red to the tips of his ears, and quickly buried his face deeper into the scarf to hide his blush.

"Good call," Hotch muttered as he walked past, a rare, subtle smirk tugging at his lips. "Keep the scarf like that until wheels up."

₊✧.⊹⋆

The two of you were stuck on stakeout duty in an unmarked sedan outside a potential witness’s house. Time dragged painfully slow. To keep from drifting off, Spencer decided to walk you through the complete history of jigsaw puzzles, starting from the 1760s.

"...and while John Spilsbury originally created them purely as educational geography tools, the shift toward cardboard during the Great Depression actually made them an affordable escape for—"

You turned to look at him. Draping an arm over the back of his seat, you leaned in close, right by his ear.

"Spencer, sweetheart," you whispered, your voice dripping with a smooth, velvet sarcasm that immediately sent a shiver straight down the genius's spine.

"Y-yeah?" he stammered, completely losing his train of thought about 18th-century geography.

"I genuinely, deeply love the sound of your voice. But if you don't shut up for the next ten minutes I will find a gag. And trust me, Dr. Reid, you might end up liking it a little too much."

Spencer swallowed hard. The color drained from his face, only to be replaced by a furious, burning crimson. He neatly folded his hands in his lap, pressed his lips into a tight line, and gave a dead-serious nod.

"Copy that," he squeaked out. "Ten minutes of silence. Starting now."

₊✧.⊹⋆

Searching a suspect’s pitch-black basement at two in the morning was already bad enough, but doing it with Spencer’s flashlight flickering every five seconds was a special kind of test.

The house was dead quiet, save for the low hum of the furnace and Reid’s increasingly rapid breathing. Naturally, his nervous system decided the best defense mechanism was an unsolicited lecture.

"Achluophobia isn't actually irrational from an evolutionary standpoint," Spencer babbled quickly, his flashlight beam shaking as he aimed it at a row of dusty shelves. "In fact, our brains naturally project potential threats into unseen spaces to increase survival odds..."

"Is your amygdala telling you that you're about to be eaten by a monster, or are you just scared of a couple of spiders, Dr. Reid?" you teased, your voice a low, amused whisper right next to his ear.

"I'm just saying, statistically, basements are the primary location for structural ambushes, so if my tone sounds elevated, it's merely a physiological response to—"

You didn't let him finish.

Reaching out, you grabbed the sleeves of his oversized jacket and gave a firm tug, pulling him backward straight into your chest. Before his brain could process the sudden shift in spatial awareness, you wrapped both arms snugly around his waist, locking him into a warm, solid embrace.

After a few seconds of silence, Spencer awkwardly squeezed your waist.

"This is… technically against protocol," he whispered softly, his voice finally losing its frantic edge. "But...thank you"

₊✧.⊹⋆

It had been the absolute worst case of the year. Seventy-two hours without sleep, an unpredictable unsub, endless interrogations. The team was finally back at the BAU, running on pure fumes.

Spencer paced the breakroom, nervously spinning an empty mug between his palms. His hands were shaking, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, his speech fast and disjointed. He was on the verge of a total sensory crash, but his brain refused to disengage.

"I just don't get how the profile glitched at the victim selection stage! The statistical variance was off by 4.2 %, which means I missed a crucial variable, and if I’d just hesitated for five more seconds—"

You had listened quietly for the first ten minutes, but watching him destroy himself like this was physically painful.

Reid barely noticed you moving off the couch until he turned around and nearly walked right into you. He blinked, his disheveled curls bouncing over his forehead.

"What? I’m just trying to map out the flaw in the algorithm—"

You softly cupped his chin, cutting him off mid-sentence, and before his analytical panic could reboot, you covered his lips with yours.

It wasn't rushed. It was a slow, incredibly gentle, warm kiss—one that carried all the quiet comfort, patience, and love you’d been holding back for months.

Spencer went completely still. His heart skipped about five beats in a row. Then, with a soft exhale against your lips, he dropped his empty coffee mug onto the counter and leaned into you, answering the kiss with a hesitant, sweet desperation.

Outside the breakroom, Morgan walked up to Garcia, leaning against the doorframe and shaking his head.

"Are those two ever gonna realize they stopped being 'just friends' about six months ago?"

Penelope sighed happily, stirring her tea with a soft smile.

"Oh, sweetcheeks, they're already dating. Their brilliant brains just haven't finished downloading the update yet."

[justalittlesoup]

Why do I have the sinking suspicion that once Spencer finally puts two and two together he starts babbling more on purpose just for her to shut him up? 💕

[ddejavvu]

Aaron Hotchner is the type of man to switch sides when you’re walking so he can be closest to the road. U don’t catch on, just get steadily more and more exasperated bc he does this little jog behind you so he can get to ur other side and u just don’t get it

"Now what I don't understand," You puzzle, talking animatedly with your hands as you think, brows furrowed, "Is why he wouldn't take a souvenir from this victim. Was it something about them? Or- or were they rushed, or did their tactic change? It was such a critical part of the process," You huff, storming through an empty crosswalk on the way back from a crime scene. Hotch follows behind you, letting you duck out in front of him in your blind frustration.

"I'm not sure," He concludes drearily, "But I'd wager that it wasn't the last option. They take the souvenirs they take for psychological reasons, and I doubt those changed this suddenly."

You hear Aaron's voice shift from behind you to your right, and his broad frame crowds you into the houses on your left. You shift with him, falling into stride beside him down the next block.

"The neighbors said they didn't hear anything," You reason, "So if they were rushed, it wasn't because they were at risk of getting caught. Maybe they needed to be somewhere else? To- to attend to their previous victim? Anna was still alive at the time." You reference the now-deceased victim, who'd been held captive for six days prior to her death.

"She was being kept alive carefully," Hotch nods from beside you, and his hand shoots out to hover in front of your midriff before your foot can hit the street again. You glance sideways at him in mild annoyance, but find that a car rolls towards you from the right. You let it pass, impatience coming to a rolling boil under your skin.

As soon as its bumper is out of your path you're shooting through the street, hellbent on picking your team's brain on the subject. You're too lost in thought to notice what side of the sidewalk you're trekking over, but when Aaron's hand comes to ghost against your hip, nudging you to the left, you throw him a glare.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm making sure you don't walk into the street," He huffs, "Move over."

You do quite the opposite, in fact, you come to a complete stop. It takes him a moment to orient himself, and he steps back from where he'd been pressed against you.

"You mean to tell me that you've been ducking behind me every five seconds to be chivalrous?"

"Well if you weren't such a maniac on the sidewalk I wouldn't have to worry," He snaps, "You almost stepped in front of a car."

"I could have made it," You gripe, but when you start walking again, it's on the left side of the sidewalk, "But fine. Be a gentleman."

"Thank you," He drawls sarcastically, matching your stride as you powerwalk back to the precinct, "You know, if I come back without you, they're all going to kill me."

"Prentiss would kill you." You muse, "Morgan might just punch a wall or something."

"I think I'd be the most worried about Reid," Aaron muses, and you turn a confused expression his way.

"He'd throw a book at me," Hotch decides, "And he's re-reading War and Peace."

[earthtomia]

“he’d throw a book at me… and he’s re-reading war an peace.”

feels like an actual piece of dialogue from the show i can hear hotch saying it lol

[justalittlesoup]

I love the War and Peace moment and it is totally in character 💕

[goorgeousz]

girl crush | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first. content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something! word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible) a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato

masterlist

The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen. 

Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.

“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.

He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.

Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.

You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.

Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.

Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.

“Beth!”

Oh.

“Oh”

“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”

Oh (but harder).

“That’s… good?”

“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.

“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.

You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.

“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.

“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.

They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?

Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.

So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?

Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.

As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.

When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack. 

And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.

You felt like an outsider.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie.  You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut. 

When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.

Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.

It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.

You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut. 

When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.

Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.

One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.

Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.

When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.

You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.

You wanted her gone.

The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?

It was maddening. It had to stop.

It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.

When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.

Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.

You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.

Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.

But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.

So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.

It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.

You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.

“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.

Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.

“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.

Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.

“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”

You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.

Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.” 

Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.

“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.

“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.

“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.

Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.

When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.

“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.

“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.

Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.

“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.

Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”

He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.

“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”

“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”

“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.

“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”

And that’s when it hit you: he knew.

“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.

“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.

“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.

“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.

“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”

You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”

“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”

“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”

“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”

“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.

“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”

“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”

“And you don’t?”

You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”

“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”

“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”

“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”

You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.

“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.

“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.

Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.

When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.

Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”

Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.

You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.

“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it  out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”

Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.

“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.

He blinks. And then chuckles.

When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.

“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.

“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.

“Your name?”

“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”

“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.

“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.

“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.

You try again “It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.” 

That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.

His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?” 

“I… there’s a lot going on.”  you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”

Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”

He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.

“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”

“Bullshit.”  he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”

“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.” 

He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”

“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?” 

“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.

“I didn’t, you did.” 

“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.

“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would  never…” 

“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.

“There's no he. It’s Beth.” 

Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”

“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”

“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”

Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.

“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.

“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”

The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should. 

When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.

You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.

A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”

“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”

“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”

Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”

Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him. 

How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.

“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”

You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.

“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”

“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.

“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.

“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”

“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.

“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”

After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.

He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.

Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”

“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.

“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”

You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.

When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.

“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”

“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.

“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.

“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”

“Jack will see it.”

“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.

“That’s rude. And humiliating.”

“That’s what you get for stealing.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”

“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.

“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.

“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”

You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”

Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

[justalittlesoup]

So so so good, I love when reader feels unstable and not a priority in the relationship but then they work it out (don't profile me) and realize they love you more than anything else💕

[justalittlesoup]

I am so sorry for being distant my friends and lovers! My jobs has made me work overtime everyday (without giving me a heads up) and my mother rescued an eight week old puppy yesterday….I’m so tired. I will be back on my regular bullshit late tomorrow and will reply to everybody as well 💕

[luveline]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You learn how to be someone’s girlfriend. Or, 5 times Hotch raises your expectations (+1 time you raise his).

7k words, new established relationship to established relationship, lots of fluff and some small angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, calls him aaron, basically hotch treating you well

༺༻

1. Soup. 

"Are you hungry?" Aaron asks, hands at the neck of his shirt as he loosens his tie. 

You've never seen him do that. It's a lot to take in.

"A little, are you?"  He's lucky that you remember to answer.

His smile lights you up inside and out, a warm, casual quirk. "Famished." 

"Should we make something?" 

He turns from the doorway and moves into the kitchen. You have to twist on his couch to see his movements. 

"No need. I should've asked if you like it, but I made vegetable soup. The kind with mini dumplings." 

You look down at your legs and squeeze your thighs together until your knees tap. You're too shy to go and meet him where he's standing, but perhaps sitting and having him wait on you is arrogant. And awkward. 

The couch is plush under your hands as you stand. You'd slipped off your shoes at the door, and your socked-feet slide over the tiled floor of the kitchen as you make your way to his side. Aaron lights the stove, atop which stands a tall cooking pot. 

"When did you have time to make that?" you ask, soft with awe. 

"I knew you'd be coming over. I started it this morning." 

"And if I didn't like it?" 

He turns his gaze to yours, pot lid held aloft. "Then I would've ordered in for us. You're sure this is okay?"  

You've never had somebody cook for you before. Homemade, fresh ingredients, and the intricacy of the dumplings too, it all impresses and amazes you. You feel very special. Like you're worth all the effort. 

"I'm sure. More sure if you let me try it." 

His laugh startles you for its rarity. "Okay. It's not done," he warns. 

"Just to taste it." 

He stirs the warming soup with a big spoon for half a minute, the heat on high, before scooping up some broth and holding it above a cupped palm. "It's probably not very hot," he says. 

Oh, you think, excited and sick with nerves at once. He's going to feed the soup to me. 

Something out of a movie, something you didn't know people actually did for their significant others, Aaron waits for you to open your mouth and offers the spoon. You slurp and feel heat rise to your cheeks at the clumsy sound. 

"Aaron," you say, soft and obsessed after you've swallowed, "it's really nice. You made that yourself?"  

"I can cook," he says defensively. 

You lick your lips, giggling. "I can tell. That was really good. Though it was definitely too cold." 

"Mm. It has to cook through some more. Reduce. Do you want to shower?" He puts down his wooden spoon, head tilting to one side gently. He assesses your expression, and brings a curved hand to settle over your cheek. The tip of his index finger kisses the delicate skin under your eye. "No, maybe not. You look tired." 

You probably shouldn't say something like that to your brand new girlfriend (you scream internally at the word, every single time since he asked you a week ago) but Aaron speaks factually. You don't think for a second that there's any malice there, any hidden critique. His words shine with concern. 

"It's Friday. I'm always tired at the end of the week." 

His hand falls to your shoulder. "I can imagine." 

"You can go shower, if you like. I'll watch the soup." 

"I need one, huh?" 

He must know how well-kept he looks even now. You're not sure you've ever seen him dishevelled. 

"Definitely need one," you try to tease. It comes out murmur-quiet, and Aaron takes pity and kisses your cheek. 

He leaves to shower and you 'watch' the soup — you stand at the stovetop and soak in it's emanating warmth, stirring it every now and then to prevent the bottom from burning. The shower runs muffled from the bathroom, and your mind wanders as it tends to do. It's an undeniable fact that Aaron is naked right now, the thought opening an avenue of images you've been trying not to think about all day. It's your very first time spending the night after a couple of weeks of dating, and now you're together, if Aaron wants to have sex tonight you'll say yes. He's handsome, and his build suggests a certain… tenacity. 

His hands would convince you alone. Big hands. 

You look down into the simmering pot of soup and smile harder than you have any right to smile. He's done everything right, all the romance; he'd asked you out clearly with no doubt of his intentions, which had shocked you; he'd brought you a bouquet of flowers on your first date, which had delighted you; and he hadn't tried to take you home, which had surprised you. 

Modern romance often doesn't feel very romantic. Things with Aaron are different. 

Hell, he's so sweet he probably won't make a move unless you make one yourself. 

You'd prefer to be squeaky clean tonight, you've decided, just in case. When he gets out of the shower, you'll tell him you've changed your mind.

The shower shuts off. He appears a little bit after that, in new clothes, towel around his neck and feet either side of your own as he sidles in for a damp and quick cheek kiss. 

"Sorry I took so long. Are you ready to eat?" he asks, taking the spoon from your hand to give the soup a big, gran stir. 

"Actually, could I shower?" 

If he's surprised at your changed mind he says nothing, only turns down the heat of the stove. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll show you how it all works." 

His 'come on' is accompanied with a guiding hand at the small of your back. You let yourself be guided. The heat of his touch fills your stomach and doesn't abate, no matter how cold you run the spray. 

2. Phone calls. 

It's the week after that when you're supposed to be spending the night again. You're excited for two reasons, the first and smallest being that he had been what you thought and more in bed, that itself an expectation raised, and it had felt like connection at its brightest — he'd been sweet, and he'd been rough but never, not ever once cruel. A perfect night. The second, and biggest, is that he's honestly just the nicest person you've ever met. He's your boyfriend, a phrase you don't say in front of him because he's admittedly older than you, and you can't imagine he calls you his girlfriend. Partner might be more apt. He's your boyfriend and he's openly fond of you. Openly more than that. It's new to be doted on as ardently as he dotes on you. 

He touches you like he can't believe he's touching you. He talks to you like you're gold dust, all smiles and laughs heavy with admiration, and he listens. You've never felt listened to in the way you do when you're with him. 

So many conversations are just one party waiting for the other to stop talking until it's their turn. You think, maybe, Aaron would let you talk for hours. He would listen the whole time. 

In summary, you're basically thrumming with excitement to see him again. You've missed him some, but mostly you've spent the week bouncing off of walls waiting for the next time you get to talk to him. 

His text is disheartening, to say the least. 

Hey, honey. I have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm sorry, and I'll explain as soon as I get the chance. Please take care of yourself for me until I can.

It doesn't make you mad. While it is extremely short notice, and your heart hurts to the point of frustrated tears, you know it isn't his fault. He's been clear about his job at the FBI and what that means for you both. How it will without a doubt pull him away from you during dates, the middle of the night, special occasions, the works — this had been after a small disclosure about his commitment to his son, Jack, and how he's a father first — and how it will definitely cause some strain. 

"But," he'd said, "I want you, and I want this to work. So if you can be patient with me, I'll try to make it worth it." 

He's been successful every time. After he'd cancelled your third date, he'd quickly rearranged it and apologised with a modest but beautiful bouquet of flowers. 

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth date, you hadn't seen him for two whole weeks, and every worry you'd had about his intentions had been abated by a steady stream of encouraging text messages and the occasional photograph. Nothing crazy, but sweet things, like the cookies he and Jack had made that night, captioned, I'd save one for you if I thought Jack would let me, or a sunrise in a different state, captioned, This looks like the dress you wore to Lemaira. 

Later that night, you're unhappy and frowning still, a small carton of ice cream freezing your fingers to the cardboard and a spoon in your mouth when your phone starts to ring. 

You aren't expecting it to be Aaron. You aren't in the habit of calling one another, even though you'd secretly wished he would while he's away beforehand. 

It's nearing eight o'clock. 

"What time do you call this?" you joke, smiling despite yourself. Again, the excitement that comes with talking to him wells at the surface. 

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired. 

You slouch down into your couch cushions, ice cream on the armrest, remote for the TV on your chest. You click the volume button down, down, down until the TV's near silent. 

"I'm kidding, mostly. Are you okay? I've been a little worried." 

Understatement of the century. You know sudden cases of violence often draw him away from Virginia, but this had been sudden sudden. The lack of information had made you think the worst, worse than serial killer and bombers and hostage situations. You'd thought Aaron was in danger himself, and then you'd tried to suffocate that thought. He'd never worry you like that even if he were. 

"I'm fine. Sorry to miss you tonight." 

"I'm sorry to miss you too," you say, voice disjointed, too earnest. You scramble to hide the depth of your feelings. "Where are you?" 

"I'm in St. Louis. Where are you?" 

You laugh, curling onto your side with the phone pressed up against your ear. "Where am I? I'm at home." 

"What are you doing?" 

"I was watching TV." 

"Yeah? Did you eat anything yet?" 

You think to the takeout you'd bought and shoved in the microwave, not hungry at the time but knowing knowing would be. "Not yet. Why are you asking?" 

"I want to know." 

"I told you in my text I would take care, Aaron." 

"Honey," he says, pet name like a warm palm over your heart, "my definition of taking care and your definition are very different. Promise me you'll eat something."

"Of course I will. Easy promise." You scratch the couch fabric absent-mindedly. "Have you eaten?" 

"Yes," he says, the sound of a closing window in the background. "It's awful how much take out I eat. All these cases, there's never any time to cook real food." 

"Why, what did you have? And surely there's some uber healthy options out there, like, a chickpea salad-" 

"That costs thirty dollars? I'm not struggling, honey, but we both know that's obscene." 

You're laughter takes on a giddy quality as you cross your leg over the other, picturing his smile as his laughter echoes breathily down the line. You really, really wish he were here right now and that you were having this conversation face to face. You know he'd smile and try to hide how smug he feels at making you love. His hand would reach over any gap to touch some silly part of you, forearm or collar or the skin under your ribcage. 

"Are you okay?" You say his name to drive the point home. Your voice is quiet — you're hesitant to offer, worried you're crossing a boundary. "Aaron, I know you don't like bringing it home, but you aren't home, so… I'm here." 

"I know. It's nothing I want you to worry about, there's an ongoing situation here, bomb threats coming in quicker than the local P.D can handle. They need us to vet them and figure out if any of them are real." 

You think about it for a few seconds, the silence small but not uncomfortable. If you were under that kind of pressure, you'd be hurting. Chest pains, anxiety shakes, a migraine. 

"You'll be safe?" you ask. 

"Always. I'm not in any danger. And I need to get home, I owe you a Friday." 

"You do," you mumble. 

There's the creak of a box spring mattress, and the sound of a lamp being clicked. On or off, you don't know. When Aaron speaks, his tone is dulcet and hushed but distinct. You feel it in your chest. 

"Tell me about your day," he murmurs. 

You lay it all out for him in detail. He can barely reply when you hang up, sleep thickening his affectionate, "Goodnight, honey." 

3. His bleeding heart.

"What kind of kid were you?" he asks.

You look up from your notebook, surprised. Aaron has been silent for what feels like an hour now, laid out on the picnic blanket with your sweater bundled us 5⁵saunder his head while the sun warms your skin. 

"I was…" You let your pen roll into the centre of your notebook and close it. He's laid his paperback flat across his chest. You think he might be very interested in the answer. "It was a long time ago, but I think I was lonely." 

He nods like this is what he'd been expecting. "Me too." 

It's a gorgeous day out. The sky is a light, bright blue with few clouds. They block the sun occasionally, providing a short and bittersweet shield from the heat. The grass surrounding is shockingly green, rippling in the breeze. 

"You were?" you ask. "What were you like?" 

"I was quiet." 

"That's not surprising," you say mildly. 

"No, I guess not." 

You abandon your notebook and lay down beside him. Worrying what you look like from this angle, you cover your jaw with your hand and turn toward him ever so slightly to show you're listening. 

"I liked affection. I remember my mom used to say I was a siphon for it. I'd be all over her, and she'd have nothing left to give anyone else." 

"That's not true," you deny. Every ounce of affection that you given him, he has returned tenfold, and that's inspired a lot of kindness in you, for him and for the world. "You're like an amplifier, if anything." 

He smiles to himself and turns his gaze skyward. "I wish we'd met before." 

"Me too," you say, leaving little room for debate.

"You're so kind," — he adorns you with each word like a gift, a tiny star of praise — "I think you're the kindest person I've ever met." 

He laughs. It's a catching sound, contagious as anything. You giggle with him and shift closer. Your arms touch, your hips. 

"Baby," you murmur, almost lamenting, "d'you ever think your ability to see the good in people is- It's indicative of the good in you... You've given more of your life than most to keep other people safe. That's the kindest thing a person can do." 

He tangles your hand with his where it had been resting on your stomach. You're pretty sure you can feel every line of every fingerprint as he works your fingers together, a snug fit like one of those wooden brain teaser puzzles: How do you pull these two pieces apart? From the outside, it looks impossible!

"I think I'd be different, if I'd met you before. I'd be kinder," he says. 

You can't agree with him. It's obvious who he is. You know more about him now than you ever have before. His late wife, how she'd been the best mother they ever made. His son, and how he moulds Aaron everyday into a better man. His friends, who trust him, who adore him. All these people have a hand in who Aaron is now, and while you wish you'd been around from the start, now will have to do.

"You're plenty kind," you say. Understatement of the century. 

"Sorry," he says with a laugh, "With you-" He cuts himself off, head-shaking from side to side as he pulls your joined hands up slowly. 

Your arm bends and then turns as he pulls it toward his face. He unlinks your fingers to steer your forearm, aligning it flat over his lips. The first kiss is a surprise, light like the feathered edge of a flower petal, and the second isn't dissimilar. 

The third melts you, veritably, the parting of his lips emphasised by the dull scratch of teeth against your pulse, the wet heat of his tongue. Three becomes four, and a final fifth, crescent moons pressed into your skin like he's trying to tell you something. 

You've no clue what. You likely couldn't say which way the world turns, not when he's kissing you. Not like this. 

Aaron has an acute ability to talk without talking. Hello's and thank you's and I care about you's woven into quick kisses, the swift squeeze of his hand over the slope of your shoulder.

These ones say something you don't want to speak aloud, lest you jinx it. 

The sunlight fades. A big grey cloud covers the sun.

"I think it's gonna rain," you say. 

A raindrop splashes in Aaron's eye. 

"Fuck," he says, which is hilarious, because he never swears in front of you. You hadn't known he cussed at all. 

The downpour is slow and then sudden, spitting rain dotting over you both like a fine mist as you stand, a thicker, faster outpouring chasing your heels as you hurry to the car. You realise you can't outrun it even if you sprint, and so you stop, Aaron's hand in yours tugged like a rubber band. He bounces back into your chest with the picnic blanket under his arm, your books tucked somewhere inside. 

He doesn't ask what you're doing. He's made the same deduction as you, or maybe he trusts you, or maybe he's indulging you. 

"Your hair," he laments. 

"Doesn't matter," you say. 

You lift your chin up for a kiss. Aaron ducks down to give you one. A raindrop runs down the bridge of his nose to the tip of yours. 

4. In sickness. 

You insist that it wasn't the rain that made you sick, but honestly there's no way to tell. You'd kissed for slightly too long, and the rain had been surprisingly cold. Now you aren't very well, and you have to cancel Aaron's sleepover. 

You hold out as long as you can, but come Friday afternoon it's clear you aren't getting better. You wake to a text from Aaron, two texts, and it makes you smile through shivery coughs. 

I can't wait to see you tonight. Do you need anything before I get there? Miss you. Sent 6.26AM.

Is everything okay? Sent 9.17AM. 

Usually you'd have answer his morning text within the hour. 

Hi, I miss you too, so much, but I don't think we'll be able to see each other tonight. I've got the flu :( I'm sorry. And sorry I couldn't answer your message until now, I was sleeping. 

It's another hour before he answers. You rouse from your gross snotty stupor to squint at the phone. It's surprisingly long. 

I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get back to you, things are tense here right now. You don't have to be sorry for either, I'm glad to hear you're resting. You could have told me you were sick. Is it okay if I come and see you tonight anyways? I would love to check on you. Don't rush to answer, and call me if you can. 

You call him with reservations. 

"Is this a good time?" you ask weakly, forgoing a hello. 

It takes him a little while to speak. You assume he's leaving a room, closing a door. "Now's fine. How are you?" 

"My throat hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but I'm sure I'll live." 

"You've been to see a doctor?" 

"It's not that bad." 

He sighs. "You sound tired. And sore. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" 

"You don't have to baby me, I'm really okay." 

"Have you considered that I'd like to baby you?" 

Not really. You can't imagine anyone would want to deal with you. You're a mess, you look awful, you don't smell great, and you're not good company. You can't think of a single reason Aaron would want to be anywhere near you right now. 

"No," you say, "I hadn't." 

"I'd love to look after you." 

"You could be doing something fun with your Friday. You could see Jack." 

"Jack's going to Kings Dominion. And Fridays are our day, you being sick doesn't make me want to see you less."

You hadn't said that, but he'd inferred it. Of course he had. 

You and Aaron decide that your sleepover will go ahead after all. Or, he persuades you very gently. You spend three hours doing tasks that should only take one. You shower, you clean your room, and you do the dishes. By the end of it you're sweating enough to need another shower but you aren't a quitter, so you open the freezer and stick your head in, hands braced against the refrigerator door. 

You're excited to see him. You always are. Too bad you look so wiped out. 

It's almost 6.30 when you hear his knock on the door. You'd been waiting for him and started dozing at the kitchen table, your neck a mess of twisted nerves, your hand numb from supporting your head. You shake it out and open the door, sheepish. 

"Hi," you croak out. 

He has a lot of stuff with him. His familiar overnight bag, a briefcase, two grocery bags, and a bouquet. 

"Aaron, why," you moan, covering your face with one hand as you move back down the hall to let him in. 

"Not the greeting I'd hoped for." 

"I can't greet you, I'll make you sick." 

You get all the way to the kitchen and think, triumphantly, that you've escaped his 'greeting'. He puts the flowers down carefully on the kitchen counter as you try to come up with a thank you that doesn't make your eyes burn. The grocery bags are placed without ceremony on the floor, and his overnight bag falls onto the kitchen chair. You watch him unbutton his rain spattered coat, and your triumph fades when he peels out of it and instantly reaches for you. 

"Aaron," you mumble, stepping into his arms. He knows you can't say no to a hug, not after a week of not seeing him. 

"I missed you," he says, arms around your back, lips at your temple. "You're running a temperature." 

"It's not that bad. 101." 

"Honey, 101 is bad." 

"Not as bad as 102." 

"Not as bad as 102," he concedes. You can hear his voice rumbling in his throat, and feel it in his chest and yours.

He takes as much of your weight as he can, leaning back so you're forced to arc forward. Your face slips into his neck, and you're thinking, this is what it's like? To be held, sick, with nothing to give? It feels good.

"Please tell me the next time you're sick," he murmurs. 

You definitely will. If this is what it's like, roaming, cautious hands over your shoulder blades, a strong nose stroking lines against your warm forehead. 

"Thank you for the flowers." 

It's squished against his skin but he hears it. "You're welcome. Do you want me to put them in a vase?" 

"I can do it." 

"I think that might defeat the purpose. They're a gift, not an extra chore." 

"Nobody ever got me flowers before you, so it doesn't feel like a chore at all." 

He encourages your face back enough to look at you. You have to mouth breath on him because your nose is all stuffed up, and it is not something you're happy to do. You look down so he can't feel it. 

"I'm gonna do something really cheesy, and you can tease me about it later, okay?" 

You look at him from under your lashes. "'Kay." 

"Close your eyes," he whispers. 

You let your eyes shut. Aaron cradles your face in both hands and pulls your face toward his chin, in your rough approximation. 

Heat fans against your eyes. He kisses your eyelids, the left and then the right, the most gentle press of his lips you've ever felt. 

"It's killing me to see you like this," he says, and you're grateful for the pinch of humour behind it. "Couch or bed?" 

"Couch. I wanna watch a movie with you." 

"Good. I wanna watch a movie with you, too." 

Aaron does everything. You're too tired to notice, but when you're better, you'll add it all up. He makes you dinner and breakfast and lunch and enough for the day after that, too. He trims down all your flowers and places them in a vase on your window sill. He recleans your room, cleans your bathroom, and plays nursemaid diligently. He makes you take your temperature in front of him, and then he fawns and makes you hug an ice pack, stays the night again when he's supposed to go home. 

It sucks, but your temperature falls, and when your insides stop cooking themselves you start to feel better. On Sunday morning, when he has to leave, you feel the strange pang of being cared for unconditionally like the wind being knocked out of you. He'd done all of that because he cares about you. He'd wanted to see you fed and well and happy, and he hadn't gotten anything out of it in return. 

5. The test-drive.

"Hi, Jack," you mumble, rubbing wetness out of your sleep-heavy eyes. "Good morning." 

"Good morning," he says cheerfully, of his father's disposition. 

"Did you," — you yawn wide and turn your face so neither of them can see — "sleep well?" 

"Yeah, thank you. Why are you so tired?" 

Aaron's standing at the stovetop making oatmeal. You stand at the counter beside it, hips touching but facing opposite ways. "I'm still getting used to your dad's bed." 

It's true. There's something about someone else's mattress that makes you ache. 

"What is it about my mattress you can't get along with?" Aaron asks in good humour, adding a generous pinch of salt to the saucepan. 

"It's more comfortable than mine," you say with a self-satisfied laugh. 

Aaron pecks your damp cheek and skirts around you to fill three identical bowls of oatmeal next to three identical glasses of orange juice. Jack cheers when his portions are placed in front of him, and he digs in even though it's ridiculously hot. 

Aaron had explained once that he's basically trained Jack to eat it scorchingly hot by accident. Years of oatmeal straight off of the hob versus a growing boy with no patience. You watch in awe as Jack scarfs it down. 

You and Aaron are doing this thing. You've called it the test-drive in your head. He wants to see how well you and Jack get along, likely, and how well you handle living together, too. (Though you absolutely don't think you'll be moving in together quite this soon.) That's your working theory. He'd asked you if you'd be interested in staying for the week a month ago, and you had, and it had been a dream. This is week two, and it seems to be going just as well as the first. 

It's definitely revealing. To see each other's routines. And an adjustment. You have to see all the gross stuff, no avoiding it. 

Though stuff you might consider gross he enjoys. Like watching you put on body lotion, he'd loved that more than words could express. And watching him shave, you'd loved that more than you'd thought you would. You'd sat on the lip of the tub and he'd listened to your morning murmurings, half asleep and excited as always to talk to him about everything. 

Getting to know Jack more has been a joy, too. You've met him nowhere near as many times as you would've liked and done family things: bowling, pizza places, the movies, a baseball game. 

Eating breakfast together is way more fun. Especially because Jack likes you. 

As soon as you sit down he starts to tell you about school. You listen, sipping your orange juice while you wait for the oatmeal to cool from lava. 

After breakfast, the three of you head back to your respective bedrooms to get dressed. 

That's something else you adore, you and Aaron undressing and redressing together in the space in front of his closet, the intimacy of casual nudity, and the way his hand closes around your hip to move you out of the way of his shirts. 

You're pretty much insuperable until you get to the car park. A firm believer in kids receiving as much love as they can from everybody, you offer Jack a hug before you part ways everytime. Sometimes he says yes, though most times he says, "Thank you, Miss Y/N, but my hug quota is full." 

Today, he squeezes your waist really hard and says, "Have a good day bye," like it's our word.

"Have a good day, baby," you tell him, laughing as he jettisons into the passenger seat of Aaron's car. 

Aaron usually gives you a swift kiss and goodbye like his son. Today, he brings his hand to your neck. You stare him straight in his dark eyes as he does, marvelling the shock of straight lashes outlining each one, and the permanent wrinkle between his brow from frowning. 

Placing two hands on either shoulder, you use his frame to rise on tiptoes and kiss it. 

"Don't frown too much today, okay, handsome? Have a good day." 

He cups your face in both hands as your heels touch the ground. His hands are warm, kind as he pushes both palms over your cheeks and your ears. He covers them, and your heartbeat amplifies, a thumping sound fighting his skin. Then he slips his fingers behind your ears and the roaring fades. 

"I love you," he says. 

You beam at him. "Really?"

"Really. I love you, honey. Have a good day."

As if. If he thinks he can walk away after dropping that on you he's got another thing coming. 

You throw your arms around his neck and all your weight into his front, almost barrelling him over. You have to stop yourself from wrapping your thighs around him, 'cause then he really might fall over. 

You dig your face into his neck, searching for something, for the perfect place to rest your cheek. "I love you, Aaron." 

There isn't a chance in hell he didn't already know it. 

"I got you something," he says. 

You laugh in surprise and tighten your hold on him. "Why? This is gift enough." He loves you. It bounces around in your chest. 

"Because I'm not stupid enough to miss what I have right in front of me." 

You lean back so you can kiss him, ignoring his hand as it reaches into his pocket. 

"Baby," you say, a hair's width from his lips. You kiss him again for a second, thrilled, but curiosity pulls you back. "You have it now?" 

He takes a step away from you and reveals the box in his pocket, long and thin. It clicks open on a silver hinge, and inside velveteen lies a simple chain.

"Is that a diamond?" you ask, breathless. The stone at the end of the chain shines like nothing you've ever seen before. 

You don't know a thing about them other than that they're expensive. You can't see Aaron Hotchner of all people buying a fake. 

"A small one," he says modestly. 

Your eyes burn. You're happy to the point of tears but you refuse to cry. 

"And it's for me?" you ask. 

He laughs and you laugh too, the sound slightly sniffly. 

"Of course. Do you want to wear it?" 

"Now? Yes, more than anything," you say, smiling hard, cheeks appled and aching. "Are you serious?"

"More than anything." 

Corny, you think desperately. Do not cry, that's so cheeky. 

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until my birthday?" 

He gestures for you to turn around, the chain hanging from his finger. You turn, feel his hands brushing against your neck as he lays it across your chest and pulls it together behind your nape. 

"Your birthday gift is better than this." 

Better? You could burst. 

The clasp closes and he rubs his hands down the backs of your shoulders. 

You turn back around, face dipped to your chest in efforts to see the necklace. It's short but long enough to spot the diamond hanging under your collar. 

"I've never had a diamond, before," you mumble, hands pressed to your chest. Your heart bumps under your hand. 

"Thank you," you say, looking up, "baby, you didn't have to. You don't have to get me stuff like this, it's a lot." 

"I don't think it's too much. You give gifts when you're grateful. I'm grateful to love you." 

He's expecting you this time, unwavering when your arms slide over his shoulders. You breathe in the smell of his skin and he does the same, his face pressed to the top of your head.

Jack is late for school that day. You apologise to Aaron more times than you can count, and every time he only smiles and says, "It's okay. I love you." 

+1 

Aaron misses your first anniversary. 

It's a very important date to miss, and you have a right to be upset. 

But. 

You always knew from the very first date that this was something that could, unfortunately, happen. You'd been lucky to get him for your birthday, luckier still to see him on his own and treat him with the delights he deserved. You'd figured eventually something would happen to throw a spanner in the works. 

What you aren't expecting is the lack of anger. 

You aren't mad at him, not one bit. It would be okay if you were, even though it's not his fault, because this is so big. You're celebrating the best year of your life alone, and that's no fun. You and Aaron had planned to go away, two days in a fancy hotel, Jack with Jessica and no worries. 

He can't ignore a bomb threat in the capital, and he wouldn't want to. 

You know a missed anniversary is a lesser weight than innocent people dead. You know Aaron wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't go. You know he regrets leaving you on such an important day. 

Maybe one day, you'll be angry with him. Today, you only miss him. 

I love you. I'm sorry. I'll be back very soon. Happy anniversary. 

He sends that after a grovelling, short phone call, in which you assure him that it's fine. Your voice is tight with tears, you miss him like crazy, and he hears it though you try to hide it. 

I will make it up to you. 

You don't have any doubts. 

You feel a little sorry for yourself, and then you send him a text of your own. 

I love you, so don't be sorry. Get back safe and sound and consider yourself forgiven. Happy anniversary, my love. 

Followed with what's likely too many hearts for good measure. 

Still, still, he doesn't believe it's okay. You know he's human, and he loves you, and that makes it easy to predict how he's feeling — worried that you're angry, worried that you'll leave him, worried this won't work for you. 

And you're only human yourself. You can't say how you'll feel in another year, or two, or five. You can't imagine how depressing it might be to miss the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with him year after year, but you want to be patient. You want to forgive him for the things he has no hand in, and you do. 

You get a visitors pass for his office once you're cleared and take the elevator up, checking your text messages for the fifth time, just to make sure. 

I'll be home in a couple of hours, the plane touches down in two. Love you. Sent 4.53PM. 

It's the day after your anniversary, a Monday, and it's nearly 7PM. You smile at people you've seen in passing the few times you've visited his office before and don't bother trying to sit in Aaron's office, knowing it's locked while he's away. You travel the spare steps and sit at the top of the landing, hands clutching the neck of the bunch of flowers you're holding nervously. The cellophane crinkles. 

You hadn't answered him. It was cruel to leave him hanging, but you didn't expect him to come home so soon. He's too damn good at his job. 

The elevator doors open in the quiet. Barely anybody lingers now in the late hour, and the voices of the BAU echo. 

Spencer sees you first. Morgan second. They stop at the beginning of the office. 

Aaron sees you third.

You spring to stand up on your feet, and then you feel very tall and very seen and descend the steps rather than draw more attention. 

"You said seven," you say, not sure what else to say, not with people watching you. "This is definitely closer to eight." 

Aaron thankfully isn't too proud to speed walk to you. Your heart skips as you meet him, flowers crushed half to death as he gets his arm behind your neck, hooking your head in the crook of his elbow. 

He kisses you roughly. Heat floods every inch of skin, your breath rushes out of your nose with a sigh. 

He pulls back. 

"Happy anniversary," you say quietly, smiling at the sheer relief in his eyes. 

"It was yesterday," he says, quiet too. 

"Happy one year and one day, then." You push him away from you gently. "Don't suffocate your roses." 

"You got me flowers." 

"You get people gifts when you're grateful," you parrot. 

He takes a step back and accepts the flowers. On the message card, you've written, bashful and clumsy and adoring, I'm grateful to love you. One year and more. 

He moves the bouquet into one hand and wraps you up in another huh, firm-armed, chin over the top of your head, though he intersperses his embrace with dainty kisses pecked from one temple to another. 

"You aren't mad?" he asks, worried about the answer. 

"No," you say honestly. "Not mad. Missed you like crazy yesterday, but I get you today. I can make it work." 

When you break apart a second time, you both buckle under the weight of his colleagues watching.

"Thank you," Rossi speaks up, grand and wry, "we thought we'd have to endure his moping for at least a week. Your understanding spares us all." 

"Nice, Dave," Aaron says. 

"I've got your paperwork, Hotch," Morgan offers. 

Aaron has the good sense to accept it before Morgan can change his mind. His friends say goodbye, and Aaron pulls you by the hand back to the elevator bank. You couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if you tried. 

The elevator doors have barely closed when he's leaning down to kiss you again. 

"Thank you," he says. 

"You really don't have to say thank you," you murmur, bumping your shoulder with his. "You got home safe. That's all that matters." 

His next kiss is bruising. The sound of cellophane crushed between you makes you laugh. He kisses you through it, his smile pressed feverishly to yours, over and over and over.

༺༻

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed please consider reblogging, i promise it makes a difference to me <3

[justalittlesoup]

Love it when they completely blow your expectations of how love is supposed to be out of the water 💕

[clarktologist]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤPUT ON A SHOW, LOVEBIRDS!

summary: you and spencer have to go undercover to catch an unsub - as a couple in love. pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader. tags: afab reader, r wears a dress, heels & has long hair, mentions of murder & other themes present in criminal minds, just some silly flirty hehe, fake dating trope but hidden word count: 2.4k

As a BAU agent, going undercover was not normal. Majority of the time, you were stuck at a desk, scribbling down on legal pads and filling out profiles to send on over to police departments around the world. But this unsub, hunting in the bustling city of Queens, was good. No physical evidence, no witnesses, nothing concrete to stick on him other than a profile that fits and the team’s gut intuition. Therefore, the only way to take him down was going undercover and catching him in the act.

The unsub had been brought in and questioned by the police department twice now. No arrests, as nothing had stuck, but two questionings without an arrest usually led to a sense of cockiness. Especially with a narcissist, he’d felt like he had been given a new lease on life and had delivered two bodies in the middle of the city as a thank you. As the only two agents he hadn’t seen during his questionings, there was no question that you and Spencer would draw the short straws and have to take a night out on the town.

It was a simple modus operandi, not a complicated case at all. The BAU had been called in solely to assist with finding the unsub without the help of physical evidence or witnesses. They had had four bodies in two weeks before they had called the team in, heterosexual couples found shot in the streets with no evidence of robbery. The working theory was that the man was tazed and incapacitated while the unsub took his time with the woman before killing both of them.

Lucky for you, there was a popular restaurant nearby known for romantic dates, such as anniversaries and proposals. The three couples that had been turned into victims had all had dates there in the week before they were killed, turning something that was sweet and romantic into a hunting ground. You and Spencer just had to play the mushy part of a couple in love for a quick dinner, step out of the restaurant and hope neither one of you ended up with a taser to the side. 

Donned in a shorter, long-sleeved black dress that you had purchased earlier that day and heels that squeezed your toes too tight, you wore Spencer like an accessory. Your fingers were curled around his bicep, keeping him close to your side as you kept a close watch on your surroundings. The ear piece in your ear, concealed mostly by your thick, styled hair, was uncomfortable, crackling with static more frequently the farther you got from the van. Each step that brought you closer to the restaurant and then closer to your table reminded you why you had chosen the BAU instead of anything that forced you to be undercover. While Spencer was dressed handsomely in a well-fitted dark suit, you could feel the anxiety radiating off of him. His hands were tucked tightly into his front pockets, shoulders squared and jaw tense. While you had gone the full mile of styling your hair and putting on make-up and shaving every square inch of your body, he looked essentially the same as every other day. Long, unruly curls, a slight shadow of stubble decorating his jaw, a polka-dotted tie instead of something simple. Effortlessly beautiful, if you allowed yourself to admit it.

Due to your reservation, the two of you were quickly seated at a booth in the corner by the hostess. Spencer slid into the side that put his eyes directly on the door, clearing his throat as he scooted in. Just as you were about to sit across from him, the earpiece crackled with Derek’s voice. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re in love. Sit on the same side as him.” The lilt in his voice proved he was having too much fun with this situation, giving away the smile in his voice.

Bringing your wrist up to your mouth with a cover-up of wiping lipstick off the corner of your lips, you mutter beneath your breath into the microphone hidden there. “You’re a pain in my ass.” With an apologetic look and a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slide right next to Spencer, bare thigh pressing up against the warmth of his clothed one.

Your lips press together tightly as he props an arm on the back of the booth behind your head, reeling in the proximity. You wish you could say it was subconscious when you pushed your knee more into his thigh, or when the toe of your heel ended up pushing his foot a bit forward to slot your leg behind his own. You wish that your reasoning was because you had to seem like a couple that was in love with each other, that had done the first dates and the meeting the parents and discussing the future. But it had been a while since you had been this close to someone. A while since you had even considered being tucked into a man’s side, since you had had a chance to. Dating has never come easy to you, both as someone with an avoidant attachment style and a demanding job. It didn’t help that your chance had come in the form of Spencer, who was gentle and kind and soft-spoken, who saw the good in everyone unless he was having a bad day. The same Spencer who left a steaming cup of tea on your desk when the two of you had a late night in the office or walked you home from the team outings even though he lived far down the road and refused to use public transportation due to the germs.

“Are you okay?” He mumbles from beside you, breaking you out of your trance. Glancing over at him, you catch those doe eyes staring down at you, long eyelashes fluttering at his glances over your face. “I know it’s… weird.” 

Smiling, you nod almost too eagerly. A nervous laugh follows, glancing around the restaurant at all of the happy couples. People with their hands on their partner’s arms, laughing so hard their eyes crinkle. First dates who lean towards each other despite being scared to touch. Married couples who hold each other’s hands even as they eat, their feet slotted between each other underneath the table. “I don’t know if we’re doing enough to convince him,” you admit, voice low. An excuse to get closer, or an actual observation for your goal, who could tell?

You scoot closer until your shoulder overlaps his chest, leaning into him. He stiffens behind you for a blink of a second before relaxing, the arm originally perched at the back of the booth falling over your shoulder. Fingertips press into your upper arm as he gives you a soft squeeze before letting the side of his hand balance on your collarbone.

As soon as the waitress walks up to the table, you order your meals and drinks at the same time, trying to get over this as fast as possible. Despite the two of you obviously being there together, her eyes hover on Spencer the entire time, attempting soft, flirty giggles at everything he said. Your eyes narrow at the disrespect of it all, leaning forward to block her view of him and placing a possessive hand right above his knee as you smile tightly and order briskly.

Spencer’s chest rumbles beneath your shoulder as you stare her down the entire way to the kitchen, breath brushing against your neck as he leans down to murmur. “Is there a problem?” Amusement laces his tone, cocky and playful and embarrassing. 

Whipping around to explain yourself, you’re interrupted by static in your ear, although it’s luckily Emily’s voice instead of Derek’s this time. “Unsub’s here. Make it believable. Put on a show, lovebirds.” She giggles before the transmission fully cuts out, leaving you to hold back a roll of your eyes.

As shy and bashful as you wanted to be in this situation, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel shameful. This was a moment you could take advantage of. Do everything you’ve thought about doing under the guise of being a great undercover agent. Game on. To test the waters, you raise your hand, tucking a curl behind his ear and letting your fingertips brush against the hinge of his jaw. There’s a miniscule widening of his eyes before he’s grinning, lines around his mouth deepening. His thumb raises to brush along the corner of your mouth, dark eyes watching as your lips fall open in response. There’s another rumble of a laugh from him before his hand falls onto your thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.

By the time the food arrives, you’re comfortably settled into Spencer’s side, his fingers pressing into the skin of your inner thigh and thumb brushing against the outside. To keep yourselves occupied on happier subjects and not on the fact that a spree killer was actively hunting you (as confirmed by your comrades outside), you make a game out of profiling the people in the restaurant.

“They’re on a first date,” you murmur near his ear as he leans down to take a bite, eyes locked on two girls in the corner. “The brunette asked, the blonde agreed, but is now regretting it.” 

Spencer lets out a hum in response, taking a sip of water to wash his food down. “I would put money on the fact that blondie didn’t even bring her wallet.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, turning to look at him. “Oh, that’s just every woman. Who do you think is paying for this?” You grin. To prove your point, you grab your bag from beside you, opening it and showing him the absence of a wallet. “I have everything I need.” Lip gloss for a re-up, your FBI badge and a handgun that took up most of the space. The necessities.

His nose wrinkles before his fingers pinch your thigh, causing you to yelp and shove at his shoulder. “Hopefully I get reimbursed for this,” he grumbles playfully. 

Despite his grumblings, he grabs the check as soon as it's set on the table, sliding his card into the pocket. You take the time between the waitress taking the card and Spencer writing down his tip (25%, you note with a blush) to get back into the zone, remembering that you were here to catch a spree killer, not to laugh it up and fuel your crush on your coworker.

At Spencer’s nudge to your hip, you slide out of the booth, draping your bag over your shoulder and keeping it closer to your front. His hand slides along the small of your back until his fingers rest on your opposite hip, pulling you into his side as your steps match up on the way out of the restaurant.

You babble to Spencer about nothing important, like how good the food was and how it reminded you of your grandmother (who has been dead for a long time), the feeling of eyes on you unnerving. Emily and Derek spoke in your earpieces, guiding your steps and keeping you updated.

“He’s crossing the street to get behind you now. Can you lean down and pretend to fix the strap of your heel? Morgan and I are on the way.” Emily murmurs before the departing static moves through your ear again.

Pulling away from Spencer, you give him a soft smile before crouching, making sure your bag is in front of you as your fingers curl into the straps of your high heels. Fiddling with the loop, undoing it and redoing it, you watch the shadow on the corner of your eye grow closer. You slowly stand, hand slipping into your bag and fingers curling around the cold metal of your gun.

It happens quickly. The crackle of a taser, the yells of Derek and Emily announcing themselves, your own voice calling out the same thing you had repeated many times. “FBI!” Your gun raises to point at the man behind you, who’s eyes widen as his taser clacks onto the ground. Derek gets him to his knees before arresting him, pulling him away before anything could be said. 

A sigh leaves your lips as you put the safety back on your weapon, sheathing it away in your handbag. You turn to Spencer with a soft smile, running a hand through your hair. “Glad you didn’t get tased?” You tease, pulling the strap back over your shoulder.

“Very grateful,” he agrees, nodding. He steps forward, fingers brushing along your hip. He’d been touching you all night, your face and your neck and your legs, but this one is different. It settles into your skin like a brand, feeling like something more, something shaky.

Spencer studies  you for a moment, his head tilting to the side as he takes in every bit of emotion or thought on your face, before he speaks again. “Would you like to do this again sometime?” He asks, shuffling on his feet. His cheek caves in as he bites at the skin inside of his mouth, gaze still traveling along your features.

“Go undercover?” You ask, and not because you’re an idiot. You know what he’s asking. Do this, as in dinner and dressing up and soft touches. Not to get paid, not because the both of you took a vow when you joined the FBI, but because you enjoyed each other’s presence. But there’s a part of you that vies for the confirmation, for the admittance.

He smiles, seeing right through your facade. “No,” he responds slowly. Gentle fingers reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “This. Dinner. Just us, without Emily and Derek there, without a spree killer watching us.” His lips spread into a grin, hands tucking into his pockets. “You do not have to bring your wallet.”

A laugh escapes you before you can even try to push it down, head shaking. Your arm pushes through the gap between his arm and torso, fingers holding onto his bicep the same way they had when the both of you had walked to the restaurant. Your feet start to walk at the same pace, left foot than right foot, as you make your way back to the surveillance van. “That sounds perfect to me.”

[justalittlesoup]

I love when they realize their feelings for eachother while undercover 💕

[aseafullofstars]

๋࣭⭑ always ☆ spencer reid

๋࣭⭑ atlas : spencer's job is hard, and you're determined to ensure that whatever happens after he comes home is as easy and comforting as it can possibly be

๋࣭⭑ binary stars : spencer x reader (gn) ๋࣭⭑ classification : fluff + comfort ๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 4.5k

๋࣭⭑ omens : a lot of fluff, spencer crying because let's be honest he's got a lot of emotions to get out, non-sexual nudity/showering together, all the cosy things i could think of

๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : so apparently i write for spencer now ??? i've had so many ideas for him floating around in my head bcs @ambiguous-avery and i keep yapping nonstop about him LMAO (and while you're here, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE go check out their spencer fics !!!)

๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist

The knock on your apartment door is gentle, almost hesitant, like whoever is knocking is afraid to disrupt some kind of silence. There’s a moment where it’s completely quiet, the air in and around the apartment holding it breath, giving it space to exist in the late evening hours. The next knock follows just a moment later, a lilting pattern that’s become your secret code. So that you know it’s really him and not something that’s followed him home from work and lives in the dark spaces between your light and his. Your voice is muffled by the heavy door, but Spencer knows what you’re saying, because it’s the same thing every time; door’s locked, come in. There’s a shuffling muffled by wood, a slide of metal on metal, and a quiet snick as the mechanisms inside the lock turn to open the door, gliding smoothly against each other.

The hinges perform their usual creaking dance as the door opens, their soft duet with the footsteps on the floor a familiar comfort to you now. Spencer has a specific rhythm he moves in after long cases, and tonight is like all the others. First, his bag is placed by the door, open and sorted through to assure the contents are ordered correctly. Next, his coat slides off his shoulders, forming an orderly ghost on the rack next to yours. Then, his converse come off, laces neatly tucked away and alighted with your own shoes, matching coloured laces reflecting the light. Finally, after he’s assured everything is in order, he moves from the hall to the main room, in search of you.

Tonight, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg crunched up in a position that looks painful but probably isn’t. You’re reading something on your phone, no doubt something you’ll tell him about later whether he’s interested in it or not; he’s always fascinated when it comes to your interests. There’s a pot on the stovetop, and Spencer can hear the faint bubbling of it like muted conversation. The stack of pages in his arms is deposited gently on the table, and your eyes finally drift up to meet his, soft meeting exhausted.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he replies, equally quiet.

“Tea or coffee?” you ask, smiling at the way his shoulders slump at the familiarity of the question.

It’s a litmus test you’d created together as an indirect way to check up on the other without giving away details you’re not ready to say aloud. Tea means a little time to decompress, and a quiet evening curled together, soaking in the warmth you bring each other. Coffee means everything is fine, and that you could go for a little more excitement in your evening by means of a new movie or new adventure. When his eyes turn melted and soft at the question, you know the reply before he even gives it.

“Tea, please,” he says, slouching even further.

“What kind?”

Your voice is kind in the way that almost brings tired tears to his eyes.

“Chamomile?” he asks weakly.

You stand from the chair, walking over to him and slinging your arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to the crook of your neck.

“I love you,” you whisper as he shuffles closer. “Go shower while I finish dinner. Take your time.”

“Okay,” he hums, making no motion to move.

“I can wash your hair,” you offer.

“I- I can do it.”

“I know.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

You step back just a half step, your hands planted firmly on his arms.

“Do you want me to?” you ask.

“To what?”

“To wash your hair.”

For a moment, he’s still, the only sounds being his breathing mixing in time with yours and the low boil of soup. His soft doe eyes flick to yours and away again, dropping to the floor as he nods shyly.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks.

You softly kiss his cheek, turning it a soft pink.

“It’s always okay,” is your reply.

Spencer makes a soft noise, something that sounds like acceptance with the tiniest hint of guilt. You catch the guilt, soothing it away with another kiss, this time to the opposite cheek.

“Go get ready,” you say. “I’ll be right there.”

“Are you sure?” he asks again, because he needs to be absolutely certain he’s not burdening you with things you don’t want to handle.

“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in your tone. “Always.”

Spencer lingers for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to part from you. He finally does after you squeeze his shoulder, muttering softly to yourself as you shut off the stove. You follow him down the hall, one of your hands resting firm on the small of his back, grounding him through his dress shirt. While he heads right into the bathroom, you make a quick stop in the laundry room, throwing a towel and Spencer’s sleep clothes into the dryer. It chimes happily as you feed it the clothing, the door locking with a determined click when you close it. Back in the bathroom, you bring your own pyjamas inside, setting them on the floor while Spencer meticulously folds his work clothes, a desperate attempt to regain whatever control he feels he’s lost. He hovers, watching you undress like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.

“Spencer?” you say.

“I- Yes. Hi.”

You offer a smile, so sweet and tender that the only word for it is loving.

“Where’d you go?”

He pauses, sorting his options and deciding on the truth, because you deserve to hear nothing but the truth.

“Just…” he trails off into a heavy silence, leaving you to fill in the planks.

“Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon handsome.”

Spencer blushes pink at your compliment, and with his clothes off, you can see the blush moving down his neck that would normally be hidden. Luckily, you’re too focused on the waster temperature to tease him, your soft murmurs as you search for his preferred temperature; warm enough to remind him he’s safe, but cold enough to remind him he’s still alive. The shower rain is interrupted by you stepping under it, muffling a yelp when you realize the water is way too cold, and Spencer has to try very hard not to laugh at your misfortune. You peel back the curtain and beckon Spencer inside after a few more adjustments.

As soon as he’s inside, you move so that he’s under the water. He sighs audibly at the warmth on his back, pattering rainfall washing away his stress, eyes closed and shoulders curling ever inward. He looks impossible small, as close to a scared child as a grown man can be. You feel yourself melting at the sight, and he physically does when your fingers meet his hair and start working the water through his curls. Each press of your fingers to his scalp soothes him more, and by the time you’re reaching for his shampoo, he’s learning almost all of his weight on you, head resting on your shoulder. The opening of the bottle lid cracks like a firework, loud and unwelcome, but the flood of his shampoo scent makes up for it; warm, slightly sweet, smelling entirely like home and comfort. It’s blissfully comfortable in here, under your touch, under your loving hands.

The only sign Spencer is still conscious is the soft sob he bites back the moment it escapes.

“You’re okay,” you murmur into his ear. “’S okay Spence, you’re home.”

“I know,” he says, voice thick yet not entirely convinced.

“Yeah?” you say, adjusting his head.

He puffs a watery sigh, clearing his throat decisively. He’ll probably talk about it later, but words have no space in here right now. He settles instead of nodding and shuffling slightly closer, basking in your warmth. Each pas of your hands through his curls as you wash the soap out chokes him up a little further, and he’s painfully aware of how helpful the water is in hiding his tears.

When he’s fully cleaned off, you leave him a few minutes to himself for soaking while you go fetch his towel and clothes. You say his name with cautious care when you return to avoid spooking him, the only acknowledgement being the shower turning off and his hand peeling back the curtain before wrapping around himself again. Your arms are spread wide and he walks right into them, collapsing against you as you wrap him in the towel.

“It’s warm,” he comments.

“Mhm. Put it in the dryer for a moment.”

He makes another wounded noise, throat tight. The feeling of your arms around his body, warm and solid, drag and uneven breath out of him. You smile, laughing softly as you towel him dry, only stepping out in order to give him privacy as he changes.

You’re back at the stove when he returns, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the steam curling up around your face like a halo. The clean shirt and flannel pants you set out for him also carry the warmth of your dryer, achingly gentle in his heart as he envelops himself further in your domesticity. The stool creaks a little as he sits down, the wobbly leg slamming into the floor harder than he intended. If you’re mad about the sound, you don’t say anything, instead opting to grab the good bowls for the soup, placing one in front of him with a soft clink.

“Open,” you say, bringing the soup ladle toward him.

He’s about to ask why, but when he sees that you’ve made his favourite soup recipe he got for you from Rossi, he opens his mouth for you without question. It burns his tongue a little, but he’s so beyond grateful for the taste of something made with love that he barely even registers the discomfort. When it hits his stomach, a gooey warmth floods him, ocean waves of home tugging at his body until he gives in and floats away.

“Good?” you ask, watching him.

“Very,” he replies, blinking. “It’s hot.”

You giggle. “Well, yeah. It’s boiling.”

You side a cup of water across the counter that he drinks gratefully, soothing his burned tongue and throat.

“Eat here or out there?” you ask, jutting your thumb to the couch.

Spencer evaluates his options with the kind of serious calculation he leaves only for your questions. Eating on the couch means he can wrap up in blankets and keep you tucked close, your head a grounding weight. But, eating on the couch means you’re both more likely to spill, given the liquid nature of soup and the uneven surface properties of your thrift store couch and wonky coffee table. Sitting at the counter guarantees a safter surface, dramatically reducing the chances of a spill. He’ll just have to settle for the only physical touch being your knees resting together under the countertop.

“Here,” he finally answers, still uncertain. “It’s more stable and I don’t want your couch to have soup spilled all over it.”

You nod, accepting. “Get cozy.”

The soup is ladled into bowls and placed in your spots, two spoons following, and two crumpled napkins ending the setup. Then, decisively like you’d read his mind and planned this all along, you slide your chair next to his.

“Scootch over,” you say, nudging him with your hip.

Immediately, his chair scrapes clumsily on the floor to make room, his hand pulling your chair close enough to be content. As soon as you sit, he curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder, damp hair tickling your neck. Your hum reverberates in Spencer’s chest, and he’s fairly certain if kept up long enough, it would have healing properties like a cat’s purr.

“Y’okay?” you ask, ruffling his hair.

“Mhm.” He sighs, heavily, the stress melting from him bit by bit until the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.

“Bad case?”

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Nothing wrong with saying that.”

“I know. Saying it just makes it more real, I suppose.”

You kiss the top of his head. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Is there a happy ending?”

His silence says everything and more. The heavy pause fills the room wall to wall, leaving barely any space for anything else. It crowds you and him out, pressing against his skin until it aches, and until the reminder of his failure is settled heavily in his soul.

“’S not your fault, y’know,” you say as you take a spoonful of soup.

“I was meant to talk him down.”

“And did you?”

“…Not well.”

You frown. “What’s that mean?”

Spencer’s fingers leave the spoon and opt to twist with each other in his lap, nails starting to pick at his cuticles. You give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before your hands grab his, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.

“I- I did talk. For a while, actually.”

When you say nothing, he continues.

“It was just- his mental barriers are- were very strong. He was able to keep it all locked up tight, and breaking that resulted in a breakdown. I pushed too hard.”

Your hand tightens reassuringly in his.

“It just didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t enough for him.”

“Spence?”

“Hm?”

Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, dipping into dark circles and sweeping along rosy warmth. One thumb passes over a silvery scar, and you smile fondly.

“Did he listen? When you spoke?”

Spencer pauses. “For a while.”

“Then it meant something.”

“He still-.”

“Sweetheart,” you say. “Sometimes people decide they’re going to do something no matter what.”

“I know.”

“And sometimes,” you interrupt kindly. “Someone talking in their last moments makes them feel alive. You don’t have to change everyone’s mind, Spence. You just have to remind them they’re human.”

Spencer goes quiet, the kind where he’s internalizing something, making it rational and real, something more than just a string of words.

“Look,” you say. “All you can offer is comfort. Something to remind them they’re not alone. I know you can do that.”

“Even if it didn’t change the outcome?”

“Especially then.”

You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, lips brushing the furrow in his brow.

“Whatever happened today changes nothing to me. I still love you, I know you did your best, and I’m still right here.”

Spencer heaves a shuddering breath, hands trembling faintly in his lap. You tilt his head up to find his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in an effort to keep it from trembling too. Another forehead kiss and a half-choked sob breaks free, his body crunching in on itself like he’s recoiling from a shot. You lean his body into yours just like in the shower; one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair as his head rests in the crook of your neck. You rock slowly side to side, stroking his hair that’s still slightly damp and slides nicely through your fingers.

“You’re okay,” you murmur.

“I’m okay.”

You nod, squeezing the hug tighter. “You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you barely hear it, he whispers one word into the skin of your neck.

“Promise?”

Your heart shatters, pulling him tighter to you so that you can envelop as much of him as possible. Your smell surrounds him, warm and safe and you.

“Promise. Always promise.”

Spencer breaks quietly, a rock sinking gracefully to the sea floor, the ripples only big enough for you to see them and follow them to him. You cradle him to your chest, feeling his tears wet your skin as he clings tighter.

“I gotcha,” you murmur, soft and safe and so tender it hurts his chest more than his quiet sobs do.

He nuzzles closer to you, noes pressing to your neck and mouth muffled in your shirt, quieting the last dregs of already quiet sobs. With each slow movement of your body’s pendulum motion, your voice is whispering reassurances, and your lips are pressing gentle kisses to his teary cheeks and his hair. You don’t rush him, and he doesn’t make nay indication he’s moving; you just exist in each other’s orbits, lines of yourself molding into one being, the best part of the both of you tangling together. His empathy and your sympathy. Your rationality to his emotionality. Everything that makes him cry meeting every part of your comfort. Spencer feels softer than he ever has before, because nowhere will ever be as safe as home in your arms.

Finally, after what was several minutes and only felt like half a moment, Spencer’s head tilts up from its burrow in your neck. You hum lightly at the feeling of his weight leaving, letting him pull as far out of your arms as he wants. He sniffles heavily, taking the tissue you hand him and wiping his nose. He uses the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, knuckles scraping on rough, red skin. Spener clears his throat a few times as your hands finish wiping stray tears, and he laughs a little in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

“God, Spence, don’t apologize.”

“I- okay.”

He sniffs again, looking at his shoes.

“You needed that, hm?” you ask, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.

“Actually, crying releases hormones that help with emotional regulation. Many people report fewer negative emotions after crying.”

You’re watching him, fond and soft, listening to every word just to dissipate it all with one statement.

“So yes, you did need that.”

He blushes. “Yea, I did.”

“C’mere,” you say, tugging at his hands until he follows you to your feet. He’s standing a little taller now, like the weight compressing his spine as been lifted.

“What are you doing?” he asks as you loop your arms around his middle.

“That thing,” you offer unhelpfully. “Deep…uh. Deep something, I forget.”

Spencer laughs low in his throat, soft as ever. “Deep pressure therapy?”

“Yeah, that.”

“You know, it’s actually-.”

He’s cut off abruptly by your arms spreading over as much of his back as you can, squeezing him tight to your chest. He’s stiff for a moment, taken aback by the pressure and the abruptness of it all. Slowly, his arms land on your waist, resting there as you scoop him up into the biggest bear hug of his entire life. You eventually part with one last squeeze and a soft kiss to his lips that make them tingle pleasantly.

“Better?” you ask, turning to the table and grabbing his bowl.

“Much.” He goes to sit and take a spoonful of soup, finding both his bowl and spoon are gone. “What’re you doing?”

“Reheating your soup,” you say easily, sticking both bowls in the microwave and setting the timer, the hum loud in the kitchen space.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrug, leaning on your elbows. “I know. I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“For you.”

“Why-.”

“Because you’ve had a right day and because I love you.”

Another pause follows, the air hesitating.

“Why…”

You sigh in mock exasperation, grinning widely. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”

Spencer returns your grin, brighter than he’s looked all evening. “No.”

Just then, your eyes light up like you’ve discovered some secret he doesn’t know about. “I know what you can do, though.”

“What?” he says, excitedly.

“Sit down,” you say, pushing him into the chair. “Let yourself be cared for,” you say with a kiss. “And let me love you like you deserve.”

He gives you a weak glare. “You could just tell me to stop talking.”

“I don’t want you to stop talking, I want you to stop pretending you feel perfectly normal.”

That shuts him up quick, because you are right and there’s only so long he can argue before giving in and letting you win. Before he can think of more to say, the microwave beeps and you’re sliding soup in front of him again, spoon in his hand as he eyes it. The soup is gone in minutes, Spencer not quite realizing how hungry he really was until he finally started eating. Normally, you’d make a joke about slowing down, but tonight doesn’t feel like the night for it.

He sits with his head on your shoulder while he waits for you to finish, the heat of the soup in his stomach and the emotional drain of crying starting to lull him into a half-asleep state. He doesn’t even realize you’re done until you’re tapping his shoulder and he’s stirring with a soft groan.

“Still with me?” you ask lightly.

“Mhm,” he sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his puffy eyes.

“Bed?”

He nods, stretching out like a cat and curling back in. His next question, asked so softly you almost miss it, makes your heart burst in light.

“Read to me?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because it’s him. “Haven’t you memorized every book we own?”

He shrugs, starting into your eyes so tenderly they need to make a new word for it.

“Not in your voice.”

The admission makes your soul feel important for the first time in way too long. Spener, the boy with the eidetic memory, who knows every word to every line of every book he’s ever read, thinks having them read to him by you means more than his perfect memory of the pages. You can feel your cheeks flush hot at the knowledge, but if he sees it or not is lost on you.

“Pick something then,” you say instead, gesturing to the shelf. “I’ll clean up.”

“Love you,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek before hopping out of his chair and scurrying to the bookshelf.

The faint sounds of your movement in the kitchen perfectly fill in the stillness between Spencer’s own movements. The clink of spoon on bowl in the pauses as he thinks, the soft hush of water under his breathing as he mutters to himself about each book. Eventually, quiet conversation fills the space, two separate ones who’s answers flood together until the commentary sounds like two people talking to each other. You’re commentating the dishes, chastising the water that flies off the spoons and hushing the bowls that touch too loudly. Spencer is relaying the plot of the book to you, knowing you’re listening just to hear the sound of his voice. He digs through his shelves, unsatisfied, until he finds something tucked behind a copy of The Odyssey; a collection of children’s stories, with a foreword about the history of illustrated novels, gifted to him by his mother. It features her careful handwriting noting his childhood commentary on the margins of almost every page.

“Find something?” you say, startling him a little.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” You peer closer at the tan cover in his hands, reading the title. “Is that Beatrix Potter?”

He’s quiet, face flushed a deep red, turning the book away in his arms to hide it from your gaze.

“Spencer, these are great. What’s up?”

He shrugs, trying to be casual and landing somewhere in the realm of petrified.

“They’re children’s stories,” he says like that changes everything.

“So?”

“So…I’m not a child.”

“I know.”

He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. It’s not at you, it never is. Rather, it’s t he fact that for all his might he can’t figure out how to put it into words that he should be past the children’s story phase. Yet the fact you’ve still offered to read something he holds such fond memories of makes every argument he had disappear from his mind.

“DO you want to read it?”

Your voice snaps hm back. “What?”

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

Spener swallows anxiously, though he’s not sure why he’s afraid.

“Would you?” he asks softly.

“’Course I would. They’re good stories. Bedisdes, you need something lighter tonight.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer hands you the book, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.

“Just don’t make it weird. Please. I’m not a kid.”

You smile reassuringly. “I know, sweetheart. It won’t be weird.”

Spencer takes your free hand in his, his thumb tracing over the mountain ranges of your knuckles. His footsteps pad lightly down the hall in time with yours, socked feet whispering in rhythm the way they only do because you’ve spent so long around each other. His flannel pyjama pants hush soft too, reeds in the water of your apartment’s oasis. The hall feels both endless and barely a step long, Spencer getting lost in his thoughts as you walk the few steps to your bedroom.

Cracking the door open, you let him in first, watching as he climbs into bed, throwing the sheets over his legs and sighting when he gets comfortable. You close the blinds over your window, lighting the bedside lamp and taking note of how kindly the light caresses Spencer’s face. The edge of his nose is lit up gold, soft eyes reflecting it back too. When he smiles at you, his eyes light up with love amidst the hazel, reminding you exactly why you love him.

“Scootch over,” you say, crawling into bed beside him.

He’s adjusted the pillows your for already, learning them against the headboard so that you can comfortably read. You already know where he’ll move before he does; you register his pillow right in place for your head at the exact moment he throws an arm over you and rests his head on your chest.

“Are you comfy?” he asks when you’re settled in.

“Mhm,” you reply. “Are you?”

Spener answers by snuggling closer with a satisfied groan.

“Good,” you say, ruffling his hair.

You’re about to flip past the foreword when Spencer’s eyes ask you to read it without his voice saying the words. You adjust seamlessly, clearing your throat as you start with the foreword. With your hand carding through his curls and your voice vibrating in his ears, spencer falls asleep faster than he has in years; before you’re finished the foreword, he’s already snoring impossibly soft against your chest, fingers twined carefully in your shirt. You finish the entire first section just in case, but when he doesn’t wake, you set it on the table and turn out the lamp, slowly easing yourself down the mattress until you’re lying comfortably. Spencer doesn’t stir, and it’s not long before you drift off with him after pressing a final kiss to the top of his head.

tags : use the taglist form or send me a comment/ask/dm to be added to spencer reid taglist !!

[justalittlesoup]

Spencer memorized all of the reader’s books but wants to know them in their voice too 😭💕

[ghost-pussie]

u should be sleeping (together)

the entire bau know how u feel abt spencer. morgan gives u advice on the jet while spencer sleeps... or so u think.

tags: fluff, gn!reader x spencer reid, sleepy spencer, big brother morgan, feels maybe season 4-5 to me but can be read as whenever, mutual pining, written as a one shot but can be read as a part 2 to u don't mind sharing with me, do u? written at 2am and not proofread <3

warnings: none i think ? one use of fuck, ending maybe cld be interpreted as sexual but thats not rly the intention

wc: 948 crossposted on ao3

spencer reid sleeps curled up like a deer. elegant hands tucked under his chin, legs hanging off the end of the sofa like he isn't completely aware of his own height, fluffy hair almost halo-like. all long lines and soft edges. the case had been hard on him and you're relieved he's able to get some peace.

the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is difficult not to watch. it's almost meditative.

"your crush on him is so blatant," derek's voice appears behind you.

"i don't see the point in trying to hide it. i don't think he feels the same though... i've given him so many hints, so many opportunities to ask me out and he never does."

derek chuckles. "yeah, he doesnt really do that sort of thing."

reid doesn't date. that should make the rejection feel less personal but the disappointment is just as bitter.

"he's not used to being wanted," derek adds, making your heart clench. "he assumes he misunderstood something, or that he's reading too deep into it, or he just gets scared of messing up or being disappointed. you could literally hold up a sign that says *i want to fuck you* and he'd think you meant as a friend or a joke."

oh.

"have you actually asked him? or just tried to get him to ask you?"

his headphones are back on before you can reply.

you curl up in your seat and rest your forehead against the jet window. the low lights and gentle hum of the engine make it hard to keep your eyes open. if you focus you can almost hear spencer breathing.

★

the jet lands sooner than you expected. the airport feels liminal as the team stumble through it, all half-asleep. hotch mercifully announces that paperwork can wait until tomorrow and orders everyone to get some rest.

"do you want a ride home?" spencer falls into step as you begin your trek to the bus stop. you're not even sure any buses run this late.

"yes please," you murmur.

the drive is quiet. the car is comfortable, vintage with soft seats and a good heating system and a clean, bookish scent that reminds you distinctly of spencer.

he wakes you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb stroking soft circles through your hoodie. you hadn't even realised you were falling asleep.

your apartment complex looms over the car and you start to climb out, dreamily mumbling thanks.

"um," he's barely loud enough for you to hear, but you pause, car door still open, swaying on your feet. brown eyes catch yours, and his pink lips open then close again, contemplating how much he should say.

"did you-" he interrupts himself. starts again, "can i walk you to your door?"

"yes please."

you don't know exactly how your hands end up wrapped around his arm but he doesnt object.

the elevator ride is quiet. you lean into spencer. his cardigan is soft under your cheek, his arm warm under your palms.

halfway to your floor, he opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind.

at your door, he places a hand over yours, as if asking you not to let him go.

"i, um," you say, "i need my hands back? to get my keys..."

he releases your hands and you peel them reluctantly away from his arm, already missing the softness and warmth and comfort of him. you open the door with a soft click. you turn back to spencer, instinctively reaching for him. he slides his hands into yours.

wide eyes scan your face, reading every microexpression, studying all the emotions you're too tired to conceal. his throat bobs as he swallows nervously. you squeeze his hands in reassurance.

"did you want to ask me something?"

your eyes snap up to his.

it's a perfectly innocent question. there are a thousand things he could be referring to. a thousand less difficult, less terrifying, less vulnerable things. but it's been less than three hours since derek spoke to you, less than three hours since derek told you - oh, god, right in front of spencer - to just ask.

"you heard that?" you manage to whisper.

"morgan's right. i realise it's somewhat hypocritical of me to say, but if you want something, you should ask for it. you're... you would get what you want."

mortified, you bury your face in his neck. he traces his hands up your wrists, up your arms, across your shoulder blades, spreading his fingers across your back and gently pressing you into his chest. you reach for his waist and grab two fistfulls of his cardigan.

"take your time," he soothes.

he's soft and warm and you don't want to move, but you're almost falling asleep standing up and you can feel his grasp on you starting to soften.

"can we talk about this tomorrow?" you mumble.

"yeah. yeah, okay, see you tomorrow. goodnight." he says, detangling himself from you. a hint of disappointment clouds his eyes, but he smiles at you, giving your hand a final, gentle squeeze before turning back towards the elevator.

you watch him walk away.

and you don't want to let go.

"it's late," you call out.

"yes, it is."

"it's late, spence. and, um, it's like a twenty minute drive back to your place, so by the time you get to yours it'll be even later. and it's not safe to drive when you're tired."

he practically trips over his own feet in his hurry to get back to you.

"what are you suggesting, exactly?"

"you could stay here. with me. if you want."

"do you have a guest bed?"

"no, just the one."

i wanted this to feel sleepy and dreamlike, almost like a bedtime story... only one bed trope jumpscare sry :P

[justalittlesoup]

This is so sweet and he’s so gentle 💕

[maladaptive-daydreamer-23]

🛩️Mile High Club🛩️

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.

“Let’s get started.”

[justalittlesoup]

A masterpiece in 17.8k words, read at your own risk 💕

[hoe4hotchner]

can i request an aaron comfort smut fic where f reader hasnt ever and cant reach orgasm and is frustrated/upset by it so over a few weeks they try different things like positions, toys, kinks, longer foreplay, etc, aaron having very "idgaf if this takes all night" energy lol

Hotch’s Hypothesis: Pleasure Takes Time

Pairing Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

WC: 5.8k

Warnings: MDNI! 18+, Smut, long-term anorgasmia and sexual frustration, sex, oral, sex toys, crying, emotional vulnerability and insecurity, reassurance, praise, patience.

Summary: You've never optained orgasm and despite being married to Hotch, you've never told him until the frustration bubbles over and you finally let out your shameful secret. He vows to help figure out how to draw and orgasm out of you, even if he doesn't successeed at all

A/N: This is so long over due, soooorrrryyyy! Also I hope no one ever looks into my cookies, cause I ended up on Pornhub trying to find those gifs for the graphic 😅

The light from your bedside lamp cast a warm glow across the bedroom, turning the familiar walls of your home softer.

Jack was at Jessica’s for the night, he had begged for a sleepover at his aunt’s house. And the case files that usually lived on Hotch’s nightstand had been deliberately banished to the locked drawer in his study given your first night alone in weeks.

For once, the world had paused long enough to let the two of you breathe.

You lay on your side facing away from him, the sheet pulled up to your chin, almost as if you were using it as armor. Your body still carried the pleasant ache of his hands, his mouth, the slow and deliberate way he’d moved inside you, but the afterglow of it all felt incomplete. Hollow even. The same quiet frustration that always arrived right on schedule, right when you should have been floating on cloud 9.

You could feel him watching you.

Hotch shifted behind you, the mattress dipping as he propped himself up on one elbow peeking over your shoulder. His fingers found a stray lock of hair that had fallen across your cheek and tucked it gently behind your ear. The gesture was so careful, so practiced, that it made your throat tighten.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from exertion, but still so impossibly gentle. “Talk to me. You’re miles away.”

Your first instinct was to deflect. Maybe lie. To roll over and kiss him hard, whisper something about how good he felt, how much you loved him... anything to keep the conversation from going where it needed to go.

But Aaron Hotchner had spent his career reading people who lied for a living. And you were a good enough profiler to know that he would see right through it in seconds.

So you stayed still, clutching the sheet tighter.

“I…” The word cracked. You swallowed. “I enjoyed it. I really did. I love having sex with you and you’re... you always make me feel so good.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited, the way he did when someone on the team was about to crack open a trauma they’d buried for years.

“But?” he prompted softly when you didn’t continue, his hand settling on your hip over the sheet. His thumb began moving in slow and absent circles.

The word hung there like a door left ajar.

You rolled onto your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that wasn’t spinning, trying to advoid his gaze. The blades were frozen mid-turn, and somehow that felt like the perfect metaphor to whatever it was that was wrong with you.

“I didn’t cum,” you said hurried, the admission flat, it felt factual at first, then fracturing. “I never cum. Not tonight. Not last week. Not with anyone I’ve ever been with. Not even when I’m alone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Hotch’s thumb never stopped moving and it felt like he was mulling over a reply.

You kept going before you could talk yourself out of it.

“I’ve tried everything. Every position, every toy I could find online, without dying of embarrassment. Different pressures, different rhythms. I even went to a sex therapist for six months when I was younger. She told me it was probably psychological, gave me homework. You know mindfulness, kegels, guided masturbation with candles, ocean sounds and so on. Nothing. It builds, it feels incredible, I get right to the edge…and then it just…vanishes. Like my body hits a wall and says no not for you. Every single time.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated how small it sounded, how wrong and broken you felt.

“And tonight I thought... God, I really thought.... maybe it would be different. Because it’s you. Because I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Because when you touch me, I feel safe and wanted and seen. But it still didn’t happen. And now I feel…” You dragged in a shaky breath. “I feel broken. And I feel like I’m failing you as a wife. Like I’m taking everything you give me, and I can’t even give you the one thing that’s supposed to make it mutual.”

Tears slipped sideways into your hair before you could stop them.

Hotch didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t offer platitudes.

He simply shifted closer until his chest pressed lightly against your side, one arm sliding across your waist to hold you. His lips found your temple.

“You are not broken,” he said. “And you are not failing me. Not even a little.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were steady and glistening faintly in the lamplight.

“This isn’t a performance review,” he continued quietly. “There’s no scorecard. There’s no deadline. There’s just you, and me, and whatever your body needs to feel safe enough to let go. If that takes weeks, or months, or longer... I’m here for it. All of it. I don’t care if we spend every night between now and retirement chasing your orgasm. I care that you feel good. I care that you feel wanted. I care that you know I’m not going anywhere because of something your nervous system hasn’t figured out yet.”

You searched his face, looking for cracks, for frustration, disappointment, anything.

There was none.

“How long have you been carrying this alone?” he asked.

“Since I was old enough to understand what an orgasm was supposed to feel like and that I wasn’t feeling that,” you whispered. “I used to fake it with other partners just so they’d stop asking. I’d fake it and then cry in the shower afterward because I hated lying, but I hated the pity more. With you…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”

His expression softened, but his voice stayed firm.

“Good. Don’t ever start. If you ever feel that pressure again, the need to perform, to pretend, to tell me. We stop. We talk. We try something else. Or we don’t try anything at all. But no more hiding.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried, less about the need he was feeling to start working out where your block was and more about the promise of figuring everything out. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“We’ll figure this out together,” he said. “No pressure. Just us. And if it never happens, if your body just decides this is how it’s wired, then that’s okay too. I still want you. Every day. Every night. Exactly as you are.”

A sob caught in your throat.

“You mean that?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. You know that by now.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. His thumb brushed another tear away. “You’re not a puzzle I need to solve so I can feel accomplished. You’re the woman I love. And loving you means wanting your pleasure, however long it takes, however we get there. Or even if we don’t.”

You let out a watery laugh, curling into his chest. Hotch’s arms locked around you instantly.

“Okay,” you whispered against the warm skin of his throat. “Together.” You nodded once as you spoke.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, letting his lips linger there.

“Together,” he echoed your words.

The first attempt began the very next evening, after the house had settled into its nighttime rhythm. Jack had been tucked in at 8:30 sharp, story read, night-light adjusted and door left cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill in. The dishwasher had finished its quick cycle, the living room lamps were confined to a single floor lamp in the corner... in case anyone thought no one was home, and the faint scent of chamomile tea Hotch had brewed earlier, in an attempt to calm your nerves, still lingered in the air.

You knew Hotch had spent the day researching whenever the opportunity presented itself. He hadn’t said it outright, but you’d caught the telltale signs. The way he stayed in his office during lunch, the faint crease between his brows when he’d closed it a little too quickly when Rossi walked in, the single bookmarked tab you’d glimpsed titled “Female Orgasmic Dysfunction: Evidence-Based Approaches” before he’d minimized the window.

He’d approached this the same way he approached profiling: methodical, thorough, and unwilling to enter the unknown unprepared.

By the time you stepped into the bedroom, nerves had coiled tight in your stomach. Hotch was already there, hair still slightly damp from the quick shower he’d taken after putting Jack down. He looked up from where he’d been straightening the pillows and immediately softened, reading your posture.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and calm.

You crossed the room, your legs unsteady and perched on the very edge of the mattress, knees pressed together, hands twisting in the hem of your shirt. He sank to his knees in front of you, shoulders filling the space between your legs without forcing them apart... yet. His hands settled on the outsides of your knees, thumbs brushing small, soothing arcs against your skin.

“We’re starting slow,” he told you, holding your gaze. “Longer foreplay than we’ve ever done. No goal except feeling good. You tell me what you like, what you don’t, what’s too much, what’s not enough. We stop the second you want to. No questions, no guilt.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it beating in your chest.

He leaned in and kissed the inside of your left knee first, then the right. Then higher. Slow and deliberately placed open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each one lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of his breath before his lips made contact again. He took his time, mapping every inch like he was memorizing the shape of you, the faint stretch mark, the place where your skin goosebumped when he exhaled just right, the tremor that started in your thigh when his tongue flicked out for the first time.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he didn’t dive in. He pressed a single, reverent kiss to your mound, then another lower before hooking a finger in your panties and pulling them down. He slipped a thumb through your pussy, parting you gently.

Hotch’s first flick of his tongue was barely there, a flat stroke from entrance to clit, no pressure, just warmth and wetness and presence.

You gasped, fingers curling into the sheets.

He hummed against you, and you couldn’t tell if it was approval or encouragement... or maybe both to some extent. He then repeated the motion, a little firmer this time. His hands slid up to cradle the backs of your thighs, lifting them slightly so your legs draped over his shoulders, opening you more without making you feel exposed. He worked you with devastating patience. Long, languid licks, then tighter circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue, then back to broad strokes.

Every few minutes, he paused to murmur against your skin.

“Still good?”

“Yes! God, yes.”

“Tell me if you want more pressure.”

You did, eventually, whispering “a little harder”, and he adjusted instantly, sucking lightly on your clit while two fingers slid inside you, curling in a slow come-hither motion that made your hips jerk forward.

Time blurred, and your thighs started trembling around his head, breath coming in short, ragged pants. The tension coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach; it felt like a beautiful, aching pressure that felt so close, so much closer than it ever had before. You could almost taste it.

And then… nothing.

The wave crested and simply dissolved, leaving you hovering on the wrong side of the edge, body taut and frustrated and suddenly exhausted.

You gripped the sheets in frustration, voice cracking. “Aaron, I don’t think... I can’t...”

He lifted his head immediately, lips swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed from the heat of you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown with lust, but there was no frustration in them, only focus, only care for you.

“That’s okay,” he said, voice rough from use but steady. He kissed the inside of your thigh once more, softer and grounding, before easing your legs down from where they were resting on his shoulders. “We’re not chasing the finish line tonight. We’re mapping the route.”

You let out a shaky laugh that was half sob. “I was so close. I swear I was.”

“I know.” He rose to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you sideways into his lap so your head rested against his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around you. One hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other stroking your hair. “You were shaking. Your breathing changed. Your hips were chasing my mouth. That’s not nothing. We can build onto that.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck. “What felt best?”

“The... the sucking. And when you curled your fingers. It made everything… sharper, if that makes sense.”

“Noted.” His lips curved against your skin. “We start there next time. More of that. Maybe slower buildup so the edge doesn’t slip away as quickly.”

You turned in his arms, searching his face. “You’re really okay with this taking time?”

His expression didn’t waver. “I’m okay with whatever it takes. I’m not keeping score. I’m not waiting for a reward. I want you to feel good. Really good. And if that means we spend weeks learning every inch of what makes your body sing without ever reaching the crescendo, then that’s what we do. I have time. I have patience. And I have you. I just wish you would’ve told me earlier.”

Tears stung again, different this time, this time it felt like relief instead of shame.

He kissed your forehead, then your mouth, and held you until your breathing evened out.

The rest of the week followed the same pattern, each night a deliberate extension of the last.

He started with a full-body massage one time, warm oil, working knots from your shoulders, down your spine, along your thighs, until you were boneless and pliant before he ever touched you. He added whispered directions another time: “Breathe deeper. Push into my mouth when you feel it build.” You did, and the edge came closer still, close enough that your thighs clamped around his ears and your fingers tugged painfully at his hair... before receding again. He even tried a different angle: you on your back with a pillow under your hips, legs spread wide and pinned down by his hands, his mouth relentless while three fingers worked that same spot from the first night in deep strokes. He talked you through it the whole time, gentle yet filthy praise that made your cheeks burn and your pulse race. “You’re dripping for me. Feel how wet you are? That’s your body telling me it wants more. Give it to me, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

By the end of the week, you hadn’t cum... not even once... but something fundamental had shifted.

The frustration that used to claw at you after every failed attempt had dulled, replaced by a quiet, growing trust that you would figure this out together, one way or the other. You stopped apologizing when the peak slipped away. You started asking for what you wanted without second-guessing. You started believing... really believing... that he meant it when he said there was no rush.

And every night, when you finally collapsed against his chest, sweaty and spent and still aching in the best way, he held you like you were the only thing that mattered.

By the start of the second week, the initial sharpness of frustration had dulled into something quieter, more manageable. You weren’t quite at peace with the process yet, but you were no longer bracing for disappointment every time the tension built and then ebbed away right before release. Hotch had made sure of that. His steady and unhurried presence had turned what could have felt like repeated failure and a sense of being inadequate into a slow exploration of what made you react and feel good. And somehow, that shift made all the difference from how you had felt with previous partners.

The next step started casually, over dinner.

He set his fork down, leaned back in his chair, and looked at you with that calm, assessing gaze that usually meant he’d already decided on a course of action.

“Sometimes,” he said, voice low and even, as if he were commenting on the weather forecast, “it’s about the angle. The depth and the pressure points. Different positions change how everything lines up inside. We’ve focused on buildup so far. Maybe this week we shift to trying new ways of connecting.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat flooded your cheeks, not from embarrassment exactly, but from the sheer matter-of-factness of it. Hotch, discussing your orgasm (or lack thereof) like it was just another variable in an equation he had yet to solve.

You swallowed, and placed the fork back down on the table. “You really think that could make a difference?”

“I think it’s worth finding out.” He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Only if you want to. No pressure of course.”

You met his eyes and felt that familiar ache in your chest. The one that said you were safe here. Completely and utterly safe.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s try that.”

He smiled then, not the tight and polite one he used in briefings, but the private one reserved for Jack when he scored a goal or for you when you laughed at one of his dry jokes.

It made your heart stutter every single time.

That night, after the dishes were done, he led you upstairs without fanfare.

He started with you on top, settling back against the headboard with pillows propped up behind him. You straddled his hips, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. He was already hard, thick, throbbing, and ready beneath you, but he didn’t push; he just waited for you to make the first move, while he rested his hands lightly on the outsides of your thighs and watched you.

“Take what you need,” he murmured, voice roughened by want but held carefully in check. “Set the pace. Move however feels good.”

You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping them gently. He rolled your nipples between his fingers, light at first, then a little firmer when your breath hitched at the sensation.

You rocked forward experimentally, placing your hands against his chest, then rolled back, finding a slow grind that dragged the head of him against your sensitive front wall. Friction built in layers, the slide of him, the press of your clit against his pubic bone with every roll of your hips, the way his hands roamed: caressing your back, gripping your ass to help guide you, pinching your nipples again when you arched.

It felt incredible. Your nails dug into his chest slightly as you picked up speed, chasing that rising coil in your belly.

Hotch’s breathing grew ragged, but he never broke your rhythm or pushed. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that. Use me, sweetheart. Ride me until you feel good.”

You did until the tension peaked again… and then, maddeningly, slipped sideways. Not gone, just… unreachable. You slowed, hips stuttering, forehead dropping to his shoulder.

“I was so close,” you breathed, half-laughing as you exhaled.

He wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking down your spine. “I know. I felt it, your walls were fluttering around me like a butterfly.”

He kissed your temple. “Let’s try something else.”

He eased you off him gently, helped you roll onto your stomach. You felt the mattress dip as he settled behind you, not entering right away. Instead, he kissed a slow path down your spine, vertebra by vertebra, until he reached the small of your back. Then lower. A soft bite to one cheek, a soothing lick, before he nudged your thighs apart.

His body covered yours completely, chest to your back, weight comforting rather than crushing. One forearm braced beside your head; the other slipped beneath you, fingers finding your clit with ease.

He slid in slowly from behind, this angle sheathing him deeper, pressing against places that made your toes curl. “Like this?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot against your neck.

You moaned into the pillow, nodding frantically. He thrust in, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, grinding at the deepest point each time. His fingers circled your clit in the same slow rhythm, never rushing, just building.

The pressure was different this time. Every forward roll of his hips nudged that spot inside while his fingers kept steady pressure outside. You clutched the sheets, hips lifting instinctively to meet him.

“God... Aaron—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, interrupting you, voice strained with his own restraint. “Let it build. Don’t chase it. Just feel.”

It climbed higher than before, higher than any night the week prior. Your body tensed, breath locking in your throat, every muscle drawing tight.

And then it plateaued again. Hovering. Teasing. Refusing to tip over.

You let out a soft, defeated groan. Hotch stilled instantly, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades before carefully withdrawing. He rolled you onto your side, pulled you back against his chest, cocooning you in his arms.

“Closer again,” he murmured against your hair. “I could feel you gripping me tighter. Your breathing changed. We’re narrowing it down now.”

You turned in his hold, searching his face for any sign of impatience. There was none.

Midweek, he suggested missionary with a modification.

He placed a thick pillow under your hips, tilting your pelvis upward. Then he guided your legs over his shoulders, folding you open in a way that felt vulnerable and exposed and strangely safe because it was him. He entered you slowly, watching your face the entire time, adjusting when your breath caught.

Deeper. So much deeper this way.

He braced himself on his forearms, caging you, and laced the fingers of one hand with yours. Palm to palm. Thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“Focus on my voice,” he instructed softly. “Breathe with me. In… out. Let everything else fall away.”

He moved in slow, rolling thrusts, pulling back until just the tip remained, then gliding forward until he bottomed out, hips circling at the end of each stroke to grind against your clit. The angle hit the spot relentlessly while the base of him pressed against your swollen bud.

The intimacy was almost too much. His eyes never left yours, full of something that looked dangerously close to reverence. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming vulnerability of being so thoroughly seen.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Open for me. Trusting me. Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

The coil tightened again, more insistent than ever. Your free hand clutched his bicep, nails leaving crescent marks. Your breath came in short, desperate pants.

And then… again… it hovered. Trembling on the brink. So close your thighs shook and your vision blurred.

When it receded, you didn’t cry this time. You just exhaled, long and shaky, and let him lower your legs. He gathered you close, tucking your head under his chin, one hand stroking your back in long, soothing sweeps.

“We’re getting there,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You curled tighter against him, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

“I believe you,” you whispered.

And you did.

His patience wasn’t just endurance; it was devotion. Every night he wasn’t away, he held space for your body to try, to falter, to try again.

By the third week, the rhythm between you had settled into something almost ritualistic. Each evening followed a pattern: Jack asleep by nine or at Jessica’s depending on the day, lights dimmed, both of you near naked.

The frustration that once left you raw and defensive had mellowed into a kind of patient curiosity of what he had thought of next. You were learning your body together, piece by piece, and Hotch treated every miss like valuable intel rather than a setback like partners had done in the past.

He’d ordered the package the week before, arriving in plain brown wrapping while you were both at work. You could sense the sheer amount of excitement spilling through his rigid work personality as he brushed past your desk that day, whispering about a surprise waiting at home.

He unpacked it on the bed that night.

Inside was a small bullet vibrator, a larger wand vibrator with a soft silicone head, a vibrating plug, and a few lubricants in various sizes, brands and formulas.

“Toys can help isolate sensations,” he explained, voice even as he laid each one in line on the sheets. “Pinpoint what pressure, what vibration pattern, what combination gets the strongest response. We incorporate them gradually. No expectations beyond figuring out what feels good.”

You laughed at how clinical he sounded as he explained how the toy was supposed to help you. It somehow eased the knot in your stomach in its own weird way. “You make it sound like you’re profiling a suspect whose an orgasmic disaster.”

Hotch couldn’t help the small, crooked smile from spreading on his lips. “In a way, I am. Your pleasure is the unsub we’re chasing. We gather evidence, test theories, adjust the approach until we find your orgasm, draw it out and catch it so we know how to find it faster in the future.”

You had no idea how to respond, because it was absolute nonesense to you, yet the truest statement you’d heard in a long long time regarding your release. And that straightforwardness and his refusal to treat this as anything embarrassing or urgent to fix, made the whole experimentation feel less like a problem and more like a shared project.

He started simple that first night as he invited the toys into your love life.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried toys out before, you just never saw the appeal of owning or using them after several failed tries to get a release. And after that, the sight alone had frustrated you enough to throw them away.

The bullet vibrator was the first to make its apprance during foreplay.

You lay back against the pillows, your head slightly lifted against the headboard allowing you to see what he was doing. Your legs were parted and his body settled between them.

Hotch kissed you slow at first, grinding his hips against yours in a slow rhythmic motion, trying to rile you up. He then trailed the kisses down your neck, your breasts, your stomach, until his mouth hovered over you.

His eyes latched onto yours, waiting for a signal, waiting for you to tell him to continue. When you did, he switched on the bullet at its lowest setting, the faint hum filling the room. He pressed it lightly against the hood of your clit while his tongue flicked out in soft, teasing laps through the lips of your pussy.

You arched your back, pushing your pussy closer to his face and thus pressing the vibrator harder against your clit. You let out a strangled moan and winced for a split second at the new sensation.

“Too much?” he asked immediately, pausing to watch your face.

You shook your head, breath catching. “No... good. Just… stay there.”

He adjusted it slightly, keeping the vibrator steady against your clit, while his tongue circled your entrance. He dipped it in shallowly, teasing you before returning to broad, flat strokes over your folds. Hotch’s free hand slid up your thigh, fingers joining the party. He slipped two fingers inside, manoeuvring around his tongue like an expert as he curled them toward that spot against your front wall, the one he’d mapped so thoroughly the week before during another round of experimentation.

The combination felt electric, sending sparks through every single nerve in your entire system. The constant external vibration layered over the internal pressure, his warm mouth adding wet heat and suction. Minutes stretched, with the only sound being a lewd mix of your moans, the buzz of the vibrator and his tongue.

Your hips rolled instinctively, chasing the building wave as it climbed higher than toys alone ever had. Muscles tightening, breath shortening, that familiar coil winding tight in your pelvis.

Then… plateau.

Again.

You groaned in frustration, close to crying while your thighs trembled around his shoulders. “Goddamn it. So close.”

He lifted his head, lips slightly shiny from your slick and his eyes dark with pleasure and focus. “Closer than last week.” Hotch stated as if he were writing a note in a case file. “The vibration helped sustain the buildup it seems. We’ll use it again next time.”

He turned off the vibrator and threw it somewhere on the bed before he crawled up to gather you against his chest. No disappointment in his posture, no sigh, just pride and maybe a little satisfaction that he had gotten you closer than before.

The rest of the week built on that foundation. He tried every toy, twice, thrice, upside down, whatever he could think of. Wand during oral. The larger head covered more than the bullet, resulting in broader pressure. He introduced the vibrating plug. The fullness added a new layer of sensation while he fucked you like usual.

He even tried combining everything. You rode the sensations for nearly an hour, sweat-slick and trembling, voice hoarse from pleading.

Still… nothing.

By Saturday you were exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally. The toys had amplified everything, made the misses sharper and more frustrating. You felt raw, oversensitive, and utterly defeated.

Hotch sensed it the moment you stepped into the bedroom. You were quieter, shoulders hunched, avoiding his eyes.

He didn’t push the toys.

Instead, he pulled you into his arms on the edge of the bed and kissed your forehead. “We’ve tried a lot this week,” he said softly. “Intense stuff. Maybe we dial it back. Try the old-school method again.”

You looked up, brow furrowed. “Old school?”

“Just me. My mouth. No buzz, no extras. Until you’re frustrated, really fucking frustrated, then I’ll fuck you. Slow. Deep. See if the contrast helps tip it over.”

It sounded almost too simple after weeks of experimentation. Mundane, even. But his voice held that quiet certainty that he either knew 100% it would work, or figured a slow attept might reset your systems and make you ready for a different approach in a day or two. And you trusted him completely.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He undressed you slowly and then guided you to lie back against the sheets.

No rush.

He kissed every inch on the way down to your pussy. Collarbone, breasts, ribs, the soft curve of your belly and when he settled between your thighs, he didn’t dive in immediately. He kissed the crease of your hip, nuzzled the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and let his breath ghost over you until you were squirming, wanting more than he was giving.

Then his mouth.

Long, flat licks from bottom to top. Circles around your clit, gentle suction, then release. He built it gradually, watching every twitch, every hitch in your breath. When you started rocking against his face, he added two fingers.

Minutes turned into half an hour before either of you noticed. The tension mounted steadily, no sudden spikes from vibrations, just the slow, inexorable climb you were used to before ultimately hitting a wall. Your hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting, pushing against him, pleas spilling out in broken whispers.

“Aaron... please... I’m so close... don’t stop...”

He didn’t. He hummed against you, the vibration of his voice sending sparks up your spine. Your body tightened, thighs clamping around his head, breath locking...

And still no release.

Frustration crested. You tugged at his hair, voice cracking. “I can’t... I need you inside me... now!”

He rose immediately, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. He shed his clothes in seconds, then settled over you in true old school missionary fashion.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge and every pulse of his cock as he bottomed out. Once fully seated, he paused, forehead against yours.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “In… out.” You were close to snapping at him to move, to do something, but before you could manage a single word.

He moved. With a long and deep thrust, grinding his hips against yours at the end of each one so he pressed against your swollen clit. No frantic pace. Just a steady and deliberate rhythm. His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit in the same unhurried motion.

The buildup reignited within, faster this time, sharper, fueled by his teasing. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him as deep as possible.

“Fuck... right there...” you moaned.

He kept the pace, voice low against your ear. “I’ve got you. Let it happen. Just feel it wash over you.”

The coil tightened impossibly so.

Your nails scored his shoulders with long red lines, breath coming in sobs. Every thrust nudged the spot while his fingers worked your clit with the perfect pressure.

And then...

It broke free.

The wave crashed over you, hard, through your entire body, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. You cried out, back arching off the bed, vision whiting out as pleasure ripped through you in shuddering waves.

It went on and on, longer than you’d ever imagined, until you were trembling, gasping, tears slipping down the sides of your cheeks.

Hotch followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a low groan, pulsing inside you as he came.

He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed, softening slowly, kissing the tears from your cheeks, while murmuring soft praises against your skin. “You did it. You beautiful, incredible woman! You did it!”

You laughed through the tears, shaky and disbelieving that he had actually managed to make you cum, clinging to him. “I… I came.”

“You did.” His voice cracked just slightly with pride, relief and love all tangled together. “And it was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Once cleaned up, you were wrapped in each other under the covers, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back while you whispered, “It was so… simple. After all that.”

“Sometimes the simplest things are what work best. We just had to clear the noise to hear it.”

You nestled closer, still buzzing slightly with aftershocks.

For the first time, the quiet after didn’t feel hollow.

It felt complete.

[justalittlesoup]

Hotch talking you through it and taking care of you is so hot 💕

[alinathinkstoomuch]

DRUNKEN INNUENDO

aaron hotchner x reader

18+ MDNI

summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!

warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug

wc: 8.7k

✰ masterlist

You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth. 

“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.

You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road. 

“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”

“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”

You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”

You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.

You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.

“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”

“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”

“You once reversed into a mailbox.”

You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”

“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”

You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed. 

“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.

You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind. 

That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.

“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.” 

“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”

We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct. 

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”

“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”

“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.

His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”

“So nothing, then?”

“Coffee. If they have it.”

“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.

Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.

You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.

Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.

Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.

“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”

“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”

You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi. 

You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.

Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷

You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.

“Any time today would be nice.”

He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”

“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”

He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”

The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you. 

“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”

The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork. 

A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.

You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul. 

“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.

“Nope. I want alcohol.”

He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.

You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower. 

Unfortunately it does not respond to either. 

You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice. 

“Hotch?”

Water is running. He does not answer. 

You try again, louder. “Hotch!”

“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.

“Are you decent?”

There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent. 

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol-related emergency.”

You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy. 

He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”

You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.

Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else. 

He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement. 

The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is. 

He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed. 

“Happy now?”

“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”

“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”

“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.

“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.

“You’re not joining me?” 

His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”

“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”

He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”

“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”

You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say. 

“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”

And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace. 

“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.

You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”

“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”

“That’s manipulative.”

You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”

His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips. 

“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”

He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it. 

“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water. 

The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.

At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.

“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”

“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”

You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”

He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”

“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”

“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.

“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”

You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you. 

You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”

“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”

Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.

“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”

He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”

“We can do this standing if you prefer?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”

You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”

You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”

His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”

“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”

“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”

“You’re on top of me.”

You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”

His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you. 

Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus. 

 “No—other side.”

You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat. 

“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”

You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.” 

You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”

His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”

“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”

“You’re wearing it backwards.”

“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”

He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.

He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it. 

“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”

You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”

“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts. 

“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”

You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.

You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”

“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.

You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.” 

He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.

His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.

“That’s it?”

“You asked a yes or no question.”

Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”

“You really want me to do that right now?”

“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose. 

“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”

“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”

He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.

“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals. 

“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”

“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”

You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”

His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”

“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”

“The jet.”

You light up instantly.  “This’ll be good.” 

“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.” 

“Do continue.”

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.

There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you. 

But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”

“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.

You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”

His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”

He swallows.

“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.

You nod. “You were my ride.”

“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”

“That zip was very flimsy.”

“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”

Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”

“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”

“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.

Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”

“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties. 

He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.

“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments. 

You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.

Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.  He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I want you on my tongue.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks. 

“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch. 

He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it. 

He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.

“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.

“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.

A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.

And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise. 

“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”

Asshole. 

You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.

He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice. 

And then he pulls back. Again. 

“Please what?” 

Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.

You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture. 

“Sadist,” you hiss. 

“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”

You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”

His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time. 

“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms. 

You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. 

He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs. 

“Hotch—fuck!”

He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access. 

“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.

“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.

Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”

He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine. 

You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”

“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”

You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever. 

It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state. 

“Hi,” you croak. 

He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”

“Your face is shiny.”

A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”

“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed. 

He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”

You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there. 

“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.

“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”

“Aaron,” he repeats.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”

For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.” 

You meet him halfway.

His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.

You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.

“Which ones are bothering you?”

“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”

He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.

“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.

The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch. 

You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant. 

“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.

You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.

“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”

So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts. 

That’s when you take pity. 

Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs. 

And then he’s bare beneath you.

You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.

That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip. 

You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”

You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”

His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. 

You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach. 

“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact. 

“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”

You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”

His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”

You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped. 

“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch. 

His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”

“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him. 

“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him. 

You still for a second. “Two years?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.

“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”

He does instantly. 

“You’ve been wanting this for two years?” 

He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan. 

“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”

“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”

“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down. 

His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine. 

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

Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.

You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.

A helpless cry breaks out of you.

“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”

You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time. 

“Aaron—” 

His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.

“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”

You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.

“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe. 

One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him. 

You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”

You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine. 

Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you. 

“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”

And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it. 

Your release slams into you like a freight train. 

Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming. 

Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet. 

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.” 

You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his. 

You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”

“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw. 

“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”

You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”

“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”

“A date?” you ask quietly.

“If you want it to be.”

You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”

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[justalittlesoup]

Hotch listing the times he’s thought about you? So hot 💕

[hoe4hotchner]

Baby deer | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

WC: 4.2k

Warnings: Smut!! 18+!! MDNI! Look it actually has a plot! PIV. Reader on top, cowgirl, Hotch is injured, lots of kissing, handjob, sexual inexperience, mentions of bad ex, clumsy sex, praise, I don't know if this qualifies but mild pain play undertones?? Little bit of power imbalance even though Hotch is mostly still in charge.

Summary: Hotch comes home injured from a case and you're both too needy to let him rest, leading to you ending up on top for the first time in your life.

A/N: This is not proofread whatsoever!

Eight days. Eight long days has passed since Hotch went on a case across the country. Eight long days you’d spent in the apartment, still learning it’s creaks and cracks, barely moved in. Eight long days where the only sounds at night, were the hum of the old refrigerator—that definitely needed to be changed soon—instead of Hotch’s light snores from beside you in bed.

You’d kept yourself busy… mostly. Laundry had been folded more than once, trying to perfectly flatten each piece until your dressers looked like boutique store fronts, catching up on shows—but that was simply too boring without Hotch there to complain about the inconsistencies and plot holes in the story line of your small-town dramas. You’d even organized some of his half-finished case files, scattered around the apartment, in a way you thought might be useful, then reorganized them a couple of hours later when you came up with a better system. And a truly embarrassing number of hours spent in bed, late at night, scrolling through old voice texts from him just to hear his voice.

You were half-asleep on the couch when the key finally turned in the lock a little past midnight, dressed in one of his old shirts and nothing else. You’d tried to stay up when you got the text that they were on their way back, wanting to see him before he inevitably had to go into the office once again.

The door opened ever so slowly, trying his hardest to keep quiet as to not wake you in case you were already asleep. You heard the soft thud from his go-bag hitting the floor by the shoe rack in the hallway. And then the familiar heaviness of his footsteps moving closer and closer.

“Aaron?” You asked groggily, slowly sitting up at rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

He appeared in the doorway into the living-room a second later, looking like he’d gone three rounds against a martial arts expert with a particularly spiteful vendetta against him. He had a dark bruise blooming along his jaw line, it was starting to purple and looked ever so tender. He had a neat row of butterfly bandages lining his left temple, shielding what looked like a nasty looking gash from the small bits you could make out between the closures.

Hotch favored his right side as he moved in a way that told you he either had bruised ribs, or worse, broken.

His tie was gone along with his suit jacket, likely draped over the bench in the hallway, wanting to get into something less stiff than a suit as soon as possible. His shirt was wrinkled and yet, he still looked like the most solid and composed man you’d ever seen and known in your life.

“Hey,” he smiled, his voice soft and low, yet rough from the pure exhaustion he usually felt after longer cases like this one. His eyes softened the instant they met yours across the room. “Missed you.” It came out as a whisper and a sigh at the same time, finally letting himself relax at the sight of you.

You were off the couch quickly, crossing the room carefully, almost on tiptoes as you neared him. Your hands hovered for a second, trying not to jostle him and cause him unnecessary pain. Hotch quickly solved the problem for you, looping and arm around your waist and pulling you closer. He winced slightly as your body pressed against his ribs. He smelled faintly of hospital, mingling with the faint trace of his cologne that probably hadn’t been reapplied since before he gained all his bruises. You pressed your face into the uninjured side of his neck, breathing him in. You were trying to get a good whiff of him, and not whatever antiseptic the nurses had cleaned him up with at whatever small-town hospital in bumfuck nowhere. The mere thought of trying to figure out what exactly had gone down for him to end up like this, was nauseating you, you didn’t want to think about it, but it was part of his job, and you knew you had to get over your feelings and come to terms with that reality of your relationship at some point.

“You’re hurt,” you mumbled against him.

“Only mildly,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against the crown on your head. “Dave already threatened to call you on the way back. Demanding that I take some days off to rest up or else he would tell you a worse version of what happened.” He pulled slightly back, smiling down at you. “I’m fine,” he quickly added when he saw the look on your face, clearly mulling over just how bad his injuries really were.

“Liar!” You pulled back enough to where you could look up at him comfortably without craning your neck in an uncomfortable position.

“Occupational hazard.” The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk that he knew drove you crazy.

You pushed up on the tips of your toes then, kissing him softly, careful of the bruise on his jaws. Hotch moved into the kiss, guiding you back down on your feet as he slowly backed you against the wall, his hand tightening ever so slightly on your hip to keep you in place. The kiss deepened immediately. His mouth slotted over yours, no rush in it at all, like he intended to savour every second. Eight days was too long apart, when you were sill in that greedy, semi-new honeymoon phase of moving in together, where every minute spent apart felt like a sentence of death row.

Hotch moved his other hand up, cradling your jaw with a tenderness so soft, that it didn’t match the bruises littering his knuckles from when he had likely punched the unsub at some point. You sighed against his lips, fingers curling into his shirt, probably wrinkling it even more—those worries you wait for tomorrow, where you likely would be ironing it nonetheless. He answered your sigh with a low hum against your lips.

He kissed you slower this time, so slow, the drag of his lower lip against yours drawn out like he had all the time left in the world and meant to spend it right here, with you. When he finally deepened the kiss, it was with the same patient slowness, his tongue tracing along your lower lip before slipping against yours, languid and warm. You melted into the wall, into him, letting a soft sound escape you that he swallowed gently. His thumb stroked slow circles along your jaw, and every drag of his mouth against yours felt deliberate, savored, like he was memorizing you for when he inevitably would have to leave for another case in the near future.

He broke away only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing unsteady now, his hand still curled warm at your hip like he couldn't stand the thought of an inch of space between you. Hotch slipped the hand on your hip up and under your shirt, his pal warm against your bare skin as he let it slide up your waist, around your back and back down again, mapping out every inch of you.

“You’re not wearing anything under this,” he observed, voice growing slightly darker.

“I missed you,” you echoed his words from earlier, cheeks already warming, because you in fact had done this intentionally, hoping that it would lead to him laying you down to take care of you. To strip you of the neediness you’d been harboring in your system since the second he left. You needed him. Craved him. But right now, your wants seemed unlikely to happened from the state he was in.

Hotch slowly guided you toward the bedroom with careful steps, never letting go of you, needing to feel you close, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked.

By the time the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he was starting to unbutton his shirt, wincing slightly at the stretch of his muscles. You carefully pushed his hands away, taking over, careful along the area around his ribs. When you pushed each side aside, revealing the nasty purple and yellowing splotch along his left side, you winced, sucking in a breath at the sight of him.

“Baby—” you whimpered.

“I’m okay.” He tried to reassure you, catching your wrists in each of his hands before pressing a kiss to the inside of each one. “Just… limited mobility for a few days. Doctor’s orders. No heavy lifting. No sudden movements. No…” he paused for a second, eyes flicking down your body and then back up with open intent. “Certain positions.”

“Oh,” you blinked, the implication of what he was hinting at made your stomach do a little flip.

Hotch sat down on the edge of the bed, moving carefully. He parted his legs slightly and took your hand, pulling you between his knees. He slid a hand back up under your shirt, slowly mapping out the curve of your waist, tracing the soft underside of your breasts. The callous on his fingers made you shiver from the slight roughness, your nipples pebbling, straining against the fabric.

You let out the softest little gasp of air as his other hand joined, framing your chest, thumbs slowly circling each of your nipples, riling you up.

“I want you,” he said, matter of fact. “Badly! But I’m not going to be much use right now without making this worse,” he nodded down towards his ribs. “So…” He kept rubbing your nipples, heat was pooling between your legs, you were practically dripping on the carpet by now. “You’ll have to take the lead tonight.”

You froze at his words.

The nervousness must have shown on your face a little clearer than you’d intended, because his expression instantly gentled, cocking his head slightly to the sight, almost mockingly. He knew. Of course, he knew. Your ex had been the kind of guy who thought “variety” meant switching the brand of lunch meat in the supermarket. And on the really crazy days, switching which side of the bed you slept on.

With him, it was always missionary, lights off and zero interest in anything beyond you laying starfished on the bed and making the appropriate noises when he would thrust into you. The handful of times you’d tried to initiate and to experiment, he’d made it abundantly clear, that he preferred you quiet and cooperative.

How you’d stayed so long in an orgasm-less relationship was still a question you asked yourself, because the second Hotch gave you your first one, your eyes opened to the wonderful world of sex.

Hotch had figured out your lack of experimentation somewhere around the third time you’d gone wide-eyed and uncertain about your choices when he’d asked what you liked.

He’d been endlessly patient about it ever since then. Never rushing or mocking you for anything regarding your fantasies or requests in the bedroom.

“Hey.” His thumbs stilled and he removed one of his hands from under your shirt, moving it up to cup your cheek. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on inside that head of yours.”

“I’ve never…” you trailed off before vaguely gesturing at the general concept of being on top. “I mean, I’ve thought about it. But he never… and I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll be good at it… And what if I hurt your ribs worse or I fall over and look ridiculous—”

Hotch’s mouth curving into a small smirk stopped your rambling. “You’re not going to hurt me. I promise. You’re not going to fall over. And even if you do look a little ridiculous, I promise I will still find it extremely hot and sexy.”

You made a face at him, clearly not believing a single word he said. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.” He tugged at the hem of your t-shirt, pulling it up, you bent slightly, letting him pull it over your head in a smooth motion, leaving you completely bare in front of him.

Hotch’s gaze dragged over your frame, appreciating every inch of you. “You’re beautiful. And you’re mind. And I have been thinking about the way your hands feel on me for eight straight days. I don’t care if it’s gonna be clumsy. All I care about is that it’s you.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, pouring every bit of missing and wanting him into it. His hands settled on your hips, guiding you down. “Come here,” he murmured between breaths against your mouth. “Straddled me. Nice and easy.”

You climbed the rest of the way onto his lap, knees carefully bracketing either side of his thights. The position was already starting to feel foreign at the premise of what would come next, even though you’d sat on him like this before. You were so used to being underneath, looking up at him, and it was starting to feel exciting despite your nerves.

From here, you could see the dark flush starting to spread along his cheekbones, the way his pupils had blown wide. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your core.

Your hands hovered uselessly for a split second before Hotch caught one of them and placed it over his heart. “Breathe. We’ve got all night.”

You let out a shaky exhale and moved your hands, starting on his belt as Hotch leaned back admiring you. The buckle fought you for a second and you muttered something so unflattering under your breath, that all he could do was huff out a quiet laugh at your frustration.

When you finally got the belt open and the zipper down, you lifted slightly up on your knees. Hotch lifted his hips off the bed, making it easier for you to ease his pants and boxers off together in come smooth move.

His cock sprang free, practically slapping against his stomach, the second the fabric cleared him, thick and heavy and already flushed a deep, dark pink along the length of him.

The head was swollen and angry, a clear bead of precum gathering at the tip and threatening to spill over.

You’d had him in your mouth more than a few times by now, had felt the weight of him on your tongue, the way he twitched when you did that particular thing with your throat, the way you swirled your tongue around the spongy head, but looking at him like this, fully hard and completely bare between your knees, still somehow managed to steal the air right out of your lungs.

You still weren’t used to the sight of him somehow. Not really. Not when he looked this desperate for it. For you.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice low and amused, though there was a rough edge underneath that betrayed how much the attention, or lack thereof, was affecting him.

“You’re distracting,” you answered, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

“Good.”

You wrapped a hand around him experimentally, the heat of him almost startling against your palm.

He was so warm, so solid, and already slick enough at the tip that your fingers slid easier than you’d expected. You stroked him the way you’d learned he liked, firm pressure from base to head, a little twist right under the ridge that always made his breath catch and a low groan move up from deep within his gut.

Hotch’s hips twitched upward on instinct before he forced himself still with a low, strained sound, the careful control he was exerting just so he wouldn’t jostle his ribs making something warm and fiercely protective twist in your chest.

You kept the pace slow, watching the way his stomach tensed with every upward stroke, the way another bead of precum welled up and smeared under your thumb when you lingered at the head. His free hand found your thigh and squeezed, not guiding, just holding on, like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded while you took your time exploring him.

“Come on,” he encouraged softly, voice low and steady. “Up! I’ve got you.”

You rose further up on your knees carefully, one hand still wrapped around him, the other braced on his uninjured shoulder for balance. The angle was weird; everything felt different from up here, and you had to scoot forward a little, then back, then forward again, trying to line things up properly.

At one point, your knee slipped on the sheets, and you nearly face-planted straight into his chest. Hotch’s hands shot to your waist on instinct, steadying you with a quiet grunt of effort that made you freeze in pure horror.

“I’m fine,” he said immediately, reading the panic on your face before you could even open your mouth to ask if he was okay. “Promise. Keep going.”

You took a shaky breath and tried again, positioning him at your entrance. You were already so wet from the combination of missing him, the excitement, the way he had touched you that the head of his cock slid through your folds easily. You teased yourself a bit, using him, before making your first attempt.

The first attempt to sink down was… not graceful to say the least. You went too fast, then too slow, then got the angle completely wrong, and the thick head of him slid right past instead of inside.

You made a small, mortified noise that you immediately wanted to take back.

Hotch’s thumbs stroked slow, soothing circles on your hips. “It’s okay. Tilt a little… there. Yes! Just like that.” He gritted his teeth at the teasing touch of your pussy against him, wanting to take over and force you down on his cock immediately.

You tried again, slower this time. His head breached you, and you both groaned at the same time as you sank down, the stretch familiar and still somehow overwhelming in the best possible way.

You sank down another inch, then another, thighs already trembling with the unfamiliar effort it took to control and pace yourself.

Halfway down you had to stop and just breathe, forehead pressed to his, trying to get used to the way he felt from this angle.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice strained and rough around the edges. “God, you feel incredible.” He moaned as your walls fluttered around him.

“I feel like a baby deer learning to walk,” you whispered, the unexpected honesty startling a laugh out of him.

“Best looking baby deer I’ve ever seen.”

You huffed a laugh of your own and sank the rest of the way down in one careful motion. The sensation of being fully seated on him, of having him so deep from this new angle, punched the air right out of your lungs.

Hotch leaned back, lying down against the sheet. Eyes half-lidded and jaw tight as he fumbled for a pillow to prop his head up with, trying not to thrust up into you.

“Move whenever you’re ready,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “No rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

You started slow. An experimental roll of your hips that made both of you inhale sharply at the same time. Then another, a little more confident. The rhythm was off at first; too shallow, then too deep, then you lost your balance again and had to catch yourself on his chest with a breathless little apology that made his mouth curve.

Hotch just kept his hands steady on your waist the whole time, guiding the motion without ever taking over, murmuring quiet encouragement under his breath like he had all the patience in the world for this.

“That’s it. Use your thighs. Yeah… just like that. Perfect.”

It was not perfect.

At one point you leaned too far forward, and a strand of your hair got stuck in his mouth, making him huff a quiet laugh against your lips before he carefully brushed it away.

At another, you accidentally put too much weight on his injured side, and he hissed through his teeth, which made you freeze in pure panic until he was reassuring you again: ‘fine, keep going, please don’t stop, you’re not hurting me.’

Your thighs started burning sooner than you’d expected. Sweat gathered at the small of your back.

And somehow it was still the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.

Because Hotch was watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. Because every time you finally got the angle right and the head of his cock dragged over that spot inside you, his breath hitched, and his fingers flexed against your skin like he was holding himself back from something. Because when you eventually found a rhythm that actually worked; slow, deep, grinding more than bouncing, he started talking in that low, wrecked voice that always managed to undo you completely.

“Look at you. Taking me so well. Feels so good, sweetheart. You’re so wet for me. Been thinking about this every night I was gone.”

You whimpered and ground down harder, chasing the heat that was building too fast.

Your hands braced on his shoulders now, careful of the bruises, fingers digging in just enough to keep yourself steady. The new angle meant every downward slide rubbed your clit against his groomed tuft of hair in a way that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you were getting louder without meaning to, punched-out sounds slipping out every time you sank down onto him.

“Aaron… God!”

“I’ve got you.” One of his hands slid between your bodies without hesitation, thumb finding your clit with that unerring accuracy of his that always made you a little dizzy whenever he got to work. “Let go whenever you need to. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

The dual stimulation was almost too much. Your rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. You were so close, so close, and then—of course—your thigh cramped at the absolute worst possible moment.

You made a sound that was half moan, half frustrated laugh.

Hotch’s eyes crinkled at the corners even as his breathing stayed ragged. “Cramp?”

“Shut up,” you managed, still grinding against his thumb because stopping was simply not an option at this point.

He chuckled and helped you shift the angle until the cramp finally eased. Then he pressed up just a little: careful, controlled, still mindful of his ribs, to meet your next downward motion, and the friction hit exactly right.

Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, sudden and sharp and overwhelming. You clenched around him with a broken cry, thighs shaking hard, forehead dropping to his as the pleasure rolled through you in waves that left you trembling and breathless against him.

Hotch held you through it the entire time, murmuring soft praises against your temple while his thumb kept moving in those slow, lazy circles until the aftershocks finally made you twitch and push his hand away with a breathless little sound.

Only when you slumped against him, boneless and breathing hard, forehead still pressed to his, did he finally let himself thrust up in short, careful strokes.

“Can I?”

“Yes,” you breathed, the word coming out more like a plea than an answer. “Please. Want to feel you.”

It didn’t take long. A handful of those controlled upward rolls of his hips, the tight heat of you still fluttering around him, and he came with a low, punched-out groan, burying his face against your neck as he spilled inside you.

His hands flexed hard on your hips for a second before he forced them to relax again, still mindful of his own limits even in the middle of it.

For a long minute the only sound in the room was the two of you catching your breath, chests rising and falling against each other in the quiet dark.

You eventually lifted your head enough to look at him. Hotch’s hair was a complete mess. There was a faint sheen of sweat along his collarbones. The bruise on his jaw looked even darker in the low light.

He looked thoroughly wrecked and thoroughly, quietly pleased about it.

“So,” he said after a moment, voice still rough around the edges. “How do you feel about being on top?”

You considered it for a second. Your thighs were still trembling. There was cum slowly leaking out of you around him.

You’d nearly fallen over twice, given yourself a leg cramp at the worst possible moment, and almost smothered him with your own hair.

You grinned, still a little breathless. “I think I need more practice.”

Hotch’s answering smile was slow and warm and full of promise. “Lucky for you,” he said, carefully helping you ease off him so he could pull you down to lie against his uninjured side, “I’m an excellent teacher. And I have nowhere to be for the next forty-eight hours.”

You settled against him carefully, one leg draped over his, hand resting lightly over the least-bruised part of his chest.

It had been awkward. It had been clumsy. It had been, by any objective measure, kind of a mess.

It had also been perfect.

And as Hotch’s fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, already planning the next round with the same patience he brought to everything that mattered to him, to you, you decided you were very much looking forward to the practice.

[justalittlesoup]

Hotch being calm, talking you through it, being so in love, and being injured? Honestly what more can you ask for? 💕

[alicewritezz]

Quarter-zip — Aaron Hotchner

word count: 1110

summary: you spend an entire case teasing Aaron Hotchner about his quarter-zips— until he gives you his during a freezing stakeout and it feels like warmth, safety and home. then the case goes wrong, you’re injured, and hotch confesses he loves you. you end up stealing his sweaters forever.

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

authors note: I think this is my favourite piece I’ve written to date! I hope you enjoy reading & please if you have any idea you’d like to see come to life, don’t hesitate to ask or share 💗💗

The motel room smelled faintly like burnt coffee and old carpet, and at two in the morning, everyone on the team looked equally exhausted.

Even Aaron Hotchner.

Though somehow, he still looked unfairly put together.

Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Hair slightly mussed from him running a hand through it every twenty minutes.

And, unfortunately for your own sanity, he was wearing that grey quarter-zip.

Your mortal enemy.

You leaned against the table in the makeshift command center, sipping coffee that tasted like regret as you narrowed your eyes at him.

“That sweatshirt again?”

Hotch barely glanced up from the file in his hands. “Good morning to you too.”

“It’s two a.m.”

He nodded once. “And yet you found the energy to insult my clothing.”

Emily snorted from across the room.

Emily Prentiss looked up from her laptop. “I actually want to hear this.”

You gestured dramatically toward Hotch. “He owns suits worth more than my rent and insists on wearing that sad suburban dad quarter-zip every chance he gets.”

Derek Morgan laughed loud enough to echo. “She’s got a point, Hotch.”

“I’m choosing to ignore all of you.”

Spencer Reid adjusted his glasses. “Statistically speaking, repeated clothing preference often indicates emotional attachment to familiar objects.”

Hotch slowly looked at Reid.

Reid blinked. “I was trying to help.”

You grinned into your coffee. “Thank you, Reid.”

Hotch finally looked at you fully, and that was your first mistake.

Because his gaze softened in that way it only ever seemed to when it landed on you.

“Are you done, sweetheart?”

Your heart embarrassingly skipped.

You recovered quickly. “Never.”

His mouth twitched.

And somehow that tiny almost-smile felt more rewarding than winning an argument.

—

By four a.m., the jokes had stopped.

The unsub had changed patterns.

What was supposed to be a simple surveillance operation turned into a waiting game in freezing November rain.

You were stationed two blocks away from the suspect’s house with Hotch in an unmarked SUV while the rest of the team monitored comms.

Rain hammered against the windshield.

The heating system in the car had apparently given up on life thirty minutes ago.

And you were freezing.

“Tell me again why serial killers can’t operate exclusively in Florida?” you muttered through chattering teeth.

Hotch glanced over from the driver’s seat.

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fantastic.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m doing it professionally.”

He sighed quietly before reaching into the back seat.

You frowned as he pulled something familiar into view.

The quarter-zip.

You stared at it like it had personally offended you.

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“I would rather freeze.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You love that sweatshirt more than life itself.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’ve worn it on six cases.”

“Seven.”

You blinked.

“You counted?”

His expression shifted—just enough to make your stomach flip.

“I notice things about you too.”

The air suddenly felt far too thin.

Rain continued tapping softly against the windows.

Then he held the sweatshirt out again.

“Honey.”

Your entire body short-circuited at the softness in his voice.

“Put it on.”

This time, you took it.

The material was warm from his body heat.

You hesitated before pulling it over your head.

And then—

Oh.

Oh.

It smelled like him.

Clean cologne.

Laundry detergent.

Coffee.

Something distinctly Aaron.

The sleeves swallowed your hands.

The warmth wrapped around you instantly.

And for reasons you absolutely refused to examine too deeply right now—it made your chest ache.

It felt safe.

It felt warm.

It felt like standing in his kitchen at midnight.

Like quiet conversations after difficult cases.

Like the way he always checked that you’d eaten.

Like the softness in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

It felt like home.

Your teasing vanished completely.

Hotch noticed immediately.

“You’re quiet.”

You looked down at yourself.

“I get it now.”

His lips twitched. “Get what?”

“Why you wear this thing.”

He leaned slightly closer. “And?”

Your voice softened.

“It feels like you.”

His expression completely changed.

Gone was the stoic unit chief.

Gone was the carefully controlled professional mask.

Now he looked at you like you’d said something devastatingly honest.

Before either of you could say anything—

A gunshot cracked through the night.

“Shots fired!” Morgan yelled over comms.

Everything exploded into motion.

Hotch threw the SUV into drive.

Your suspect bolted from the house toward a back alley.

You and Hotch pursued on foot through slick pavement and pouring rain.

“FBI!” Hotch shouted.

The unsub turned.

Another gunshot rang out.

Pain exploded through your shoulder.

You hit the ground hard.

Everything blurred.

Someone screamed your name.

No—

Not someone.

Hotch.

The unsub was tackled by Morgan seconds later.

But all you could focus on was Hotch dropping to his knees beside you.

His hands pressed desperately against your shoulder.

His face looked pale with panic.

“Stay with me.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered weakly.

“You were shot.”

“Well when you say it like that—”

“Honey.”

His voice cracked.

And that terrified you more than the bullet wound.

Rain soaked both of you.

Blood mixed with water beneath you.

His hands were shaking.

Jennifer Jareau was shouting for an ambulance somewhere behind him.

But Hotch only looked at you.

“You are not leaving me.”

Your breath caught.

“Aaron—”

His forehead pressed against yours for one trembling second.

And then he whispered words you’d waited years to hear.

“I love you.”

The world went silent.

Even through the pain, you smiled.

“Took you long enough.”

A wet laugh broke from him—half sob, half relief.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you dress like a retired gym teacher.”

He actually laughed this time.

Then kissed your forehead.

“Survive this,” he whispered.

“You can make fun of my quarter-zips for the rest of our lives.”

—

Three weeks later, you stood in Aaron’s apartment wearing another one of his quarter-zips.

This one navy blue.

He walked into the kitchen and stopped cold.

“You stole it.”

You looked down innocently. “This old thing?”

“That’s mine.”

“Mhm.”

He crossed the room slowly.

His hands settled on your waist.

“You used to mock these relentlessly.”

You smiled up at him.

“I was young and foolish.”

“You mocked me last month.”

“Growth is a beautiful thing.”

He laughed softly before kissing you—slow, warm, familiar.

Home.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You keeping it?”

You tugged the sleeves over your hands.

“Absolutely.”

He smiled in that rare, breathtaking way that still made your heart stutter.

“Keep it, sweetheart.”

And wrapped in his sweatshirt, his arms, and his love—

you realized you already had everything you’d ever wanted.

[justalittlesoup]

Shivering professionally is truly an art form! 💕

[mistiemoon]

One Last Time

summary: you know you shouldn't sleep with spencer, he is your roomate after all...yet you both can't stay away... pairing: spencer reid x roommate fem!reader warnings: 1k words 18+ MDNI, porn with no plot, unprotected p in v, soft!dom spencer, brief fingering, kinda forbidden love if you squint (god i'm awful at warnings, you fuck okay?) (any series spencer is applicable, picture used does not necessarily depict fic spencer)

Part Two Here - Revelations

“This really is the last time” You told Spencer whilst his hands tightened in your hair. His lips attached to the sensitive part of your neck.

“Sure it is” He mumbled against your jaw, his hot breath making you feel weaker at the knees. 

You said the same thing to him a week ago. Both of you knew this wasn’t going to be last time. Ever since you came home slightly tipsy and horny, seeing Spencer walk out of the shower with his towel hung low around his hips, hair messy and wild, your brain said fuck it and removed his towel and sunk onto your knees. 

The next morning he approached you as you were cooking breakfast. Didn’t say a word, just slid his hand in your hair behind your head and kissed you like you were the air he breathed, before picking you up and putting you on the counter, taking off your shorts and proceeding to eat you out like you were his last meal. 

You both knew if you were fucking that day as soon as you woke. It would be in the air, the slightest imperceivable shift in the atmosphere of understanding that would lead to the both of you ravishing each other on the sofa before you even said one word. 

Today was one of those days. He walked out of his bedroom, looked you in the eyes and you knew. Nothing needed to be said as it was apparent in the way he looked at you. 

Spencer's hands were holding you up by the back of your thighs as he walked the both of you to his bedroom, kicking the door with his foot, all without breaking the kiss. His colleagues said he was uncoordinated, you failed to see where they came to this conclusion. 

He placed you down on the bed, his body sliding in between your legs instantaneously. The heels of your feet rubbed down the back of his calves as your fingers twisted in his hair. 

You palmed him through his thin boxers, his hips jutting forward to chase the friction, moaning against your mouth. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip before your tongue glided in. 

Spencer’s cock twitched under your palm, already half-hard and thickening fast as you rubbed him through the thin cotton. He ground down harder, letting you feel every inch of him swelling against your hand while his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth, hot and insistent.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear and yanked them down in one rough tug. He didn’t waste time, two thick fingers slid straight through your folds, finding you already slick. He circled your clit once, twice, then pushed one finger inside you, curling it deep as his thumb kept working that sensitive spot.

He pumped his finger in and out, before sliding in another, the wet sound of it filling the room. His free hand shoved your shirt up, exposing your chest, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing the stiff peak while his fingers kept fucking you.

You arched up into him, legs spreading wider around his hips. Your hand slipped inside his boxers and wrapped around his bare cock, stroking him from root to tip, thumb swiping over the leaking head. Spencer groaned into your breast, hips jerking forward into your fist.

He pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and licked them clean before shoving his boxers down just far enough to free himself. The thick length slapped against your inner thigh, hot and heavy. He lined himself up, rubbing the head through your wetness a few times, then pushed in with one steady thrust until his hips met yours.

Spencer didn’t give you time to adjust. He started fucking you hard and deep, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts. Each snap of his hips drove his cock all the way in, the head hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. Your nails dug into his back as he buried his face in your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin while he pounded into you.

“Still think this is the last time?” he growled against your throat, voice strained as he kept driving into you. His hand slid between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, your pussy clenching around him every time he bottomed out.

He shifted his angle slightly, grinding down harder on each stroke, and your orgasm hit fast—your whole body tightening as you came around his cock, pulsing and squeezing him. Spencer fucked you through it, pace never slowing, chasing his own release while you trembled beneath him.

Living with Spencer was like living with Dr Jekyll, the composed, kind and well mannered man who asked how you were. Sex with Spencer was Mr Hyde, the man who ignored all reasoning and fucked you until your legs were sore. The polarity between the two was a mental whiplash to decipher. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.  

He drove into you quicker now, the sound of skin on skin slapping in the otherwise silent room, eyes interlocked. Mouths inches apart as you shared the same air. How could something be so intimate with so little words shared between the two of you? You didn’t know, you didn’t care. 

His cock hardened within you, you squeezed your walls tighter in response. He thrusted hard once, twice, three times before he spilled into you with a low groan, dropping his head onto your forehead. You interlocked your feet at his hips, keeping him locked in place. 

You saw the second Mr Hyde left and Dr Jekyll returned, his eyes changing from dark brown, almost black to light honey hazel. Lust changing to tenderness. He rested on his elbow as he pushed one strand of hair away from your face. 

You did the same, moving one curl away from his eyes, tucking it gently back into place. It was only then did you realise that this really should be last time, not when he’s looking at you with so much admiration you don’t know what to do with it. 

But you know there will never be a last time. 

a:n I got horny so I wrote this to make me feel better :) might make this into a short fic series with no real plot, just an excuse for me to write smut -Mistie xx

Taglist (comment if you want to be added): @sweet-t33a @unlikelylovebarbarian @cocoabears.

-Mistie xx

[justalittlesoup]

A very good series, especially the last part 💕

[reidloverr]

Playing Dirty

part 2

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

tags: MDNI, smut, protected sex, edging spencer specifically, sub!spencer, rivals

w/c: 6.1k

a/n: I wonder what would happen if you decide to cheat in a chess game against Spencer..

thank you @hotchnerss for being the judge of this ;)

“Reid,” Emily said, rubbing her temples and leaning her head on the cold window to her right, “I’m so done with this stupid game.” 

“Chess is not stupid; it just requires focus and strategic foresight,” Spencer said, collecting the pieces scattered on the table between him and Emily. You tilted your head toward the two, taking one earbud out of your ear, the flight was getting boring and nothing is more entertaining than riling Spencer up, “Are you calling her stupid?”

Your voice was disgustingly velvety and it was one of the many things that infuriated Spencer because every single thing that came out of your mouth made him itch to argue. He never had a real reason to hate you, not technically. Maybe it was the way you never seemed amused by what he says. Or the fact that you were — in his words — “childish” and “immature”. You never missed a chance to tease him and challenge his thoughts to watch him unravel. 

“No, I'm just saying that the game needs focus and Emily is kinda tired right now. I do also think it requires cognitive maturity, but you wouldn’t know much about that.” he shrugged. 

A small smirk crept up on your lips, he’s so predictable. You huffed, shoving your earbuds in the small pocket of your jeans, “Oh I’ll show you cognitive maturity, Reid.” 

He wanted nothing more than to ignore you, but he couldn’t help but glance up at you. You slid into the chair next to Emily, your movements graceful and unbothered by the tension radiating off him.

“Do you even know how to play chess?” Spencer asked as he laid the two-toned brown chess board flat on the table in front of him. 

“I’ve never lost a single game.” you shrugged. That was a lie. You were a good chess player, but you’ve definitely lost some games in your day. It’s hard to keep a “forever” winning streak in a household full of chess freaks. 

A wide grin formed on Morgan’s face, and he whistled to ruffle Spencer’s feathers, “Oh she’s coming for your throat, Reid.” 

“You just wait and watch me ruin him.” you picked the black side, cupping your hands against the table to pull all your pieces to your side. 

Spencer let out a short, dry laugh, “Hm, you wish.” 

At this point of the flight, everyone was bored out of their minds, so they were getting to that stage of stirring anything up for a bit of amusement. 

JJ was snacking on some salted chips in her seat that was close to yours, with only the narrow aisle between the two of you. She was watching you two as if you were a show on TV, “What do you get if you win?” she asked you with a subtle smile.

You gave her a small laugh and looked up in thought. 

Spencer scoffed, “She’s not going to win.” he looked at you, his index finger pointing at you, “You don’t have to think of a reward. We won’t be in need of that, don’t worry.” 

If you wanted to beat him a few moments ago, now you needed to. You had no other choice. 

“If I win you have to make my coffee exactly how I like it every morning and get me a glazed donut with that.” your smile widened, “I don’t wanna burden you, but you’ll have to warm up the donut before I come to work.” 

“What- No!” Spencer’s voice shot up as his face scrunched in disgust. The way he was so dramatic always fucking annoyed you. 

“Why not?”

Morgan let out a laugh and raised a brow, “What, are you scared, Reid?”

“I’m not scared. I don’t wanna humiliate you in front of everyone.”

“If you’re so sure you’re gonna win, why be worried?” you tilted your head, “Unless you know I’m gonna drag you to filth.” 

He placed his elbows on the table between you two. Glared at you, in the lovely, endearing you he always did. Then leaned back, “Fine but when I win, you’re gonna be delivering my paperwork to and from Hotch’s office.” 

When. 

The arrogance in that single word made you want to beat him even more. And it’s exactly why you never missed an opportunity of twisting his mind and nerves and pinning him down —figuratively— to show him just how pathetic he truly was. But when you think about it, pinning a completely dazed, breathless Spencer beneath you —literally— would taste even sweeter. 

“Deal.” you smiled sweetly. 

And now the game shall begin. 

You crossed your arms on the table and straightened your back while he moved his first pawn. You made your opening move the second his fingers left the piece.

Quick. 

Spencer’s eyes flicked up briefly before returning to the board. 

You hid your smile. 

 You knew the classic traps and techniques wouldn’t work on Spencer, so you tried to be creative. As creative as you can get in chess without being too reckless. 

Spencer’s brows never relaxed once, and he was biting his lip with so much force as if it would ignite new ideas. He usually didn’t need much effort to find a way around people’s moves.

But you played unpredictably enough for his brows to slightly twitch every few moves. Changing the rhythm, and ending every pattern before it was recognized was key to confusing him. 

His moves finally became slightly slower. 

You leaned forward, eyes locked on his hands that hesitated between two pieces, “You’re stalling.” 

“I’m not.” he finally settled on a piece to move, “I barely took eleven seconds. I played six moves in under 49 seconds and you took 55.” 

“You’re keeping track?” you looked up at him,watching his eyes lock onto yours in an instant.

That was the perfect time to make things go a bit faster.

Your fingers brushed the board lightly, nudging the knight one square to the left, a square it shouldn’t be able to reach.  

 You were just giving the game a push. Trying to be more efficient wasn’t a crime. Not if your intentions are pure. 

His eyes flicked back down to the board, “Of course I’m keeping track.” he muttered,”We don’t have a clock.”

You bit back a smile.

You could feel the moment he was finally trapped. His posture shifted and his teeth switched to his top lip. 

You clicked your fingers close to his face that was practically moving into the board with every move. 

“The clock is ticking Reid!” 

He slightly swatted your hand away from his face and made a move he wasn’t too sure of, “Your knight couldn’t have gotten there.” 

You lazily pointed at the knight, “It literally did. Look at it.” 

“No, because your rook-” his brows drew together. 

“Sounds like someone’s losing.” you murmured, leaning back in your chair like you hadn’t just shifted the entire balance of the game. 

Suddenly, playing chess was a million times more fun. 

“I’m not losing.” he immediately bit back. 

He slowly moved his rook, his fingers lingering on it for a moment too long. 

You made your move confidently without a second thought.

“..that knight shouldn’t be there,” he said again, his chin now resting on his palm. More like digging into it.

“It was there for a while.” 

“That’s impossible,” he shook his head, replaying the game in his head.

“It is possible,” you said simply.

“You couldn’t have gotten it into that spot with that little amount of moves.”

“Well, I did,” you gave him a shit-eating grin and leaned closer across the table, “you just weren’t paying attention when I made that move.” 

“I was paying attention.” 

You faintly smiled, “Not enough.” 

“Oh my god,” his eyes widened and he pressed his palms on the table on either side of the board. “You fucking cheated.”

“I did not.”

His hands moved above the board, “You absolutely did.” 

Your final move landed and his eyes zeroed on your bishop. 

“Oh.” he quietly said. 

You tilted your head slightly, “Oh?” 

“That’s checkmate.” he simply stated, trying to convince himself of this unexplainable mistake. He knew you cheated. 

“I told you I’ve never lost a game, Reid.” you smiled, “Maybe you’re a bit tired. The game requires deep concentration." you mocked, quoting him back to himself.  

“This doesn’t add up,” his fingers twitching over his captured queen, “The probability of your knight ending up in that spot without at least three intermediate moves is zero. It’s literally zero!”

“Just take the L, kid,” Morgan chuckled and patted Spencer’s shoulder, “she dragged you. Accept it.”

“I didn’t get dragged,” Spencer snapped, his face flushed in frustration. He looked up at you, eyes burning with sheer vexation, “You did something. I don’t know what, but you did something.” 

You slipped your earbuds back into your ears, relaxing your head on the headrest behind you, “Don’t forget Spencer. Two sugars and no creamer. Oh and microwave the donut for exactly fifteen seconds. I'll send it back if it’s cold.” you closed your eyes with a triumphant smirk plastered on your face. 

You could feel his eyes burning into your skull and you loved it. 

An hour later, you finally touched ground. JJ nudged you awake and you rubbed your eyes in exhaustion, your headache thumping behind your eyes harder than it was before napping. 

Spencer had already gotten up from his seat, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder stiffly before getting off the plane with only a few long strides.  

“Jeez, is he still pissed?” you yawned and slowly got up, your muscles gradually defrosting.

Emily chuckled, holding out your black leather bag, “He barely read twenty pages this past hour.”

You took your go bag, the weight of it on your shoulder easing some tension, “Thanks.”

“Have a good night everyone. Paperwork can wait till tomorrow morning.” Hotch announced when everyone got off the jet. 

“Ugh. You’re an angel.” you clasped your hands together, still half asleep, thanking Hotch. 

Hotch paused, glancing at you as you fell into step next to him, “You did a good job. Not that I approve of your illegal knight movements.” 

Your heart skipped a tiny beat, a small guilty smile forming on your face, “You saw that?”

Hotch didn’t break his stride, and his lips slightly turned up, “I did. Go home and get some sleep.” 

He probably didn’t say anything in the moment because you were Spencer’s karma to the time he cheated on cards while playing with Hotch and JJ on the jet a few weeks ago. 

The sleep fully faded as soon as you got to the door of your apartment. 

You were physically exhausted but your head was never more awake. 

You took an hour long hot shower as a form of meditation. You didn’t bother turning on the main lights or changing into your clothes. You held the towel around your body and collapsed face-first into the mattress. The sheets were cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the long two busy days you spent in Los Angeles. 

When you finally decided to stand and properly get ready for bed, your phone started ringing, pulling you out of the static ease you finally forced your head to fall into. 

You turned your phone over. 

Spencer. 

“Tell me how the knight got to b5.” he blurted out.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes and moving toward your closet in the corner of the room, “Are you seriously still crying over this?”

“I’m not crying. And I didn’t lose. The game doesn’t count because you cheated.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I did not cheat? Maybe I’m just a prodigy and you don’t know it.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “You are not a prodigy.” 

Spencer sounded deeply irritated and sleep-deprived. 

“You’re adorable when you're spiraling.” you teased with a coy smile.

You knew your words would only stimulate a reaction. Anger. 

“You disrupted the entire structure of the game-” 

“Reid, if you’re so sure I cheated, come over and prove it.” you interrupted him, your voice dropping to a lazy tone, “I have a board. Come beat me if you can, Spencer.” 

The silence on the other end stretched for a few seconds. 

Spencer huffed, “Fine but if I-”

You hung up before he could continue. What’s better than irking him even more.

You decided to get comfortable and change into a graphic tee and cotton shorts. You needed a clear mind, a good plan, and all the luck in the world to “recreate” the game.

As expected, he was at the door in under twenty minutes. Three firm knocks pulled you out of your peace, just like every other thing he ever did. 

You were met with a polite looking Spencer. He changed out of his work clothes into another one of his work outfits. He was overly prepared for this and it was starting to worry you. He is not letting you win again—not when he has his suspicions now. 

“You hung up on me.” he accused, stepping past you into the warm, dimly lit apartment.

“Your voice was annoying me,” you shrugged, locking the door behind him, “and I told you—if you want to prove I’m a fraud, do it on the board.” 

The black and white wooden chess set was already laid out in the middle of your green couch.

You sat sideways, cross-legged on one side of the couch, facing the board. Spencer gently lowered his bag onto the floor next to the couch and sat across from you, his long legs bent awkwardly to fit his tall frame into the limited space. 

“White or black?” he asked, his eyes settling on the board. 

“Take white. Give yourself the advantage,” you teased, resting your palms on your knees as you gave him a calm, challenging look, “you’re going to need it.”

“I don’t need an advantage to beat someone who can’t stick to basic rules of the game.” he muttered, moving the white pawn regardless. 

The game progressed quickly, both of you taking only a few seconds per turn. 

Unlike the jet, there were no distractions. The rhythmic, aggressive snapping of pieces cut through the silence of your apartment. 

You quickly realized that even if you wanted to play clean, you were getting further away from winning with every turn. But you kept your confidence strong, making every move with undeniable certainty. 

You pulled your eyes off the board, keeping them on him. 

He glanced up for a second, “What are you doing?”

“I’m playing the game.” you kept your eyes fixated on the curls that fell over his face, “Your moves are very predictable and it’s getting boring.”

He looked up at you, “I know, playing by the rules must be very boring for you.” 

The subtle dig hung in the air. You chose to not say anything back and give him a lazy smile, refusing to break eye contact. 

You slowly uncurled your leg from your crisscrossed position, draping it over the open edge of the couch—letting your bare thigh rest only a few inches away from Spencer’s knee, close to the board separating the two of you.

Spencer’s eyes flicked to your leg for a fraction of a second. It was agonizingly obvious that the sight had thrown him off his axis.  

You bit back a smirk. “You seem kinda tense, Reid.” you whispered, cocking your head to the side. 

“I’m fine.” the words were sharp. 

You decided to press your advantage. Your finger slowly grazed the right edge of the board, reaching the corner close to him, then bringing it back to your side.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain his focus. His focus was fracturing under the weight of the room that only kept getting heavier.

“Are you losing your focus, Spencer?” you whispered, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

“No.” His eyes were completely pinned to yours now, dark and dilated. A faint shade of pink was trailing up his neck, finally settling on his ears, giving him away. Poor Spencer was nervous. 

Every time he looked down at the board, all he could see was your bare thigh invading his peripheral vision. All he could hear was the soft rhythm of your breathing as you kept getting closer above the board. 

He had to stare at your face whenever looking at the board wasn’t an absolute must. So when it was your turn his eyes were wide and fixated on your face as if it took monumental physical effort to keep them there. 

Luckily for you, you’ve been running different possibilities of how the game could go every few moves. 

You looked down, crunching two moves into a single turn—which completely altered the route of the game. 

He hesitated for a moment, but didn’t want his distraction to be too obvious, so he made the impulsive choice of moving the piece that his slender fingers were hovering over. 

“Ha! Checkmate!” a wide smile took over your face.

“What- no this isn’t possible-” he was stuttering with so much frustration, only making your smile widen. 

You teasingly leaned forward, right on the boundary line of his space, “You just can’t handle losing to me.” 

At this point, the normal thing to do was to start packing the pieces back into their place silently, but where’s the fun in “normal”? 

So you didn’t move. You were still leaning over the board. Waiting for something you couldn’t figure out. 

Who would’ve known that making him lose focus would be this easy. 

“You did something, I just know it.” his voice lost its sharp edge, now sounding heavier, “You were distracting me on purpose.” 

“What? Having normal conversation is illegal during a fun, friendly game?” you tipped your head a tad bit closer. 

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t handle the heat.” your heart was hammering against your ribs at the intensity of his eyes glaring at you. 

You always teased Spencer, but you always took a step back just before it got too much. And now, it was getting too much. 

Spencer’s gaze dropped to your lips for a moment, his throat bobbing. “You’re so insufferable.” he rasped. 

The underlying tension that had been building between you over the months of constant psychological warfare finally snapped. Spencer reached across the short distance, crashing his lips onto yours clumsily. 

It wasn’t smooth at all. His teeth bumped against yours— a physical manifestation of his lack of composure. He froze and his hands awkwardly hovered in the air between you two, having no clue where to rest them. 

You didn’t pull away. Your hand cradled his jaw and you leaned into the kiss, parting your lips slightly. A low, desperate sound caught in the back of his throat, making the corners of your mouth twitch. 

Your fingers tipped his head and he immediately obliged, letting his head tilt backwards. You slightly tugged on his bottom lip before pulling back slightly. His eyes were frantically scanning every feature of your face as if you were an odd, foreign object in a dream. 

His breath was heavy, and weirdly enough—you didn’t mind breathing it in with your own mingling breath. Your hands moved down to his chest, gently pushing him back to rest on the back of the couch—his shaky legs uncrossing and slipping down on the floor to sit properly.

He didn’t know what you were doing, but he was so dazed and weak that he’d do whatever you told him to. You crawled over the chess board, knocking off some pieces that Spencer tried catching so they wouldn't fall on the floor, “Don’t,” your voice made him stop and lean backwards immediately. 

You slid your right leg over his lap to sit properly. Your mind was fuzzy and you weren’t thinking straight. The way his body was leaning into yours hypnotized you in a way that made it impossible to stop now.

His brows drew together once your weight settled on his lap as he let out a small grunt. His hands immediately, gently gripped your hips without much thought.

You connected your lips again, but this time the clumsiness was gone. The initial shock was now replaced with mutual desperation. He opened his mouth further, giving you permission for more. Your hand moved to his soft curls, tugging on them as you slid your tongue into his open mouth. 

You shifted your weight slightly, grinding your core against him, and Spencer let out a small whimper. Your body was desperate for friction, just like him, but you couldn’t let yourself get too carried away just yet. 

“What was that Spencer? Already a whimpering mess?” you struggled to keep calm. 

His eyes flew open, completely blown out, his brown irises completely swallowed by his pupils. 

“No.” 

You rolled your hips with more force, pulling another whimper from his wet, parted lips, “please.” he whispered.

His hips bucked as you deliberately shifted again, a slow torturous grind that had his fingers gripping the fabric of your shorts. 

You lowered your voice to a honey-sweet tone, “Did I say you could move, Spencer?” 

“No,” 

You could feel his bulge straining his pants between your thighs. “So needy.” you shook your head with a smug smirk. 

“Already so hard, Spencer?” you looked at his face with fake sympathy, keeping the slow rhythm of your hips. 

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but his shaky hands trailed up your back reverently, trying to hold onto every bit. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, making you gasp softly. 

You leaned in to kiss his slightly open mouth, then kissed your way to his jaw. You nipped at the sensitive spot behind his ear, “oh my god,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice to himself so you’d stop teasing him. 

You couldn’t help but smile, “I didn’t know you were this weak, Spencer.”

“I’m not,” he whined, his eyes squeezing shut. 

He looked so beautifully, entirely at your mercy. 

He slid his cold hands underneath your tee, his thumbs pressing right under your breasts, his long fingers splaying across your ribs. The coolness of his hands against your skin spread goosebumps all over your torso and made your hips stutter for a moment. 

“So handsy for someone who hasn’t been given permission,” you teased, leaning down so your lips hover closely over his. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. 

He picked his head up, trying to reach his lips to yours. 

You pulled your head back just an inch, denying him the contact. 

He let out a defeated whimper, his head falling back against the couch. 

“You can touch,” you whispered, as much as you wanted to keep him restrained and away from feeling you; his touch had this hypnotic pull that you couldn’t resist. 

He placed his hands higher on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands, letting his thumbs brush over your nipples that were already hard and sensitive. The contrast of his cool palms against your feverish skin dragged a gasp from your throat. 

You pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the chess board next to the two of you. 

Spencer’s face warmed fast and he went completely still. This was the first time he’d gotten so intimate with a woman-- not because he was entirely inexperienced, but because no one ever had this much control over his mind. 

“Spencer,” you murmured, “You have permission. Don’t freeze up on me now.” your words vibrated against his soft lips. 

Your words broke the spell. His trembling hands returned to your boobs, kneading them slowly, testing the soft fullness. He leaned up, peppering kisses on your chest, getting closer and closer to your sensitive spot.

He looked up at you once he reached one of your nipples, he tenderly pecked the peak before swirling his warm tongue over it and taking it between his lips. Your hands carded through his locks, letting the string of whiny, desperate sounds leave your agape mouth. 

You slid one of your hands down his shaky chest and to his covered crotch. 

The sudden sensation of your palm resting directly over his throbbing covered cock sent a shockwave through his body, making his movements immediately falter, his teeth slightly biting your nipple. 

Your finger traced the strained line of his erection. 

“You’re not gonna come now, are you?” you whispered, your voice dropping to a cruel purr. 

He quickly shook his head, clearly struggling, “I’m not,” 

“Yeah, cuz that would be really embarrassing, right?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, your hand moving with more precision now. 

Spencer didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“Admit that I won, Reid.” 

His brows furrowed, “What?” he panted.

“You heard me, Spencer. Admit that I played better than you.” 

“No- but you cheated- I know you did.” 

Your hand stopped, stalling your movements entirely right when he needed you most, “I won’t let you come if you don’t admit that I rightfully won.” 

“Please.” the desperation sounded like music to your ears. 

“Just say it, Reid.”

“This is so unfair.” he looked up at you with a silent desperate plea.

You punished his stubbornness by rolling your hips forward, a slow friction-loaded press against his aching length. The burning friction made your core pulse, the tight knot in the pit of your stomach tightening. 

“Don’t be so stubborn, Reid. Come on, just tell the truth.”

“But it’s not the truth,” he stammered. 

You raised your hips, denying him the release he was so desperately chasing. His hands lingered on your skin, not wanting to let go as you stood up. 

“Take your clothes off.” you pushed the chess set further away from where he was sitting.

He blinked up at you before quickly standing and working to unbutton his shirt. 

You calmly walked over to the wooden coffee table, pouring yourself a glass of water, needing something to cool some tension and heat out of your body. 

You sipped the chilling water as you looked back at Spencer who was fumbling with his belt buckle, “Want some water?” you asked.

He nodded, “please,” you poured some more in your glass before handing it to him. Spencer took the glass from your hand, his fingers trembling as he brought it up to his lips. 

The sight of him trying to hold onto a shred of his dignity, shirtless, belt unbuckled, exposing the strain of his erection against his boxers more clearly now was intoxicating, 

“So what’s the limit? How far are you willing to go?” you tilted your head to the side. 

“I don’t.. I don’t want to stop.” he whispered, the words tearing out of him as if physically pained him to admit it. “You completely turn off my head and I don’t want this to stop. I want to go as far as you’re willing to go.” 

The raw intensity made your head spin and your stomach turn. Were you nervous? 

You took the glass from his hand, nodding your head once toward the couch, gesturing for him to sit back in his place after he’d stripped out of his clothes—minus his boxers. 

“I really.. really need this. Any of it.” he sounded like he was about to cry.

You took slow, delicate steps until you were standing in front of him, “God, you’re so pathetic.” you shook your head, looking down at him—completely undone. 

Spencer didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stared up at you as he tried to even out his breaths. 

You felt a little nice, so you didn’t keep him waiting much longer. You climbed back onto his lap, straddling his hips and resting your hands between the side of his jaw and neck. He immediately held onto your thighs and surged forward to kiss you like a man gasping for air. 

You glanced down to where your hips met, seeing a small dark, wet stain on his navy boxers. It wasn’t big enough to prove that he came without your permission, so you smirked, “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he choked out. 

Your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers trailing down his burning chest, finally reaching his waistband. Your index finger hooked the elastic of his boxers before pulling the fabric, letting his cock spring against his stomach. 

Your body shuddered, suddenly needing some sort of warmth to soothe your frayed nerves. 

“God..” he dropped his head back against the couch, taking a deep breath to steady his violent heartbeat that filled his ears. 

His thumbs brushed over the goosebumps on your thighs on instinct. 

You wrapped your fingers around his painfully throbbing cock, bringing your thumb to the slit of his tip, swirling the precum around the crown with minimal pressure, making him drop his head on your shoulder with a stifled moan. 

You leaned your flushed cheek against his curls, letting your fingers tighten lightly around his cock.

“Look at you, Spencer,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a soft, teasing hum, “you can’t even hold your own head up. Where did all the smart words go, huh?”

You gave his shaft a few slow, tight pumps, looking down at the new forming precum. You hadn’t expected him to be this big, pulsing against your hand in a way that sent a sudden thrill straight to your core. 

It only took two minutes for him to lose control over his hips, which were now helplessly, involuntarily twitching against your hand, letting you know that he was close to the edge. You pressed a short soft kiss on his temple, abruptly releasing your hand, completely cutting off the friction just as you felt his veins hammering against your palm.

“Please don’t do this to me..” he picked his head up to shake it, giving you those devastating puppy eyes that made your heart ache just a little. 

You tapped your ear, “ I didn’t hear you say the magic words yet, Spencer,” you stood up, walking to your brown coat that was hung by the door. 

“But you didn’t win fairly,” he whined, following your movement with his eyes.

“And you’re not gonna come.” you shrugged, walking back to the couch with a condom in your hand, “are you sure this is okay?” your voice was a bit softer now, the teasing toning dropping for a second to make sure he’s fully onboard.

He shook his head frantically, “Yes. One hundred percent.” 

You gave him a small smirk, tossing the condom to him. He quickly tore open the wrapper before rolling the condom down his length, giving himself some friction to ease the aching.

You took off your cotton shorts before returning to your comfortable spot on his lap, immediately being held by his trembling, reverent hands. 

You slid your hand down to your folds, swirling your thumb on the tight bundle of nerves before slowly pushing two fingers into your entrance to warm yourself up before doing anything with Spencer. 

After pumping your fingers into your dripping heat a few times to slick yourself up, you were ready to take him in. You slowly pulled your wet fingers out, trailing them up his chest before bringing them to his lips.

Without waiting for a command, Spencer wrapped his lips around your fingers without a second thought, sucking them clean with needy, heavy hunger that pulled a soft moan out of your pretty lips. The knot in your core only tightened further, a throbbing ache settling between your thighs. You slowly withdrew your fingers from his wet mouth, leaving his lips glistening and parted. 

You raised your hips, using your hand to line him up with your aching entrance. You took a deep shaky breath that made Spencer press a tender kiss to your collarbone, his hands trailing up and down your sides in an attempt to soothe you. 

You slowly lowered yourself down, letting his tip stretch your tight entrance. A shaky gasp caught in your throat as you moved your hips down an extra inch. He didn’t move his hips, he looked up at you with quiet patience, waiting for you to move, “We don’t have to-” he whispered.

You cut him off by sinking down with a broken moan, your hands clawing his shoulders. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, feeling him fill you up completely before lifting your hips slowly, dragging the friction against your walls.

You pressed back down, burying him deep inside you again, feeling him throb against your pulsing pussy. He murmured incoherent words that sounded a lot like your name in a loop against the crook of your neck. 

You found the perfect pace after a minute of fractured rhythm while you were adjusting to his size. You adjusted your position, making his tip hit just the right spot, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as a wave of blinding pleasure rippled straight through you. 

Spencer’s grip tightened on your hips, holding you with more confidence now that he felt your inner walls clench around him.

“Right there,” you panted, shutting your eyes as you lifted your hips and rolled them back down to hit that same spot again. 

“Oh god,” his words vibrated against your skin, filling all your senses. 

“Say it, Spencer. Tell me I beat you.” you whispered, shifting your hips in an agonizingly slow circle, making him cry out as his eyes rolled back into his head. 

“You won..” he whined into your neck, “you beat me.”

“And was it- fuck- was it fair?” you choked out, struggling to keep up the teasing because you were just as needy as him right now. 

“So fair. So fair, and I know I had no chance of winning,” he lied, his voice breaking entirely.  

You smirked, a deep wave of satisfaction washing over you at the sound of his absolute surrender. 

“Spencer,” you took a shaky deep breath in, “fuck, I’m so close..” your words were cut off by your own overwhelming noises. 

“Let me come with you,” he pleaded, his voice breathless, “please,” 

You nodded, pressing your forehead against his, for some reason trying to hold back the unraveling knot that was taking over your senses. 

His glassy eyes locked onto yours as his hips bucked upwards one last time, hitting that perfect, sweet spot, shattering whatever was left of your control. 

A high, strangled gasp tore from your throat as your walls convulsed around him, your back arching into him, pressing you to his chest as your muscles went weak. The intensity of your release triggered his own; Spencer’s head nuzzled further into your neck, biting down before kissing the spot in apology, his arms wrapping around your back tightly as his hips continued moving to draw out both of your staggering orgasms. 

It took a few moments to come down and melt onto one another. You both panted with closed, heavy eyelids. 

You pulled your head back to look at his hot, damp face, “See what happens when you admit the truth?” 

Spencer was still heaving with closed eyes, a faint shade of crimson still painting his neck and chest. Your brows slightly knitted, “Are you okay?” you murmured softly. 

“Yes. You’ve proven how truly evil you are.” he admired your flushed face, focusing on your swollen pink lips. 

You let out a soft chuckle, “Good.” 

You slid off of him, the emptiness immediately hitting you at the loss of contact. “I’ll go shower. I won’t take long, you can go in after me.” you kept your eyes on the floor as you picked up your clothes to head to your room. 

Disappointment settled in Spencer’s chest. He knew that this was nothing more than releasing some built up tension between them, but he hadn’t wished for the aftermath to last only a few seconds. Barely any words were exchanged, and he didn’t know what she thought. 

Did she regret this? 

Was he bad at it? 

For the first time, he didn’t really know what he was expecting, but his chest was completely hollowed out by your subtly shielded mind. Even after such an intense experience, you didn’t attempt to connect—to let him take a quick peek into your head. 

He slowly stood up, taking quiet quick steps to the tissue box that was neatly placed on the coffee table. He cleaned himself up before disposing of the condom and putting his stained boxers and wrinkled shirt back on. He contemplated putting his slacks back on but decided against it. 

His eyes flicked to the closed door of your bedroom, cursing at himself for craving closeness to you. What was happening to him? 

[justalittlesoup]

Love when the reader is smart too but thinks outside the box, a great series to read 💕

[that-softgirl]

spencer reid w/ a chronically ill lover headcanons

if there is anyone who understands the trials and tribulations of long-term illness, it is spencer. having looked after his mother for so long, he understands the nuances of chronic conditions, no matter how much of an impact it has on your day-to-day.

there can be a sense of guilt that comes with long-term illness, that it inconveniences not just yourself but those around you, too. spencer never lets you feel that way. he shuts down every apology, every ‘i’m fine’, every ‘you have enough on your plate–’.

he falls into a similar trap as he did with his mother, absorbing study after study in the hopes a fix might present itself somewhere between the nineteenth and twentieth journal article. it gives him some sense of control over it all, especially when he is so often not at home.

before you, he had little issue with the chaotic working patterns that kept him stuck at his desk or jetting off at a moments notice. after you, it’s harder to be away so often, especially when you’re in a flare – especially with such little warning.

when he is away, his care manifest’s as texts; reminders to take medication, checking if penelope has stopped by as she promised to, goodnight messages (often at odd hours that suggests he is, in fact, not going to sleep at all) and reminders that this isn’t adding to his work load, no matter how you try to argue otherwise.

when he is home, he’s your favourite nurse. he isn’t overbearing, he doesn’t treat you as if you ought to be wrapped in bubble wrap, he respects the fact you’ve lived with it before him and can manage your flares 90% of the time. but that 10%? he’s your crutch, your hair holder, your heating pad, your pharmacist – anything you need.

he’s the softest version of himself in those moments. he rambles but more quietly, tone muted but no less himself. either distractions, or soothing facts and statistics accumulated through previous flares, supported assurances that it will not be long until this one passes too.

there is nothing more soothing in these moments than the feeling of his fingers against your back, tracing patterns along your spine, curling you into him as he reads aloud and urges your system to relax.

there will never be a moment where he makes you feel like a burden, never a time where he feels overwhelmed by his love for you. in sickness and in health he chooses you time and time again.

divider by @angeliicide

[justalittlesoup]

As a chronically ill girly, this actually made me feel better 💕