can do a lot in 15 minutes

22 <3

[mariasficrecs]

maria | 22 | @mariasont

hi honey bunches this is where i reblog all of my amazing fellow criminal minds writers <3

find my main account here for my writing!

[holdmelikeagrudgee]

more andrew ‘pope’ cody tho(ugh)ts

pope who tries to teach you how to protect yourself. just in case! what if someone broke in? or tried to hurt you to get back at pope + his family? you needed to be able to defend yourself! so he teaches you how to use a gun, throw a punch, escape zip ties, etc.

but just imagine pope practicing your punches with you. he has you hitting the pads on his hands, urging you to give it your all, nitpicking your stance. once he thinks you are ready he’ll actually hit back. he goes at like maybe 10%, just giving you something to dodge.

you aren’t taking it very seriously. because you always have pope around! he’s like your personal guard dog, always protecting you, sticking close. he gets a little annoyed knowing that you think this is a joke. but he knows the kind of people his family is involved, the enemies they have. that’s why he is adamant you have some ability to defend yourself. he wants you to understand just how serious things can be.

so one second you are attempting to punch him and the next you are on the ground. he has his beefy arm around your neck, legs hooking over your own. you are completely and utterly trapped. you can’t move. he doesn’t tighten the headlock enough to impede your breathing but enough to make your heart rate kick up a notch.

you squirm in his grasp, attempting to escape but you are trapped. “andy,” you whine. you squeeze his forearm, still tucked under your chin, trying to pry him off but he doesn’t budge.

“nuh uh.” he clicks his tongue. “you gotta actually try, sweetheart. can’t just mess around. ‘m just trying to keep you safe.”

his chest is warm, solid and bare against your back. you can feel his sweaty skin against you. the sun was hot in the backyard of the little place you two had together, where he had set up for your ‘training’, even placed out mats so you wouldn’t get hurt.

and instead of making you want to actually try, you just wanna jump his bones.

one thing leads to another and he has you pressed against the mat. he pulls your flimsy little workout shorts down your legs, along with your panties.

“fuck,” he groans against your ear as he swipes his thick fingers through your folds. “you’re soaked. all this from me manhandling you? nasty girl.”

but you both know he loves it. so he wraps his arm back around your throat, bicep pressing against your windpipe.

he pushes down his boxers enough to free his now aching cock before pushing himself into your waiting cunt. and you take him sooo well, all warm and wet just for him. he doesn’t last long as he rolls his hips against yours, soaking in every choked moan you let out. but then again, he never lasts long when he’s inside you <3

[rr-after-dark]

so today it’s my birthday and i’m dying to ask you this because your masterpiece writing, can i ask you to write a robby had a forbidden relationship with jack daughter and jack find out they having sex on reader bed old room in obviously jack house. hope this acceptable 🥺

can wait for your other works 🫶🏻

an untenable situation - dr. robby x reader

Summary: You’ve been secretly seeing your dad Jack’s best friend Robby for the better part of a year. When he walks in on the two of you in your childhood bedroom, you’re all finally forced to confront it.

Tags/Notes: dbf!robby x jack’s daughter!reader, forbidden relationship, established relationship fingering, unprotected piv, getting caught, fistfight, hurt/comfort

Content: taboo relationship, violence (robby getting punched), and i mean there are zero situations in which fucking a girl you’ve known since birth is ethical, so, do with that what you will. i did age down robby a little to slightly reduce the creepiness bc i wasn’t going for dark/corruption and i wanted him and jack to be more direct peers

A/N: obviously i wrote this pretty fast and didn't proofread so i could post today so everyone be cool & also happy birthday!

Word Count: 3.3k

You can’t pinpoint exactly when he stopped being Uncle Robby and started being just Robby to you. But you can pinpoint the exact moment he stopped being Robby and became Michael, oh god, fuck, don’t stop. Your dad, Jack, had been planning to take you on a week-long trip to California for your 25th birthday, hating your best friend’s idea of a drunken singles cruise from Cancun and promising to think up something better if you didn’t go.

Then he’d come down with the worst case of food poisoning in his life the day before you were supposed to leave. You suggested going by yourself, but that idea made his protective instincts roil. Then you suggested canceling the trip altogether, but that made him feel so guilty he threw up again. Finally, you wracked your brain for someone your dad trusted as much as himself and pitched, “How about I ask Robby to come? He’s got tons of vacation time saved up since he, y’know, never relaxes.”

Your dad groaned into the toilet bowl, “He’ll never go for that on short notice.”

Jack, of course, was unaware that your friendship with Robby had turned into something different since you moved back to Pittsburgh after your undergrad and master’s across the country. Not crossing any lines yet because you both knew how wrong it was and how much it would get under Jack’s skin, but there was definitely flirting. Touching. Smiling and laughing. Late night phone calls and casually bringing him a second lunch at the Pitt when you stopped by to see your dad.

So, when Robby agreed to ‘chaperone’ you through Malibu, Jack was too sick to question his motives. But the two of you didn’t even make it through the first night after watching the moon rise up over the white sand beach.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he murmured as he fiddled with the tie at the side of your bikini bottoms in your shared hotel room, trying so hard to muster the conviction of character not to give in. But he kept coming up empty. Weak. “I really, really shouldn’t do this.”

“Then you should probably stop me from taking my top off,” you teasedsoftly, reaching behind your back and slowly pulling the string behind your neck. “Last chance, Michael.”

His resolve shattered.

And he didn’t regret it. Not by a mile.

Now it’s been nearly a year of being together. At first it was mostly sex, both of you promising that this would be the last time into the other’s mouth each and every trip to his apartment or yours. But, slowly, it became a lot more than that. He started holding you closer. You called him more often. When he tugged you into a supply closet, half the time he just wanted to talk to you. Your clothes migrated into his dresser and you slept in his bed even on nights when you didn’t fuck.

Then you got laid off from your job. The unspoken tension of your two choices had created an untenable situation: You could move in with Robby, admitting your relationship out in the open with a hard launch, or you could move back in with your dad and try to keep it a secret as long as you could. As much as Robby assured you that he was ready to deal with Jack’s wrath and call you his, you weren’t sure you were ready. And he respected that.

It finally reaches the moment you’ve both been dreading when Robby’s apartment needs to be fumigated. Jack, of course, offers to let him crash on the couch for the 72 hours it’s going to take, thinking nothing of it. Robby knows he won’t be able to resist fucking you if it’s just the two of you and your skimpy pajamas, so he says he’ll get a hotel only to be met with a jovial ‘come on, let me do something for you, you’ll be happier eating her cooking anyway.’

Robby and you both swear you won’t fuck while he’s there. You’ll be perfect angels and then have a total fuck fest once his apartment is ready.

That lasts all of about ten seconds.

You answer the door in the tiniest sleep shorts he’s ever seen and an old camisole that’s basically see-through, your nipples perking up as the cool spring air breezes into the house. Then there’s that sappy, starry-eyed smile you always give him when you haven’t seen each other in a couple days.

“Fuck, baby.” He pushes you back by your waist, drops his back on the floor, slams the door, and pulls you into a bruising kiss. You giggle into it, knowing he must’ve already seen your dad at work on his way out if he’s being so brazen. “Missed you so much. So fucking stupid thinking I could resist you for even a minute,” he mutters as he kisses down your neck, pushing you toward the staircase and then just hiking you up into his arms when your step falters.

You loose a laugh as his hands cup your ass and the small of your back. “Carefully, Michael, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I go to the gym with my girlfriend five times a week,” he reminds you as he ascends the stairs confidently, beelining toward the bedroom he helped you paint yellow when you were sixteen. As he flops you down on the bed, “She keeps me young. I’ve gotta be able to throw her around like she needs.”

You raise your eyebrows and cheekily tug your top over your head before leaning back on the pillows. “What else does she need?”

“She needs to stop teasing me,” he chuckles, dropping down to push his arms on either side of you and kissing you hard. One hand goes up to pinch and roll your nipples until you arch your back and greedily moan for more. “God, you’re gorgeous when you’re needy.”

“Haven’t seen you in three days,” you groan as he gives up on being patient and pulls down your little shorts. He kisses down your torso and thighs. You hiss in a sharp breath and whimper, “Missed you so much. Need you.”

“Yeah? You need me?” He stands up once he has you naked and strips himself hastily. His cock is throbbing and his pulse is pounding and his ears are whooshing, all with the lust and desire to have you, his perfect girl, again. Every second without you is agonizing. It really does make him feel like he’s a teenager again, not just horny all the time but heart-skipping, cheek-reddening, all-consuming crushing on you. It’s love now, for sure, but it still feels fluttery and sweet. Fisting his cock as he grins possessively down at you, he orders, “Show me how much you need me, baby.”

Eyes roving all over his exposed body – his wiry chest hair, his muscular thighs, his ridiculously big hands – you spread your legs for him. You watch with unbridled delight as his pupils dilate and he starts to stroke himself faster as he realizes you’re already soaked. For him. Always just for him. “I’m ready, Michael, don’t make me wait any longer.”

He sighs and tugs you to the end of the bed, lining himself up with your entrance. “You knew I was gonna walk in that door and fuck you right away, didn’t you?”

“And you knew I was gonna beg for it,” you whine back and roll your hips to encourage him.

He toys the head of his cock through your wetness a while first, playing with you just so he can see you squirming and whimpering. “You’re pretty when you beg.”

You bat your eyelashes innocently at him, lock your legs around his hips, and almost force him to thrust into you with your thighs. “Please, babe, need your cock already. It’s all I think about when I’m turned on. Give it to your girl.”

That makes him growl under his breath. He shoves inside of you in one sharp thrust that steals your breath away. Then he bends down, threads his fingers with yours, and kisses you deeply. His free hand goes right to your clit; you’ve been together long enough now that he knows exactly how to get you off, his fingers finding that perfect pressure and pace to match the pushes of his cock. He noses up your neck, gradually kissing and sucking and scraping his teeth until he feels your pussy walls fluttering from the added attention. “My girl. Mine. Love you so much.”

All you can do is whimper in response. You nod into the crook of his neck and shoulder as your chest and cheeks turn hot. He squeezes your hand to ground you and you open up your eyes to meet his at the protectiveness and intimacy of the gesture. Your free fingers twine in the hair at the base of his neck and you murmur, half-gasping from the force of his thrusts, “Love you, too.” Then you tug his lower lip with your teeth and moan, “Deeper. Harder.”

“Good girl,” he praises, pulling out only long enough to flip you over. With you on your knees, he shoves down the small of your back, gets your ass high in the air, and smacks your flesh. The sting is enough to make you gasp and it shoots pleasure straight through your cunt. He watches your pussy clench around nothing and smacks you again. His voice is rough and gravelly as he says, “That’s my baby. Taking it all so well.”

You plead out, “More, Robby. Gimme more.”

Robby laughs sharply at your eagerness that makes precum drip from his dick. He thrusts back inside your cunt and pounds you once more as his hands rain down on your ass, the slaps loud and painful and fucking perfect.

Neither of you hear the front door opening, too lost in shared ecstasy. Jack doesn’t even close it, just popping home to grab something he left on his bedside table, but the sounds coming from your room stop him in his tracks.

The blood drains from his face.

Robby’s car is out front.

Jack shoves the door open and sees a horror movie playing out. His baby girl, tears streaming down her pink face. His best friend smacking her ass hard as he drives into her. His vision goes white. Jack yanks Robby away from your bed and shoves him against the nearest wall. As you frantically tug on clothes, you hear the thud of Robby’s head, followed by your dad’s fist colliding with your boyfriend’s jaw over and over. “What the fuck are you doing? That’s my goddamn daughter and- Fuck, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Jesus Christ, dad, stop!”

But Jack doesn’t relent. His hand around Robby’s neck pushes in harder and panic rises up in your throat. His other fist drills into Robby’s gut. “Can’t believe you’d take advantage of her like this. Fucking disgusting old man might as well be-”

“Stop it!” You lunge toward them and scramble for your dad’s strong shoulders, shrieking out, “Don’t hurt him! God, he’s not just fucking me; we’re- we’re together. We’ve been together for a year already and you’d better stop or I’m gonna jump out that window right now!”

“Wait, what?!” Jack whips around to you and Robby takes in a deep, wheezing breath now that he’s out of Jack’s grip. “You think you love him? That man changed your diapers, princess, you can’t- he can’t-” He looks over at Robby in disgust and rage and growls, “Mind getting the fuck out of my house now?”

Robby croaks, rubbing his bruising neck and wondering how he’s going to explain these particular marks at work, “Can I at least put on my clothes first?”

Through the red haze of his anger, Jack remembers Robby’s naked and stares at the ceiling lights while his insides twist. It’s like he’s in a nightmare. At the next horrific realization, he retches, “Fucking hell, you’re not even wearing a condom.” Jack doubles over like he might throw up, sounding panicky and pissed. “Please tell me you’re on birth control, sweetheart. God, when did you get on birth control? I’m a doctor; why wouldn’t you tell me that-”

“Dad, try to take a deep breath” you murmur, reaching out to touch his back. “You’re gonna have a panic attack. Or a heart attack. Try to calm down.”

“Calm down?” On the verge of hysterics, he gestures between you and Robby. “I just found out that my best friend, a man I’ve trusted to watch you since you were an infant, is a fucking pedophile.”

“Woah, dad, Jesus! Way too far!”

“What else do you call a-”

“Man who is in a serious relationship with an adult who has a fully developed frontal lobe? I’d call him a perfectly normal person.” You tap your chin sarcastically and prod, “Hm, I wonder if there are any other men in their forties here dating girls in their twenties.”

Robby flinches at that. It was an inevitable weapon in the arsenal, but still.

Jack scoffs at the accusation and replies, “Samira is a doctor and-”

“And your subordinate,” you push back, “and only two years older than me.”

“I never babysat her.” Pale and sweating, he demands, “When the hell did this start, anyway?”

“It wasn’t like that, dad, I swear to god.” You cross your arms over your chest and sigh, “We got close when I moved back to Pittsburgh two years ago. And then we actually started, y’know, seeing each other during the trip last summer.”

He rubs his hands over his face. “Should’ve sent you to Cancun. At least then you’d be fucking some drunk asshole instead of-”

“A kind, respectful, successful doctor?” You poke him in the chest and say, “I could do a hell of a lot worse. Already have, in case you forgot.”

Finally, Jack turns to face Robby. With a deathly quiet voice and unreadable military features, he orders, “Your turn. She says it wasn’t like that, so you’d better tell me what it was like. Timeline. Now.”

Robby still seems like he might pass out or puke at any second, but then he looks over at you. So fast Jack doesn’t even notice, you give him an encouraging smile. It’s time for him to fight for you, not shrink back. “Try to think about it, Jack. She avoided me like the plague during high school because I was too lame for her, obviously, and then I never even saw her until she finished her master’s and moved back here. I mean, I hit on her at a bar before I even knew she was back in town. I thought she was a total stranger. Didn’t even recognize her since she switched to contacts out in California.” He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “We just…we just got to talking. Neither of us thought it would be serious. But she’s brilliant, she’s funny, she’s beautiful, she’s every-”

Jack finishes his beer and grunts, “Of course she’s beautiful; she looks like my dead fucking wife, who would be horrified by this.”

You mutter, “Mom would’ve understand. Or at least she wouldn’t have hit him.”

Robby cringes and says, “Might not be the best time to bring up Rachel, baby.”

“You call her baby?” Jack scoffs and rubs his hands over his face. “That’s messed up.”

Robby rolls his eyes, which makes you smile just a bit. “She’s my girlfriend, Abbot, I call her all kinds of things.”

“Your girlfriend,” Jack repeats. “Christ.”

Despite the response, he seems calmer now. Not necessarily satisfied or accepting of the situation but no longer so worked up you’re worried about his cardiac health.

He takes a few deep breaths, still avoiding eye contact with either of you, just trying to calm his heartrate. As he pinches his brow, he scowls and says, “Okay, I- I have to get back to the hospital. There’s an multiple MVC coming in and I only came back to get my fucking badge reel.”

Robby tentatively says, “Sure you’re good to practice when you’re so-”

Jack snaps toward him. “I am one millisecond from shoving my titanium foot up your ass, Robinavitch, so you’d better stay fucking quiet.”

Robby hangs his head. “That’s fair.”

“We’ll all…wel’ll talk about this when my shift’s over.” Then he shakes his head and adds. “Just, fuck, please don’t do anything like that in my house again.”

Then, like the soldier he is, he turns out of the room, snatches up his badge, and heads out, cursing and muttering under his breath the whole way.

You and Robby don’t look at each other until you hear Jack’s car peeling down the street.

You’re the first to break the silence, standing up and trying to keep your tone neutral. “You’re bleeding; come to the bathroom so I can clean you up.”

With a reluctant nod, Robby follows you to your en suite. Jack had given you the primary bedroom when you’d moved into this house as a teenager because, as the minimalist single dad of a teenage girl, he didn’t want to deal with the guest bathroom being full of all your soaps and potions. Robby leans against the countertop, now, and you dab at the wound on his cheek with cotton and antiseptic like your dad had taught you as a kid. There’s more pain in your eyes than his as you carefully place a bandage over the small but deep cut. “He must’ve caught you with his wedding ring. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says with a shrug. “I think most dads would hit a guy if they walked in on him fucking their daughter raw. Especially considering the, ah, the spanking.”

“Good point.” You bite your lip and look up at him with teary eyes. He hates how scared and alone your voice sounds as you ask, “Are you gonna break up with me now?”

Robby sighs and guides you back to the bed, sitting down and patting the space next to him so the two of you can talk. “No, baby, I’m not. Do you want me to?”

“Definitely not.” You crawl into his lap and plant gentle kisses along the base of his neck, each one an apology for Jack’s harsh grip on his throat. “You’re it for me, Michael. Dad’ll come around.”

Carefully, Robby asks, “And if he doesn’t?”

You give him a gentle kiss, testing the waters, and whimper with relief when he returns it, hands going to your hips. When you pull back, you cup his unbruised cheek and offer up, “Well, I’ll make a really good roommate. I’m neat and I’m good at cooking. And I put out in exchange for rent money.”

Robby rolls his eyes and laughs, “You could be a total slob and I’d still want you to live with me. I love you. That doesn’t change now.”

and im not gonna do my taglists bc this is like...a quick one and i already posted a long fic today

[sawdustandstardust]

NSWF kingdon prompt you say? how about: “Are you holding back? Don’t.”

additional tags: platonic spankings between friends <3 yay <3; medical conferences; rip to that hyatt regency hotel room desk

The first time Mel properly worked with James, the floppy-haired MS-3 said he wanted to “kill himself” eight times during their twelve-hour shift. 

Well—to be specific—he said he wanted to “k-word” himself, which Mel learned was an important distinction. If James was going around saying I messed up so bad during this (insert ED medical procedure or patient interaction here) and it makes me want to kill myself, that would be enough to indicate an imminent risk of a suicide attempt, and Mel would have to file a mandatory report. 

But, instead, “k-word” worked as a placeholder—a term-born from the bowels of TikTok’s censorship guidelines. Juvenile enough that Mel knew he wasn’t actually serious, only experiencing a minor, slight inconvenience to his day: dropping his vanilla, hazelnut drizzle double-shot latte all over the floor of the break room; patient lab results not coming back quick enough; unable to find an available vein during a blood draw; walking into the wrong patient room due to misreading the board; breaking sterile field during an emergency surgical observation. 

All just cause for James to mutter under his breath about all the ways he was going to end it all. 

Now, standing inside her sort-of friend’s and fellow ACEP conference attender’s hotel room at the Hyatt Regency in Nashville—downcast eyes locked in on the ratty bunny slippers she hastily threw on before she could lose her nerve—Mel finally understands where James was coming from. 

Because, yeah, in the midst of Frank’s awkward, choking-sound response to her blurted out request, Mel was pretty sure she wanted to k-word herself.

Hard. 

Sink deep down into the Earth’s crust underneath the Honky Tonk Highway where bachelorette parties and lonely, country-singing dude bros could thoroughly walk over her grave until the end of human existence hard. 

All due to one, currently unanswered question.

“Will you spank me, please?” 

“I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have asked such a intimate and sensitive request. I usually bring my CBD gummies with me to calm down before conferences like this or, recently, I’ve texted Greg—”

“Greg?” Frank croaks like he’s one of the Allegheny river toads.

“Yes, Greg. It’s an arrangement. We matched on Hinge. Princess told me it was the app for if I wanted someone who actually had a bed frame and a 401k.” Mel looks up from her feet into the blank, vacant stare imposed on Langdon’s face and quickly amends her previous statement. “Not that those things are totally important to overall compatibility—not to me, anyways.” 

Because, well, Frank didn’t have a bed frame—a mattress on the floor, two canvas foldout lawn chairs in his living room for him and one guest (usually her; she doesn’t think he has any other friends), a TV propped up on an empty, cardboard moving box, an overflowing ashtray balanced on the ledge of his balcony railing—or any assets, to her knowledge. Between the divorce, child support, therapy rent, student loans, and mandatory out-of-pocket drug tests, he was going less than okay. Nowhere near 401k okay. 

“And he…”

As if he’s attempting to perform street magic, Frank awkwardly gestures his hands in grandiose, swirly circles to fill in the blank.

“Spanks me? Yes. But only when I need to get my head on straight, like maintenance." She fixes her eyes on the plain, buttery texture of the Hyatt Regency wallpaper slightly beyond Frank’s left ear, afraid she'd turn and bolt in embarrassment if she gazes upon him directly. 

“Do you message him often?” 

Mel thinks for a second. “Once every two months, maybe? More so after I started at PTMC.” She can’t help that her voice turns sad at the explanation. “This past fall wasn’t great.”  

Understatement of the century, where she haunted the halls of the emergency department like a ghost. Untethered, because whenever she asked anyone what happened to Dr. Frank Langdon (thank you, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center staff directory for still keeping his profile on the internal portal so she could learn his first name. A shining beacon in the seasonal darkness), they brushed her off. Dr. Langdon’s taking a leave of absence, they all said, like a frustratingly harmonized Greek chorus. 

Greg was a welcome distraction to all of it. He worked in system operations, which Mel took to mean he had a nine-to-five job in a downtown office where he swiped a fancy keycard to gain entry every day. The details about his person were fairly sparse: she knew he didn’t like olives or Top-40 radio hits; he always purchased the three-day, VIP passes for Bonnaro and went to Burning Man, once, where got a weird, ingrown toenail he needed surgically removed. Greg hadn't gotten a haircut since high school; his thick, red hair was longer than hers. If she were to rank his spanking skills on a one through ten scale, he was solidly a six-point-five. Good, not great, but it’s what she had to work with. 

Out of her periphery, Frank’s nose twitches. “And he’s not here?" 

“No. I don’t know why he would be in Nashville. ACEP isn’t a plus-one event. Hence why I’m here.”

They talked about ACEP for the past month. Frank had been so excited to secure the modest, research grant funding for him to come alongside her. After roadtripping down, they spent their afternoon before the opening Keynote trolling around the new medical equipment displays. Everything was wonderful—until Mel made it back to her hotel room, alone, and the neatly printed outline transposed on her poster presentation flashcards suddenly blurred together. That’s when the anxiety set in—of being laughed at, forgetting her data points regarding optimizing sensory friendly techniques while treating neurodivergent, pediatrics patients, of all her hard work going to waste, of returning back to PTMC with nothing more than a bruised ego and a Smashed ‘Ville t-shirt. Frank’s idea, because apparently people in Tennessee thought they played hard hitting hockey and not due to fucking, which was Mel’s first thought.

Currently, he’s the pragmatic (and sole) option. She trusts him, knows he would stop if she asks him to. Views her like a person. Fixes her with his interrogating gaze whenever they worked together. Encouraging. Kind. Plus—Mel swivels her pupils over to his hands and yeah…she could admit, Dr. Langdon had a nice set of big paws she thought normally about. Sure. 

“You really want me to…” he starts to move his hands again, and Mel depressingly huffs out a defeated breath.

“Well, if you can’t even say the word spank, I’m not sure if I’d want—”

“What–Mel! Please…” When he sighs, Mel finally observes his face. The clinch of his jaw; the deep breath coming directly from the heart of his chest; a tightness around Frank’s eyes she only sees when she has to turn down his offer for afterwork coffee at Deja Brew or whenever he misses the 7:15 PM bus, needing to wait thirty minutes for the next one.

With one final, sure pause, he finally gives her an answer: “I would be honored to get to spank you.” 

The tight, anxious freeze response inside her heart unclenches and she’s already feeling a little less cloudy than before. 

“Perfect.” 

Before Frank can even think of backing out, she slips out of her slippers and carefully walks over to the hotel room desk—thankfully clear, as Frank’s laptop’s is balanced halfway off the nightstand as it’s charging and he’s neatly moved the Hyatt Regency stationary and complimentary pens and single plastic water bottle over to the entertainment center—and bends over. 

Her sweatshirt-covered breasts press flat to the cool wood, while she hopes the cheeks of her ass aren't peaking out too much from the bottom of her sleep shorts.

This wasn’t meant to be sexual; it was therapy. A favor for a friend in need, akin to bumming a cigarette outside the local dive bar; Mel had never done it, sure, but it was a good comparison and one Frank would probably appreciate as a Pall Mall man himself.

The imaginary seconds uncomfortably tick past inside Mel’s brain as she waits. And ponders. And waits some more. She shifts her weight from her left to right foot before realizing the movement shakes her ass back and forth in a way that could be construed as sexually provocative, so she stops. Breathes. Her open palms on the desk start to sweat. The more seconds pass, Mel feels the creeping walls of humiliation start to close-in and maybe she should have driven the seven-hours back to Pittsburgh, called Greg up and…

Frank’s hand suddenly rests on her left butt cheek, lightly cupping its round fullness in his grip as if he’s curiously surveying its weight, jiggling it as Mel stops herself from squirming. His pinky slips underneath the hem of her shorts, up her expanse of her ass and she can’t help but notice how his dull pinky nail digs a little bit onto her skin.

His other hand joins, each cupping one of her cheeks now, firm touches exploring and searching and bouncing and she wonders how the heck did I end up here because Greg (or Levi or Olivia or any of her one-off spanking partners) never handled her like this. Mel’s face flushes. Suddenly, the frigid hotel room’s too hot. Too exposing. She’s rapidly losing the plot and they haven’t really even done anything, so she tries to reel it back in—

“Are you holding back? I would prefer if you didn’t—” 

Frank’s right palm comes down with a reverberating, stinging smack that vibrates all the way to Mel's back molars. When he hits her again, it’s in the same spot and even through the cotton of her shorts, she can tell his handprint's are going to leave a mark. 

A third spank hits her opposite left flank, the propulsive force shakes the Hyatt Regency desk. Mel turns her head to focus on the slight sway of Frank’s conference registration badge, the lanyard dangling from a dresser doorknob as she mentally counts each strike. 

One spank #6, Frank comes down hard right where her ass meets her thigh; it takes everything in her not to whine or kick her feet out from under her. On #9, he slams both hands down at once on each side of her ass in a dueling pain, wiping out all her thoughts of the presentation, conference, Greg. Her own name, even. 

“Are you doing okay? Want me to hold back now, Mel?” He sarcastically asks. Before he could really finish his question, she’s frantically shaking her head no. A little bit of snot runs down from her nose and tears pool in her waterline. She wants to see how long it will take for those to spill over onto her face; make her so messy she can float up, up, and away from her corporal form, even if it’s only for a little while. 

Frank pauses after #12—a quick, scalding pop to her right cheek like he’s her hockey teammate and she’s just scored a goal out on the ice—to pull up the sides of her sleep shorts in a high V. Exposing her spanked, bare flesh to him as the excess fabric’s wedges a little embarrassingly into the crack of her ass, but she only finds that shame makes everything a little hot*

*Mel is well aware she should be finding none of this hot—especially when her Good Friend Frank is the one doing it—but that’s an internal quandary for tomorrow Mel. Because currently, she’s going to memorize every single moment inside this room for the rest of her life. 

He clicks his tongue in appraisal; she wishes she could turn her head to look at him. To see what his eyes do when he gazes on her smarting, bare skin.

“Knew you’d look good in red,” he comments behind her.

Punctuates his statement with one, final hit. 

It’s ruthless. Probably the hardest hit she’s ever taken, especially without a warm-up or heads-up and God, it’s as if he’s taken all her shattered Mel glass pieces and carefully arranged them into a stunning mosaic with every rep. She doesn’t feel floaty like she usually does.

No, she’s whole. 

Frank doesn’t back away after times up.

No, instead he leans forward to blanket his weight against her back. The soft texture of his sweatpants makes her want to grind her inflamed backside against him like a feral cat in heat. Which she doesn’t. They are friends and taking this further beyond just platonic, everyday help would definitely have future Mel contemplating k-wording herself, James-style.

However, before she can start to politely nudge Frank off and peel herself from the hotel desk, he has one parting blow:

“If you need maintenance…delete Greg’s number. Tonight. Call me.” He whispers right into her ear.

Later, laying sideways under the scratchy comforter in her freezing hotel room, she decides she wasn’t supposed to hear the second part; a secret promise Frank let slip.

“Next time, I’m taking you over my knee.”

[holywaterhangover]

this is a small love letter to the wonderful @monnaow for this beautiful post that infiltrated my dreams last night and i couldn't stop thinking about it. so, i had to whip something up. (if you'd like me to remove the tag, please let me know!)

(dom/sub dynamics, explicit content, no editing so sorry for mistakes!)

-

Mel is not fond of the feeling that encompasses her when she can't do something right.

Tests, procedures, her job, successfully navigating difficult conversations, avoiding conflicts - the list goes on and on and on. The more she gets right, the better she feels. Doesn't everyone feel that way? That nice little warmth that blossoms low in her belly, the feeling of her heart swelling five times the size in her chest as if it'll break through her chest cavity from the excitement alone.

It feels good to be good at things.

But when she isn't, when there's a skill or a hobby or a fact she just can't grasp, it's frustrating. It's debilitating. It hurts. The warm blood running through her veins turns to ice, breathing seems difficult, her tongue is too big and too floppy for her mouth. She stutters and blushes and her face pinches up all tight because there isn't a real way to deal with it, she's found. She just vibrates like a firefly trapped in a mason jar until her light eventually goes out.

Frank knows this. He knows she's an obsessive perfectionist and he knows that putting her in a position where there's a chance for failure - unless it is outside of his control - isn't worth the risk. Frank knows.

So when they're holed up in Frank's sad, divorced dad apartment as Pittsburgh becomes a victim to heavy snow and sleet, rendering them in place for the time being until the roads are cleared, Frank hauls her into his lap and Mel's brain short circuits.

They've been in a limbo of foreplay for hours, it seems like. Naked, flushed, tracing freckles and moles and faint scars and passing soft observations to one another in fluttery whispers. He hasn't been inside of her yet but she's come twice now - once from his fingers and once from his mouth, which left her thighs a little jelly-like - so obviously, the afternoon was going to close with a round of sex before they wind down and prepare for another before bed. (Unless the snow plows are quick, which almost never happens, and they're called into work to assist with whatever's unfolding due to the inclement weather.)

"Why-- why, um-" Mel can't quite get the words out. Frank only peers up at her curiously, tucking a rogue strand of sweat-slicked, honey blonde hair from her face, previously hanging over her eyes and pink cheeks like a curtain. His lips lift into a crooked smirk. "Like this?"

"Yeah, like this," One hand rests on her shoulder, thumb rubbing at the dip of her collarbone. The other remains at her waist, squeezing her hip. "What's the problem, sweetheart?"

He's taunting her. The problem is obvious, and Frank is very, very aware of the fact that Mel sucks at being on top. She's no cowgirl. The first time he managed to wrangle her atop his sweaty, warm thighs, Mel pressed her palms hard against his chest and made her objection known. He didn't understand fully, back then, and he coddled her anyway and did most of the work but Mel sat in silence afterward feeling like a failure.

Tears sting at the corners of her eyes. Frank takes notice but doesn't draw attention to her wet gaze. He's been coddling her less often. Still sweet but he's got a bite to his words in bed lately, challenging her. Fighting the ice that threatens her chest with his hot, sharp words.

"You know I'm-- I'm.. not good at.. this," Mel's head dips, peering at his cock, resting firmly beneath her warm, wet center. Neither have moved but her arousal slicks him visibly. "Can't we just-?" she jerks her head in an unsure movement. "Anything else, please?"

The hand previously on her shoulder finds the back of her neck. Frank's eyes narrow, his jaw firm as he utters, "No, Mel. This is what I want."

Mel inhales sharply through her nose. She wants it too, she does, but the fear of disappointing him nearly outweighs her excitement. His firm touches, however, are like thick lassos, wrapping around her wandering thoughts like they're meandering cattle. "But Frank.." her voice tightens.

Frank presses his thumb against the thickest vein in her neck. "But what, sweetheart?" he tilts his head, eyes glimmering even if they're nearly slits, all dark navy blue. "You want me, don't you? This is how you can have me. C'mon, you're wasting precious daylight."

She isn't. It's barely twelve-thirty, as indicated by the old alarm clock on his nightstand in bright red numbers. Hours and hours until the sun sets but he's only saying it to get under her skin, to irk her. To egg her on. To lead her into failure so he can prod at her when she messes up. Mel winces as if sucking on a lemon. Her hips shift, the slickness too much, catching the thick head of his cock against her folds punches a gentle whine out of her mouth.

"You'll only fail if you let yourself," Frank then says, his voice lowering, dropping into a sort of gravelly sound that sends a spark of something hot and insistent up Mel's spine. Her toes flex against his dark, soft sheets, curled up in anticipation and worry. "You're a big girl, honey. You can do it."

Then, he withdraws all support with a final, gentle squeeze to her neck. Abandons her hip to curl his hands behind his head, lazily draping his folded arms over his flat pillows. Mel almost wobbles from the absence of his touch.

With a stuttered breath, Mel hoists herself fully on her knees, willing her fingers not to tremble when she takes him into her hand and guides his cock into her. It's delicious, stretching her open as it always does, slick and warm and pure velvet. He lets out a quiet hiss, eyelashes fluttering, but doesn't utter a lick of praise. She doesn't deserve it yet, she figures. There's still inches to go until she's fully seated, until she finds a rhythm. Until she does it right.

There's a nearly undetectable quiver in her thighs when she's flush against him, breathing shallow and slow. He reaches a depth inside of her at this angle that's difficult to achieve with any other position. Even the most intrusive, body-bending ways never feels like this.

Mel braces her palms just below Frank's pectorals. Her short, trimmed nails brush against the thickets of dark hair that decorates his chest, ignoring the desire to tug at them in favor of stabilizing herself. Breathing through it. Trying to figure out if she wants to swivel her hips or lift herself and drop, which would be better for him. For her.

Whatever she does -- it's a weird mix of raising herself and circling her hips clockwise -- isn't right. It nudges something that she can only describe as no, and it's obvious that Frank isn't impressed. If anything, he looks a little bored. Expectant, yes, but also stulified. Eyes blinking slowly, tongue tracing over every single one of his teeth.

Mel's eyes grow wet again. "Frank, I can't," she says in a whisper, attempting to circle her hips again but it just doesn't feel right. Her fingertips burn to scratch at his chest, to claw and beg him to take over, to show her, to do it right like she can't but the words just won't come out. "Frank," she repeats, weak. "Please."

"You have to want it, Mel," he says, his tone nearly flat. "Don't be a quitter."

There's a tingling, almost burning sensation just above her tailbone, in her hips and knees, mainly because her form is absolute garbage. She's hunching over and not properly supporting herself, and she knows if she doesn't make the correction now, her back will be sore tomorrow and they're both scheduled for a thirteen hour shift. No pair of orthopedic, non-slip hospital shoes could make it better.

She raises herself once more, blinking away the tiny droplets in the corners of her eyes, attempting to find a balance. A rhythm - something, anything. Her obsession with avoiding failure is clouding her brain, fogging it all up like a mirror after a hot shower. She can't swipe her fingers over the glass and clear the image and it's only building and building.

Mel wants this, him, more than anything. She wants to exceed his expectations, make this good for both of them, wants to cross the finish line and drag Frank along with her but she can't get out of her head. She can't get her hips to cooperate, she can't find a steady pace that has Frank's breath hitching and stuttering, she can't. She just can't.

Desperation radiates off of her in vast, drownable waves. Frank can sense it, stiffening, letting out an exasperated sigh before settling his wide palms on her hips and effectively halting her completely. Mel braces herself for the worst.

"You're so desperate, you can't even do it right," Frank shakes his head, letting out soft tsk noises, smooshing his thumbs into the crevices between her hips and thighs. Mel winces at the pressure initally but she's always accepting of firm touches, so he doesn't withdraw his hands. He knows her body well enough, knows her mind, and he knows the last ten minutes have been nothing but pure torture. "I've always got to come to the rescue, huh, sweetheart?"

A tear falls down Mel's cheek as she nods. Silently pleading for him to take over, the ache of failure settling between her ribs, as she falls against his chest, whimpering into his neck. Frank lifts his hips, bracing his feet flat on the bed, and manipulates Mel's body so that he can fuck up into her in earnest. Relief floods her, whines and breathy, strangled moans clogging up her throat.

"You'll do better next time," he utters through short, rough grunts, sliding a palm up Mel's spine, thumbing every dip and curve before cradling the back of her head. She doesn't mind the patronizing tone. "Right, baby?"

Mel doesn't answer. Tears pepper her cupid's bow and she licks them away, scrambling for purchase and grasping his shoulders, nails digging into his heated skin. He doesn't slow, if anything his thrusts are sharper and faster and Mel might just split apart entirely but it's delicious and perfect and everything she needs.

"I said," he accentuates, his voice raising, curling his fingers into her loose hair to draw her head from his neck. Her face is splotchy and cherry blossom pink and littered in tear tracks. "You'll do better next time, won't you, Melissa?"

"Yes," she chokes out, "Yes, yes, Frank, I promise. I swear, I'll--"

Mel's interrupted as he buries himself fully, spilling into her.

Mel lets out a sob. This time, Frank wipes her tears and drags his thumb across his tongue, relishing the taste of her failure.

[mggslover]

learning sign language so you can make inappropriate comments to spencer while at work and you sign “want to suck your cock” and spencer just looks at you all bewildered like “since when did you know ASL?”

dirty talking to spencer in ASL genre: sfw with sexual innuendos word count: 1,8k a/n: a lil something while i'm working on kinkfest :)

Spencer Reid is a man of many talents. People say — well, specifically, Spencer once told you that learning a new skill is easiest around the age of ten and how the process will be more difficult once you reach the age of eighteen. Something about neural connections forming rapidly, the unconscious system, the critical period… To be honest, you lost your focus the moment he mentioned the new skill he’d learned: sign language. 

Spencer was excited to tell you about this new skill. He already knew a handful of languages, from Russian to Yoruba, but what appealed to him most about ASL was the hand motions. How he didn’t need to pronounce any of the words. You still chuckle to yourself when the memory of him pronouncing a Spanish sentence pops up in your head. How vividly you could picture Elle correcting him. There was nothing funny about him using ASL, though. In fact, you remember the way your throat tightened and your cheeks heated when his hands started moving — long fingers, decorated in veins, flexing into different symbols at a speed that other beginners would envy.

“That means ‘I love you, and that sweater looks pretty on you’.”

You had laughed. Had leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you,” you replied. A hot pink flush made its way onto his face, a shy smile tugging on his lips. 

“Does this mean you’ll be speaking to me in sign now?”

Your comment was meant as mere teasing, but Spencer had taken it as a challenge. He’d made sure to at least communicate a couple of ASL sentences to you every day. You could imagine it being a good way of practice for him. For the both of you, actually. Because over time you started to recognize some of the movements. A sign you had mistaken as rock and roll before, you had now concluded meant I love you. A swipe of his hand over his face? Pretty. There were a few others you could recognize, but as the sentences grew longer and his signs faster, you gave up.

You had always assumed everything Spencer signed to you was something sweet. You’d smile, kiss him as a thank you, and forget about it, assuming he was complimenting you. That was until Derek caught Spencer in the act, signing something to you before the elevator doors closed in front of him, ready to head over to the lab for another case you were on. 

“My man,” Derek chuckled heartily, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Your brows furrowed, the smile that had lingered on your face moments before dropping instantly. “What?”

He kept laughing, not noticing the clear confusion you were in.

“Derek!” you said, giving a soft punch to his arm to catch his attention.

“Oh, you don’t-” He raised an eyebrow, pointing to you and the closed elevator doors before laughing even harder.

“Stop it!” You cried, getting embarrassed by the scene you were causing in the middle of the bullpen. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, pretty girl,” he started, taking a deep breath to recover, still grinning widely. “Pretty Boy over there should be getting the title of Dirty Boy from now on.”

Your mouth opened, then quickly closed when no words came out. “I don’t understand.”

Derek looked around the bullpen, finding no one near. Still, he leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand as he recited Spencer’s words to you.

You gasp, hand clutching your chest dramatically as if starring in a soap opera. “He didn’t,” you say in full disbelief.

“Oh, yes he did,” Morgan smirked in full pride.

“How would you even know that?”

“My buddy works at a youth center. I teach the kids football from time to time. Some speak ASL.”

You scoff. “Kids have taught you these words?”

Derek shrugs. “What can I say? It’s the dirty words that are most fun to learn.”

-`♡´-

You had struggled to think of anything else after that encounter, your mind wandering to every possible naughty sentence when Spencer signed to you from then on. It was frustrating, really, how he must be gleaming knowing you had no clue what he was saying. As long as he knows that you’re also up for a challenge. 

After work that day, you told Spencer you’d be home later, having to pick something up from a friend’s house. It wasn’t completely a lie — you had to pick something up, just from a different location. You parked your car in the parking lot in front of the public library, feeling like a criminal as you knocked on the glass doors. A woman in her late sixties greeted you, her kind beady eyes framed by thin glasses that hung low on her nose.

“You’re the one who called? From the FBI?”

You nodded, smiling. “Hi, yes, that’s me. I am so sorry to be bothering you at this hour, but we’ve got a killer on the loose, and it’s very urgent.”

The older woman cringed at the mention of a killer, muttering some words under her breath, and turned to grab an entire stack of books. You reached your hands out, accepting the heavy weight of the books, the title A Beginner’s Guide to ASL written on the top one. 

Her hand trembled lightly as she tapped the front cover. “This one comes with a DVD.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you for your help.”

“You better catch that bastard!” You nodded confidently in response as you turned on your heel.

-`♡´-

Unfortunately, Spencer was right: learning a new language as an adult was far from easy. Especially with the lack of time you had because of working a demanding job. You had to make do with the rare free weekends and some late nights during the week to study as much as possible.

You were tucked underneath a blanket on the couch, laptop in your lap, as you were watching a YouTube video Derek had recommended: “Sign Dirty to Me: A Guide to Dirty Talk in Sign Language”.”

“The next sentence we’ll be learning is ‘I want to give you a blowjob’.”

“A what?” 

You screeched, lifting yourself up on the couch at a speed that made the laptop fall on the ground with a thud. You mutter a string of curses as the video continues playing, using your foot to stomp the laptop shut.

“Jesus, Spencer, can’t you knock?”

You turn your body, spotting your boyfriend's tall figure leaning against the open bedroom door, an amused smile lingering on his lips. “I think you’ve forgotten that you’re in my house.”

You groan at his smug grin, trying to find an excuse. 

“What were you watching anyway?” He asks in curiosity before you could explain.

“Nothing!”

He takes a stride toward you, and you scramble from the couch to grab the laptop, holding it tight in your arms as a safety measure. Spencer leans on the plush frame of the couch, appearing rather relaxed as a gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were watching-”

“No!” You exclaim in offense.

“I wouldn’t mind it if you were.”

“I was not watching anything.”

The content look doesn’t fade from his face. He looks rather pleased by the scene you’re making. The tips of his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. Those damn fingers. “I don’t mind, angel. I would just offer you my help instead.”

You swallowed. He was distracting you, and you were not going to fall for his dirty ploys yet again. No way.

“I’m good,” you squeak, hurriedly standing up from the couch. You point at him while your other hand clutches your laptop. “I will go to the bedroom now, and you will stay here. Don’t even think about moving an inch.”

Your words were only making you sound more suspicious, but you didn’t care. It would be worth it in the end.

-`♡´-

Two weeks had passed since you and Derek had exposed Spencer’s dirty, little secret. Two weeks in which you had spent all your free time learning ASL. You had been nervous all morning while getting ready for work, trying to resist the urge to sign something to him. But you wanted to do it in the bullpen; you needed to see him get flustered in a crowd. 

Your fingers had been nervously tapping on your desk, eyeing Spencer at his desk opposite yours. You were waiting on Derek, who you had promised could be there for the “big moment”. 

“Where are we going?” Penelope’s voice sounded through the bullpen as Derek grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the desks. You throw your hands up in frustration, it wasn’t the plan to make it that big of a show. “Are you kidding me?” You mouth toward Derek.

“Now,” he mouths back as he stays at a safe distance against the far wall.

Here we go.

A single kick to Spencer’s shin was enough to grab his attention. “Ouch! What did you do that for?”

Biting down on your lip to hide your smile, you began moving your fingers, a little exaggeratedly, to make sure he understood. 

Look what new skill I learned.

Spencer beams, smiling brightly as the realization dawns upon him. “Hey! Since when did you know ASL?”

You don’t give him an answer right away, not wanting to get out of your flow, so you continue signing the variety of sentences you’ve learned, each one even dirtier than the last.

You knew you were doing a good job when a few snorts came from your right at certain words, Derek understanding what you were saying. Looking at Spencer confirmed it — his eyes stood wide open, red blotches of heat forming on his neck as his lips moved in a struggle to find the words.

Stop it. Right now. He eventually signed.

You grin, pride washing over you as you can understand him. This new method of communication truly opens up worlds.

But I mean it. You sign back.

He hides the small smile that forms on his face, tugging away a piece of hair before finding the courage to respond back to you.

What else would you like to do, then?

Penelope nudged Derek, looking puzzled. “What are they doing? Are they…? Oh my god, they’re trying to get in each other’s pants? Right in front of us?!”

Derek threw his head back laughing. “That’s right. They’re not so innocent anymore, huh?”

“But dirty talk is our thing!” Penelope protested.

Derek shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, baby girl, but they’re outdoing us.”

[mariasficrecs]

SBAJSBSIDNDINF

im obsessed with this and also obsessed with reader being so desperate to talk dirty with her boyfriend that she tells a librarian that there’s a serial killer on the loose and the one important book she needs is a beginner’s guide to asl 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 like girl pls

[reidrum]

purple lace bra

A/N: wish y'all could see the explosion that happened when i was listening to purple lace bra for the thousandth time and then saw that tattoo pic on twt. anyways. based on this post. p.s. do we like the new fic color layout pls say yes

summary: in which spencer knows better than to let you go home with a loser, which has nothing to do with his recent discovery of your tattoo. obviously.

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, p in v sex, oral (m receiving), enemies to lovers, brat tamer!spencer heheh

wc: 3.5k

The condensation dripping down his glass does nothing to quell the white hot emotion rising within Spencer. The death grip he has on it is about a few minutes away from bursting and shattering everywhere if he doesn’t find a way to calm himself down. That’s not in the cards for him however, not for as long as he keeps watching you across the bar talking to Ryan from cyber crimes.

He’s not supposed to feel this way about you. He’s not supposed to feel any way about you. The majority of your time together as coworkers is spent at each other’s necks with no room for logic, only malice.

But he sits at a table in O’Keefes, awkwardly hanging off the edge of the seat listening to Derek and Emily talk about god knows what.

You look very interested in your conversation from what Spencer can tell, your body language certainly shows it. You’re leaning in just a bit too close for comfort into Ryan, laughing loudly—and fakely—at Ryan’s dumb jokes. You don’t move away when Ryan lays a hand on your waist, tilting your head up so it’s a few inches from his.

“Reid,” Derek nudges him, “You’re going to break the glass, man.”

Spencer looks down at his white knuckled grip and instantly loosens up, intently watching the blood return to his hand. Derek’s smug smile doesn’t falter, “Got something on your mind, pretty boy?”

Emily follows his gaze across the bar to where you stand with Ryan and chuckles, “Or someone?”

He immediately looks back at the table, “No. Nothing.”

“Very convincing, but it might be less effort to just you know. Get up and go talk to her.” Emily teases.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” she winks at him, “but in case a small part of you does know what I’m talking about, I’d say you have about five minutes before she goes home with him.”

He attempts to shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t care.”

Derek and Emily share a knowing look and return to their previous conversation, deciding to let the boy genius stew in his stubbornness. Spencer slowly brings his gaze back to you, except he doesn’t find you uncomfortablely close to Ryan anymore. No, where he finds you is arguably much worse for him.

You’d decided your drink needed a refresher he assumes—why Ryan couldn’t be bothered to get you another drink he’ll never understand—but Spencer lets his eyes trail the expanse of the bar top to find you waiting to flag the bartender down. You’re leaned against the counter, bent slightly at the waist and hips jutting outwards. A compromising but seemingly normal position, however Spencer’s eyes catch something from the raise of your top exposing your lower back. His throat all but nearly dries once he registers what it is.

Raised ink on the swell of your lower back, a tattoo.

Lucky you.

It takes all the restraint in him to not get up abruptly and walk over to you, that is not what he wants. That is not how he’s thinking about you—he doesn’t think about you like that. He’ll settle in his own lie and deny that for all his days, but his resolve grows smaller each second he finds Ryan eyeing the same discovery he’s made.

Ryan isn’t even your type, not that he knows or even cares what your type is, he knows it at least isn’t that man. You like to be challenged, to be tested. Spencer doesn’t even need to be within earshot to know that Ryan is playing the perfect ‘yes man’ listener to you in hopes you’ll go home with him.

Spencer is fairly confident you won’t, but your body language hasn’t changed and you lean in much closer to him after your refill.

The breaking point is when he watches Ryan place his hand on your lower back—over Spencer’s treasured discovery—as he begins to guide you towards the exit.

That’s all it took for him.

Spencer doesn’t think when he bolts out of his chair and speeds over to you, barely registering the “Atta boy.” from Derek as he gets farther from their table towards you.

Your eyes widen as Spencer all but crashes into you, “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” he tries to regain his balance, “Fine yeah, um. Sorry, but we just got called in.”

“For a case?—” you question.

“I thought you guys were off. We were just about to head out.” Ryan interjects. Ugh.

“Contrary to popular belief, serial killers actually don’t abide by a schedule Ryan. So if you don’t mind, we’ll just be heading out on our own.” 

“But—“

You eye Spencer for a second, trying to figure out the angle he’s playing. Emily and Derek haven’t moved from their seats yet the empty glasses around them grow by the minute. Not to mention you would have gotten a text from Hotch or JJ if there was a case, and your phone hasn’t so much as buzzed in the last hour. 

But then you really look at Spencer, and you take note of his clenched fists, the slight heavy breathing. The vein on his neck popping out with pulsations. He’s mad, you conclude. About what, you’re not too sure. 

You pull out your phone and fake react to the blank screen, “Oh gosh, thanks for telling me I almost didn’t see this. Maybe next time, Ryan?”

Spencer smirks to himself as Ryan grumbles something incoherently and maybe offensive to the BAU before sulking away while you let out a soft giggle.

“So…I take it there is no case.”

At this point Spencer realizes the consequences of his rash actions, and has no idea how to explain to you why he warded this man off of you like he was an omen of evil.

He clears his throat, “Um, no. No case, sorry you just looked like you needed help.”

You cross your arms, “I find it hard to believe you wanted to help me with something.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you never want anything good for me unless there’s something in it for you.”

Caught red handed. “There’s nothing in it for me, I think you’re overreacting.”

“And I think you’re displacing your emotions,” you step closer, your voice dropping an octave, “I could feel you staring at me, you know. When I was at the bar.”

He gulps, “I—I wasn’t…”

You step closer so you’re nearly chest to chest, “So I’m going to ask you again. Tell me what it is you want.”

You’re so close to him he can still smell the spritzer on your lips, the maraschino cherry you ate with it coloring them an inviting hue that Spencer isn’t sure he can hold off not tasting for any longer. 

For the second time tonight, his actions move faster than his brain as you’re suddenly being dragged through the crowd and towards the back of the bar. You think you’re headed for the storage closet but he makes a bee line for the bathroom next to it at the w minute, which is thankfully unlocked.

He tugs you inside and shuts the door behind you before pressing you against the back of it, “I know what you’re doing.”

Your confused face morphs into one of knowing, “And what am I doing, Spencer?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Play dumb? I know you don’t think so highly of me,” he presses your hips against the door harder in anger, “If you want something from me, all you have to do is ask.”

“There isn’t anything from you that I could possibly want.”

Oh, he wants you to push his buttons. “Yeah? That’s why you dragged me into the bathroom after lying to Ryan so I wouldn’t go home with him?”

“You wouldn’t have liked it, I know you.”

You grin wickedly, “Oh, you know me? Should I…thank you? For you know, saving me from a treacherous night with Ryan?”

“I don’t care what you do—“

Your hands drag down to the buckle of his belt, the light pressure feeling a million times heavier as Spencer’s breath hitches at the contact. 

“You don’t?” you pout, ghosting over the outline of his bulge.

His body stills entirely as you continue to undo the belt loop, agonizingly sliding it out and running your hands down the sides of his hips. Spencer isn’t sure what to do. He doesn’t think about you like this, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder what it would be like to have you writhing beneath him, hearing you scream his name in ecstasy. The different ways he would fuck the attitude out of you whenever you defied him, how he would shut your little mouth up whenever it ran just a little too much.

Spencer’s eyes darken as realizes the opportunity in front of him, soon to be below him. He gulps, “Y—You know what I want.”

You coo, tracing your lips up hips neck to the crest of his ear, “Oh but Spencer, I thought I was dumb. You might have to spell it out for little ole me.”

Christ help him. “On your knees.”

You giggle and sink to your knees, running your hands up his sides to his belt buckle and pants button to undo them. You peel the fabric of his pants back to expose his boxers, nearly salivating at the wet patch forming in the middle. You slip a hand inside and gently palm him through the fabric, he inhales sharply and grasps the sink counter in front of him for balance.

You finally put him out of his misery and take him out of his boxers, your pout returning again seeing how angry and red his tip is. “Spencer, this looks painful. Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn I could’ve helped you out earlier.”

“If you weren’t always fucking talking nonsense at work, maybe I would’ve.”

“Now,” you tsk, wrapping your fingers around him and gently giving him a single stroke, “that’s no way to talk to someone about to give you head.”

He all but whimpers, “F—Fuck, please can you just…”

“Ask me nicely.” you look up at him doe eyed, lazily stroking him.

You’re going to be the death of him, and it’s starting to look like the most promising way to go out.

“Will you please—shit—please can you just, suck me off?”

You don’t respond but simply lean in close to his base to lick a stripe to the top, swirling your tongue around his tip before you hollow your cheeks out and lower your mouth on him.

“Oh fuck,” he whines, his hand moving to grab your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you take him whole. He can feel himself hit the back of your throat as you gag in response, another guttural moan leaving him.

You continue to bob your head up and down on his length as you feel his hand on your head subconsciously begin to guide your movements on his own.

“Why are you so good at this,” he moans, “It’s because you never shut up, huh? All you do is run your mouth and there’s no one to keep you in check.”

You hum pathetically around him, sending vibrations through his body. He almost misses the hand you’ve snaked between your legs to touch yourself, “Look at you, just couldn’t help yourself? If i’d known this was all it would take to keep you quiet I would’ve had you on your knees for me ages ago.”

He can feel your throat distend in response to his crude words, and like a man depraved he instinctively bucks his hips into your mouth. In any other instance he would feel bad, he should feel bad. But he finds that feeling hard to come by as your eyes water to the tear line and you just look so pretty stuffed in the mouth full of him. Spencer has never heard you be so quiet whilst in the same room as him, and he’s becoming very fond of the new method he just discovered to keep you subdued.

Spencer’s thrusts into your mouth become erratic and sloppy, and you can tell he’s getting close. In no world did you think sucking Spencer Reid off would be this enjoyable, and yet you’re already mourning the moment he pulls out of your mouth. You pull back slightly to be able to speak, “Want you to cum in my mouth, please.”

That’s all Spencer needed to thrust a final time into your mouth and spill himself all down your throat. He’s in awe as he watches you take it whole, making sure you don’t miss a single drop and milk out every last bit from him. You pull him out with a grand sigh, your head leaning back about to hit the bottom edge of the sink counter before Spencer releases the makeshift ponytail he has on you to use his hand to pad the impact.

“You okay?” he pants.

You nod, “Yeah, you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Come here.”

He helps you up from the floor and doesn’t give you time to adjust before he pounces on you, attacking your lips as he holds your body as impossibly close to him as he can. “Didn’t take you for someone who swallows.” he mutters in between kisses.

“Clearly there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Spencer chuckles, his hands beginning to wander again, “I’ll say.”

His fingers brush over the letters on your lower back, you let out a sharp gasp and pull back as he continues to press kisses down your neck, “How did you know—“

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you had a tattoo here. All this time I’m forced to spend with you, you think I’d notice at some point.” he mumbles.

“Well I don’t exactly show it off.”

“Shame, I think I’d be willing to hear you out a lot more if you did.”

“That so?” you tease, “Is that why you were staring daggers at me at the bar?”

“No, I was wondering why you would get a tattoo there of all places,” he whispers, “then I realized.”

“Why?”

“You want to be bent over and fucked like a whore, don’t you?”

You’re near speechless, “I—I…that’s not—“

He turns your body around with a force and bends you over the sink counter, a smirk forming as it reminds him of how you were positioned at the bar. His hands shrug down your jeans and panties, “Don’t ask for things you can’t handle, princess.”

You look at him through the mirror, “I can handle it.”

Spencer puts his hips out to meet the back of yours, his length imprinting between your ass, “I’m sure you can, baby.” He pushes the edge of your top further up to expose the ink on your lower back, thumbing the letters once again as they glare back at him tauntingly.

Lucky you.

He chuckles to himself before angling at your entrance, “Lucky me.”

The feel of him filling you up causes you both to moan in tandem, you hadn’t expected Spencer to be reaching places you didn’t even know existed.

Your forearms brace you against the sink counter as you try to hold yourself up, with every inch he enters you rendering you more and more defenseless. 

Spencer lets out a shaky whimper once he bottoms out, “Fu—uck, you’re so tight.”

“Sorry, it’s um. It’s been a minute.” you breathe out.

“That’s okay, baby. Tell me when you’re ready.”

You squeeze around him subconsciously at his tenderness as he lets out a strangled groan. “I—I’m okay, you can move.”

He meets your eyes in the mirror, “You sure?”

“Please move. Now.” you plead.

Spencer drags his hips back slowly before reentering you at the same pace, soft moans spilling out of you the entire way. Once he feels the resistance inside you fall he picks up his pace and starts thrusting into you like a man determined.

Your hips begin to meet his thrusts back on his hips as he continues to hit deep within you, “Spence…” you babble, “feels so good.”

“Yeah? You think Ryan could make you feel like this?”

You moan languishly, unable to form words as his pace picks up even faster.

He jams his hips into you and stops, “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck, please don’t stop.” you whine.

“Then tell me, could Ryan make you feel like this?” he slowly begins to move his hips again.

“N—No, no he can’t.”

His thrusts become harder and faster, “Who’s making you feel like this, baby?”

“You! You Spencer please, I’m going to cum I—“

He ruts into you even faster, his hand threading around to touch your clit, “Say it again.”

“Only you can make me feel this good, Spence, no one else.” you murmur, “Please.”

Spencer would say that was satisfactory. “Cum.”

Your orgasm hits you like a wave crashing down, hard and moving everywhere into every crevice it can find. Your nerve endings are on fire as he continues to fuck you through your high, endless moans and babbles pouring out of you.

Spencer reaches his high not long after, the incessant clenching around him being his breaking point. He groans loudly as he spills himself into you for the second time this night, making sure he’s fucked every last drop inside of you. His pace finally falters and slows down, gently pulling himself out of you. He grabs tissues from the dispenser nearby and delicately cleans you up.

“Shit, that was—” you say as you try to catch your breath.

“Yeah. That was.” he helps you up from the sink counter, kneeling down to help you put your pants and panties back on securely. He stands up to his full height and holds your face square in his hands, holding you to press a firm kiss against your lips that quickly turns into kisses all over your face.

You giggle, “What, you’re all nice to me now because I let you hit?”

He groans again, “Don’t say it like that, it makes me sound like an ass.”

“You kind of were. An ass, that is.” you joke.

“For a reason that you probably are aware of now.” he jests back.

You pretend to look deep in thought, “I don’t know, I think I might need more convincing.”

“That can be arranged,” he leans in to kiss you soundly again when the sound of both your phones ringing startles you. He pulls his phone out, “Oh my god, we actually have a case.”

“You jinxed it!” you laugh, “Guess we really have to go now.”

Now Spencer looks deep in thought as he turns his phone on do not disturb before taking your phone and doing the same thing, sliding them to the end of the sink counter, “Well, I don’t think they’ll miss us for another ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? Ambitious.”

“What can I say, I love a challenge.”

[mariasficrecs]

“Look at you, just couldn’t help yourself? If i’d known this was all it would take to keep you quiet I would’ve had you on your knees for me ages ago.”

you— you— i— when—

my brain is empty rn no thoughts just spencer being an ass to me while he rails me !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! im sick !!!!!! i hate him !!!!!! i need him so bad !!!!!!!

arya idk how u do it !!!!! genius

[gold-onthe-inside]

gala

who? spencer reid (season 7) x fem!reader summary: when you need a date for a gala in DC, there's only one person you're willing to call on, and spencer has to make it known how hard it is to restrain himself around you, especially in that dress. word count: 2.4k content warnings: munch!spencer, spencer calls r ma'am and sweetheart, r wears a red silk dress, no use of y/n, 18+ minors dni a/n: can you tell i stole the gradient idea from @mggslover? thank you for enabling me tonight bby <3 check out more mayor!reader here

You hadn’t meant to call him — debating it in business class with your entourage settled in around you. The press secretary insists that it’s bad PR to go to the gala alone, held in honour of the city officials of California after some of the worst wildfires you’ve seen in history. The thought makes you uncomfortable, especially with the kinds of dresses that have been packed for you.

Still, you think, at least I’m not giving a speech. Even if the realisation that you wouldn’t be getting any airtime at the gala had made the PR team livid. And having passed the midpoint of your second term made it worse, knowing that the next target was a governorship. As much as it made your skin crawl, the team had pulled together an elaborate set-up in the wake of the fires, propping you up to give one of the best speeches of your career, rallying first responders and the neighbourhood.

The handwritten letters had been your idea, personally writing to grieving members of your community, and the people had taken to social media, making you one of the highest rated city officials in the state over your response to the fires. The fact that public rating hadn’t been the point went over everyone’s heads.

Part of you is tired of this — of the constant hovering, checking your angles, turning you into the perfect doll. It’s a halter-top dress, red silk hugging your waist, and matching heels that are gonna be murder at the end of the evening, hair swept into a chic bun to show off pearl earrings. Perfectly put-together for the camera.

You’re going over the itinerary of the evening when he knocks on your door, already ajar, and stepped inside, closing it behind him, wearing a tuxedo, the bow-tie slightly wonky — something that would give your press secretary a heart attack. His lips parted a little at the sight of you, hazel eyes tracing the outline of your dress, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, mustering the courage to meet your eyes. “Hi,” he said meekly at your apologetic smile.

“Hey,” you murmured, slightly out of breath already. The last time you’d seen him had been in your car, dropping him off at the airfield, leaving you with a lingering kiss that had you staring into space for a minute before you were sober enough to drive back. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” you started, having practiced what you were gonna say in the bathroom mirror.

“I’m glad you called,” he assured you, feet finally moving towards you.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you murmured. “Some public spectacle because ratings say I look better on someone’s arm—”

“You look amazing,” he rushed to cut you off, hand twitching with the effort of not touching you. And just like that, three words rendered you speechless, colour rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the make-up artist’s blush.

“Thank you,” you managed, taking an infinitesmally small step to correct his tie. His eyes never leave you, nor do you want them to, as you smoothed down the lapels of his tux.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he confessed, it taking every ounce of effort and willpower not to just reach out and touch you.

“I’m pretty sure Maria would kill you if you did,” you murmured, looking up at him, the corner of your lip curling up in a smile.

“It’d be worth it,” he whispered, unable to help himself as he slid his hand over your waist, leaning in closer, watching your pretty eyes close with his proximity.

“We really shouldn’t,” you whispered back, and you’re gonna need a chaperone at this point to make sure there’s at least a foot between you both.

“What if I can make it so noone needs to know?” Spencer asked, nose nudging yours a smile playing on his lips. His grip was growing firmer, more confident, guiding you to the nearest surface, but loose and slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted to, and the next thing you know, you’re pressed against the writing desk. His hand cupped one side of your neck, nose trailing over your cheek as his lips found purchase on the other side, just under your ear, the faintest swipe of his tongue electrifying your skin. Your head hung limply, betraying your logic as he overwhelmed you completely. “Need to hear a yes, sweetheart,” he whispered, a slight rasp to his voice.

“Y-Yes,” you whispered and his lips drifted lower, careful to keep you as pristine as your team had left you. His hand dragged under the hem of your thigh, sliding over the outside before gently lifting you up, setting you on the desk, slotting between your knees.

“Christ, I missed you so much,” he whispered, dragging his callused finger tips over your thighs. “Want to kiss you so badly.” He's so careful, so gentle, but you can tell he's holding back, his breaths turning just a little ragged and his grip becoming a little possessive. Spencer's so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, the hand on your thigh sliding up, just under the silk. Your heart's pounding so hard it's a wonder he can't feel it, and there isn't a damn thing you can do but watch as his nose brushes over your jaw.

Your hands gripped his forearm, fingers digging in when he finds the hem of your panties, lifting your hips ever so slightly in permission. He dragged the lace fabric down, simultaneously using his foot to hook around the chair to bring it closer so he can sit between your knees, looking up at you.

The room is eerily silent apart from your heavy breaths, and he's looking up at you with a heady mix of desire and reverence, before his mouth drags over the inside of your knee. His other hand slides over your hip, gripping you tight, as he slowly, so slowly, plants warm, wet kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"Fuck," you breathed out, elongating the word, gripping the edge of the table to hold onto some semblance of cognitive function. But one look at Spencer between your thighs, marking up soft skin, robs you of any of that.

He can feel the heat radiating from you as his nose trails over the sensitive skin, and his tongue darts out for a split second, before his mouth is back, leaving a trail of bruises along your trembling thighs.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, and even he's surprised at the amount of want in his voice. "You're killing me here."

You want to laugh, but it's strangled in your throat. "I'm killing you?" you scoffed in quiet disbelief.

"You should see yourself right now," he murmured, glancing up at you beneath his eyelashes, but the view is too tempting, and he couldn't help but kiss his way up past your knee, hands cupping your calves. "You're so close to me, and I can't even kiss you because of that stupid, stupid makeup. I'd kiss you so hard, sweetheart. You've no idea," he voiced, punctuating random syllables with open-mouthed kisses.

Your heart jumped at the rasp in his voice, the sheer extent of his desire, and you believe him, so much that you have to shift uncomfortably, clearly needing him to relieve you. He noticed the restless movement, the way the muscles in your thighs tensed, and his mouth curled up in a faint smirk.

"You want something, sweetheart?" he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, so close to where you wanted him. He was trying to keep his voice steady, his composure, although it was quickly crumbling.

"You're being cruel," you whispered.

He chuckled, the sound low and rasped against your skin, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your heated skin. He was close, so close, to where you needed him, but he was holding back, drawing it out. "Me? Cruel?" he echoed, his breath ghosted over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "You're the one sitting up there, all dolled up for the cameras, driving me insane."

"Hardly on purpose!" Your protest comes out as a childish whine. "I'm just trying to do my job."

Spencer hummed, hands reaching your hips and pulling you close to the edge of the desk. “May I, ma’am?” he asked, smirking from below you, fingers already tracing the edge of your panties and you screwed up your lips, trying not to smile at the title as you nodded, tucking strands of hair behind your ear. Your hips complied to his pull, red lace coming down to your ankles, then disappearing into his pocket.

Before you can come up with something smart to say, his head dipped under the red silk, and Christ, his tongue has your knuckles whiten, fingers digging into the desk. It’s a sharp flick that has you mewling already. The tip of his tongue swirls around your clit so lightly, it’s all you can do not to gasp and push his face closer. Your hips twitch and squirm, already so sensitive from his lightest touch, only his hands keep you still with a firmness he never had before.

“Spencer,” is all you manage to breathe out, and his voice is too muffled. You never get to ask him to repeat, the flat of his tongue parting your folds, running over your centre and wrapped his lips around your clit like he was making out with your cunt. It was all you could do to stop yourself from pulling at his hair, breathy gasps turning into soft whines as he played around with a rhythm, finding one that worked for you, and going crazy with it.

Your thighs threatened to close in on him, only for firm, vein-riddled hands to push them wide. Your grip on the table gives out as he coaxes you to your peak, landing on your elbows with a quiet thud, a fuzzy sting that rivals the fuzziness in your head. Your hips attempt to jerk closer to him, and his arms have to wrap around your thighs to keep you still, making your frustration so much worse, your sheer helplessness to his onslaught making you needier. “Please,” you gasped, needing release. How did his jaw not hurt at this point?

His lips wrapped around your clit, nose rubbing against it, tongue sliding lower, lapping against your entrance. You’re almost sobbing when he eases two fingers into your cunt, curling deep, crooking and finding a slow but hard rhythm that has you clenching around him — almost desperate. You’re barely holding on, legs shaking around him. “Please, Spence, I’m–“ but you can’t form any more words, so close, just teetering at the edge, his fingers still going and his mouth still going and it’s just too much. “Please, please,” you whine out, desperate for relief, trying so hard not to pull on his hair.

His fingers curled, seeking that one spot, the one that had you trembling against him. Your voice rose in pitch, nearly cracking, words turning back into mewls and moans. Your hips jerked desperately, seeking more that he was just barely keeping from you, and your eyes fluttered shut, the heat in your core growing impossibly tight, threatening to spill over. He didn't show any signs of letting up, the relentless rhythm he had set up driving you to the brink. "Please, Spence, I’m so close," you begged, and he could hear the tension in your voice, the desperation, the need that mirrored his own.

His fingers curled, finding that sensitive spot inside you, his tongue flicking over your clit with perfect pressure. You could feel yourself trembling on the edge of your orgasm, and he knew exactly what you needed. "Please," you gasped again, and he pressed against that spot in response, feeling your body tense up even more. He could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, before relaxing entirely, your body going boneless as relief warms your entire body.

Spencer takes a breath before lapping your cunt clean, at a slow and leisured pace, sliding his fingers out. Silk fell away from his face, draping your lap as he pulled away, watching you catch your breath. The air was heavy with the smell of arousal, the taste of you still on his lips and the fingers that he licked clean. Your breathing slowly returned to normal, the tension fading from your body. He couldn't help but admire the sight of you, completely undone, your figure draped in red silk, the usually composed and articulate city official now utterly wrecked. It was a sight he could easily get used to.

“You… I don’t— how are you so good at that?” you asked, breathlessly, looking at him in awe as he stood between your thighs.

“With a lot of self-restraint,” he admitted, making you huff, shaking your head. You moved your hands to straighten his bow-tie, well aware of your proximity to him, your hands smoothing down the lapels of his tuxedo, and the door to your room opened up.

“Car’s waiting for you downstairs, Madam Mayor,” your assistant reported, her clear gaze not missing the proximity between you and Spencer and barely restraining a smirk. “Dr Reid,” she added in acknowledgement, Spencer raising a hand to greet her with a sheepish smile and then the door closes, leaving you both alone for a moment.

You let out a sigh, slipping off the table, smoothing down your dress as Spencer watched you. His gaze never left you as you composed yourself, straightening your dress and fixing your hair, transforming back into the poised city official in a matter off seconds. The transition was almost seamless, but he couldn't help noticing the slight redness on your cheeks, the remnants of your earlier activities.

Spencer's heart, after spending the last few moments going at a pace that would've concerned a cardiologist, finally began to settle. He had been reckless, and perhaps a little selfish. But as he watched you, he couldn't bring himself to regret a thing. “This is gonna be a long night,” you murmured under your breath, taking his arm. He couldn’t help but agree.

comments and reblogs always appreciated xoxo

[mariasficrecs]

saw my name and perked up so fast u don’t even know LOL

but this was soooooooo good. reader being a mayor? GIRLBOSS!!!!!!! and spencer calling her maam? shewwwww i almost died i think. gasping for air actually

[minswriting]

Tongue Tied - A.H x Reader x S.R

About: Spencer has never been edged before and when the idea arises, you and Aaron are more than happy to help. But…the idea gets abandoned when Spencer gets head instead.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, dom!hotch, dom!reader, sub!spencer, edging, hands tied together, slight degradation, praise, handjobs, oral (m), aaron gives spencer a blowjob, making out, etc.

Word Count: 2.0k

A/N: border is made by @cafekitsune !! also i do NOT ship hotchreid. i am just a whore and love the idea of threesomes where they explore their dynamic together. if you don’t like, just don’t read or comment!! not proof read because i’m lazy

One of the best parts about being in a new sexual relationship is being able to explore all possibilities regarding sex. There are endless ways to find pleasure and to see what is right for you. And Spencer, being the person who is extremely new to sex, was excited to learn it all. He has read about many different things, but reading is never like the true thing. And the one thing that has been on his mind lately was being unable to move his hands while he gets edged.

And so, when Spencer suggested it to you and Aaron, you were both more than happy to oblige. Which is how Spencer ended up on the bed, hands tied together in his lap using Aaron’s tie with his back against your chest and Aaron sitting between his legs. Aaron’s hand was wrapped around Spencer’s cock, stroking it teasingly slow. Spencer looked at Aaron, seeing the way the older man was watching Spencer’s reactions.

“Oh-“ Spencer moaned, hips bucking upward when Aaron swiped his thumb over Spencer’s tip. You wrapped an arm around Spencer’s waist, pressing kisses along his neck.

“Don’t be greedy,” Aaron tsked, smearing around the precum that had already leaked from Spencer’s tip.

Spencer whimpered, leaning his head back against your shoulder.

“You always make such pretty noises, Spencer,” You murmured into his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

Aaron began properly stroking Spencer’s cock, pumping his hand up and down in a rhythmic manner. The change in pace made Spencer get louder, as he didn’t shy away from making noise. “Oh my god,” Spencer breathed, licking his lips as he closed his eyes from the pleasure.

That familiar heat formed inside him as his cock stiffened in Aaron’s hand. And just as he was about to cum, Aaron completely stopped, causing Spencer to whimper from the lack of contact, as Aaron placed his hands on Spencer’s thighs instead.

“How was that?” You asked, kissing Spencer’s jawline. “Think you’re good to go again?”

“Uh-huh,” Spencer said, nodding his head enthusiastically.

This time, you reached your hand around Spencer, the other one still wrapped around his waist, and grabbed his cock, replacing Aaron’s hand. You began stroking him slowly, eliciting a whine of pleasure from Spencer. “You’re so handsome,” you murmured into his ear.

Aaron maneuvered himself so that he was lying down on his stomach, his face between Spencer’s thighs as he began to kiss along the inside of them. The feather-like kisses caused Spencer to jolt as he tried to reach for Aaron’s head but ultimately could not because his hands were tied. Spencer moaned as the pleasure from your hand around his cock and Aaron’s kisses caused the heat to build inside of him again.

“Oh fuck,” Spencer mewled, moving his hips upwards to meet your hand.

Aaron placed his hands on Spencer’s waist, holding him down. He stopped his kisses to look at the younger man. “You’re being too greedy,” He said, voice velvety as he spoke. “Greedy whores don’t get to cum.”

“Please,” Spencer gasped out. “I'm so close.”

“No, baby,” You cooed in Spencer’s ear, pumping him just as he was about to cum before completely removing your hand, causing Spencer to whine once more. “You don’t get to cum until we tell you to,” You said before running your tongue along his pulse point. Spencer shivered from the feeling, a gasp escaping his lips when you suck on the skin, leaving a mark.

Spencer was breathing heavily as he tried to calm down. He looked down at Aaron, watching as the older man kissed all over his thighs. Spencer’s cock was so red and angry, begging to be touched and allowed the chance to cum. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen quite yet. He couldn’t help but think about the possibility of Aaron giving him a blowjob. Due to this dynamic being relatively new, the two men still had yet to explore much with one another. And yet, Spencer was not opposed to anything.

“What’s on your mind, Spence?” You asked in his ear, your voice sultry. “Aaron is kissing you so nicely. Would be so nice if he kissed your cock too, hmm?”

Spencer’s breath hitched at your words, his cheeks pinked at the fact that you had practically read his mind. He nodded his head, not trusting his voice.

“If you want something, Spencer, you need to use your words,” Aaron softly commanded as he stopped kissing Spencer’s thighs, looking up at the boy with his dark brown eyes.

“He’s right, baby,” You murmured, putting a hand on Spencer’s cheek and turning his face to look at you. “You need to use your words if you want something.”

“I-” Spencer stopped himself, suddenly feeling a bit shy. He looked at you from this weird angle. “I want-” He stopped himself once more.

“Go on,” you encouraged, caressing Spencer’s cheek.

“I want Aaron to-”

“To what?” You asked.

“Blow me,” He whispered.

Aaron hummed as if he were pondering Spencer’s words. “I think that if you want me to do something, Spencer, you’ll need to ask me directly rather than telling our darling,” He chided, his tone chastising but soft as he spoke.

Spencer looked back down at Aaron with doe eyes, his mind going hazy as he tried to formulate the words to the older man. Spencer whined as he tried to gather his thoughts but he was hard. “C-can you please,” he began, taking a shaky breath. “Give me a blow job?” he whispered the last part, as if scared to use his voice.

Aaron gave Spencer a mocking look with a smirk on his lips. “There you go,” he said teasingly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He asked though Aaron didn’t expect an answer. Instead, Aaron wrapped his big hand around Spencer’s cock, giving it a few strokes.

You watched over Spencer’s shoulder, not wanting to miss anything. Your older boyfriend was about to blow your other boyfriend. And god, that was going to be so hot to see. You almost felt perverted for being here at this moment, but the number of times Aaron watched Spencer when he’d go down on you or when Aaron was fingering you would be much more than you cared to admit. So really, it wasn’t that perverted.

Aaron leaned his face in, licking a strip from the base of Spencer’s cock to the tip, causing the poor boy to whimper from the feeling. The older man swirled his tongue around the tip to tease Spencer. Spencer gasped and let out a choked moan, unable to take his eyes off of Aaron.

You cooed in Spencer’s ear. “Isn’t he so great?” You purred, turning Spencer’s face towards you as you gripped his chin.

“Y-yes,” Spencer gasped as Aaron took Spencer’s cock in his mouth, going all the way down Spencer’s length without gagging. Something that none of you knew that Aaron could do, by the way.

You hummed, a small smirk gracing your lips. The sight was beautiful, to say the least. Aaron’s brown eyes fixated on you, glistening and beautiful, as he had Spencer’s cock in his mouth. You couldn’t help the wink you gave Aaron before turning your attention back to Spencer. “You’re doing so good for us,” You murmured, pressing your lips to the corner of Spencer’s lips. “Maybe we’ll let you cum this time.”

“Please?” Spencer rasped out, bucking his hips to the idea. Aaron made a noise around Spencer’s cock, gripping the genius’ thigh in warning.

You chuckled, not responding to Spencer’s plea as you gently placed your lips on his, crooking your neck in a weird way to properly kiss him. Spencer kissed you back, the two of you moving your lips in sync. As you two kissed, Aaron continued his ministrations, bobbing his head up and down Spencer’s length. He hollowed his cheeks, causing Spencer’s lips to part as a whine escaped. You took the opportunity to use your tongue to explore Spencer’s mouth.

The room was filled with the wet sound of Spencer’s cock in Aaron’s mouth and Spencer’s muffled noises as he moaned in your mouth. The two of you pulled away from the kiss as Spencer felt himself getting closer. “Holy shit,” he moaned, turning his attention back to Aaron. “I’m so close. I’m so close, oh my god,” he threw his head back against your shoulder, his chest moving up and down rapidly.

“What do you think, Aaron,” You cooed, your gaze switching between Spencer and Aaron. “Are you going to let our sweet boy cum in your mouth?”

When Aaron’s head came up, he popped Spencer’s cock out of his mouth, replacing it with his hand but didn’t move it. “I don’t know,” Aaron replied, his voice a bit hoarse. “Does he deserve it?” He asked, looking directly at you, speaking as if Spencer weren’t there.

Spencer whined. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please let me cum. I’ll be so good for you, please,” He begged, tearing up as he wished to finally release what has been building all night. His cock was so red and angry, and his balls felt heavy. He just wanted so badly to cum.

You couldn’t help but take pity on Spencer, a look of mock sympathy on your face. “Look at him, Aaron,” you cooed. “So needy and desperate. Perhaps we should let him finally cum.”

Aaron hummed, pretending as though he were thinking about it before sighing in defeat. “I suppose we should,” He replied as he placed Spencer’s cock back into his mouth, going straight back to the rhythm he had built before.

Spencer gasped and let out a choked moan as his cock was engulfed by Aaron’s mouth once more. “Aaron,” Spencer moaned, breathing heavily.

“Do you feel good, sweetheart?” You asked, once more placing kisses along Spencer’s neck. “Gonna cum soon?”

Spencer nodded his head pathetically as the prettiest noises left his mouth. He turned his head to look at you, his doe brown eyes glistening with tears of pleasure. “So close,” he whimpered to you, licking his lips.

“My sweet boy,” You said, looking at Spencer. “Go ahead and cum for us, yeah? You did so good, my good boy.”

The praise was all Spencer needed before his toes curled as he bucked his hips, pressing his cock further into Aaron’s mouth as he began cumming. The feeling of Spencer burying his cock further caused Aaron to choke for a second but he quickly relaxed and swallowed, sucking Spencer through his orgasm while you continued to murmur praises in Spencer’s ear.

And when Spencer finished, Aaron pulled off of his cock, leaving a trail of saliva and cum. Aaron licked his lips, looking at both you and Spencer as he sat up, the bulge prominent in the confines of his slacks.

You couldn’t help but grin as you kissed Spencer’s cheek. “I think you should return the favor while I sit on his face. What do you think?” You asked.

Spencer, in his post-orgasmic bliss, simply grinned goofily and nodded. “I think that would be best,” he rasped in agreement.

And so, the rest of the night was spent with you sitting on Aaron’s face as he ate you out while Spencer sucked Aaron off. That night, Spencer got to explore much more than just simply being edged and he adored it entirely.

[mariasficrecs]

RAAAAAAAAAAA

im bouncing off the walls right now

u sure did do the damn thing and u did it fantastically

it’s even better than the first time i read it im foaming at the mouth

[alinathinkstoomuch]

BEST WORST DATE EVER

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader summary: you finally score a date with your favourite FBI agent but none of it goes to plan. warnings | an: everything that could possibly go wrong goes wrong, reader wears dress, heels & makeup, reader also has hair rollers in for a sec, fluff, the usual romcom feels, kissing in the rain, two fools falling in love. word count: 4.2k

✧ masterlist | pt. one pt. two pt. three

Finally, after literal weeks, the stars – or, more accurately, the schedules – had aligned, and you had a date booked in your diary, with the only FBI agent who had ever made you forget how to spell your own name. Aaron Hotchner. The man who singlehandedly caused your brain to malfunction whenever he so much as breathed in your direction, or replied to your texts with perfect punctuation and no smiley faces.

This was it.

Date of the year. Date of the century. There would be bubbles, stolen glances, banter so electric it could power a small city or the entire FBI headquarters. Delicious food you wouldn’t even taste because, let’s be honest, who could chew in the presence of Aaron Hotchner looking at you like that?

All you had to do was get ready.

And you had. For three hours.

The dress was flawless – not even out on the racks yet – paired with colour-coordinated heels (obviously). Your feel-good playlist was echoing through the apartment, every song making your soul shimmy a little harder. You were glowing – literally, thanks to a brand-new highlighter and the sheer power of giddy excitement.

The evening itself? Divine. A soft summer night, the sky painted in dreamy strokes of orange and lavender. The breeze was so perfect, you had opened every window just so it could slip and wrap around your apartment.  It was giving beach house in the Hamptons – if the Hamptons had rush-hour traffic and someone aggressively yelling downstairs. Still, you’d take what you could get.

The night had started out on such a high that you chose to completely ignore the literal kink in your hair from a rogue roller that, for the first time ever, had gotten stuck. Like, really stuck. You had pulled. You had pleaded. You had given it a stern talking-to. Nothing worked.

So you yanked it free, wincing at the small collection of sacrificed strands now floating to the floor like sad little snowflakes. Whatever, you had told yourself, fluffing the misbehaving section. This just gave you an excuse to finally try that overpriced hair mask hiding at the back of your vanity. Self-care, right?

Crisis managed (ish), you turned to your dress – still hanging like royalty on its satin hanger, just waiting to be slipped into. It slid on like a dream, hugging every curve like it had been custom-made for your body and your body only. Which, technically, it had. A little tailoring here, a few adjustments there – you’d poured hours into making sure it was the dress. All that was left now? Zip. It. Up.

Which would’ve been a total breeze if you weren’t doing this solo.

“If you were a little taller, Gus, you’d be able to put those paws to good use,” you sighed, glancing down at your dachshund, who blinked up at you like you were insane. 

With Gus officially out of the running for Most Helpful Roommate, you took matters into your own hands. You twisted, reached and arched your back like a ballerina in The Nutcracker attempting an interpretive piece titled Why Am I Alone on Zipper Night? You even tried the shimmy-and-zip method that had worked exactly once in college when your roommate had bailed on you before formal.

No luck.

You huffed, shaking out the upcoming cramp in both of your arms. “Alright. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way.”

Marching into your office-slash-design-studio, you grabbed a roll of ribbon from the supply shelf and snipped a decent length off. Back at the mirror, you looped the ribbon through the zipper pull. Once it was securely hooked, you angled your body just right and gave the ribbon a gentle tug upward.

Your go-to method. She had never let you down before.

It moved and you felt it glide smoothly up your back, the zipper obeying like it knew who was in charge. You kept going – slowly, carefully – completely unaware you were holding your breath until –  

Snap.

You froze. Ribbon in hand. Soul temporarily exiting the premises.

Eyes squeezed shut, you stood there in absolute silence. You needed a moment, maybe two and possibly a drink.

You opened one eye.

Then the other.

You turned yourself to face the mirror and catch a glimpse of the back of the dress.

There it was, lodged three quarters of the way up your spine like a passive-aggressive ex refusing to leave. The pull? Gone. Vanished. Probably sipping a margarita in the Bahamas with your last bobby pin.

You stared at your reflection. Stared at the zipper. Stared at yourself staring at the zipper.

And then – you smiled.

Because you were not just any woman. You were a woman well-acquainted with last minute fashion emergencies. It’s what you did for a living. You’d made Halloween costumes of out duct tape and dreams. You’d hemmed dresses fifteen minutes before walking out the door. You’d once fixed a broken strap with a paperclip and a prayer – and it had held through a full night of dancing.

A snapped zipper? Please.

Back in your mini home studio, you slipped your arms out of the dress and rotated the back to the front so you could get to work. It wasn’t elegant nor graceful and there was a brief moment where you may or may not have used your teeth. But five minutes later?

The zipper had a new pull.

Was it technically a vintage charm from a bracelet you hadn’t worn since sophomore year? Yes.

Did it match the dress perfectly and look like it belonged there? Also yes.

You put the dress back on like it was made of glass and you were the belle of a very last-minute ball. The zipper held, the charm glinting in the mirror like a little badge of honour – or maybe the reason for your first grey hair.

Crisis: officially handled.

With your heels and clutch within reach, you made sure Gus was all set for the night. A little blanket nest on the couch with his favourite chew toy (the one that somehow still squeaked despite being mauled within an inch of its life). Your feel-good playlist had also been swapped out for classical music because apparently, according to the internet, dogs appreciated it. You weren't totally sure Gus cared, but you liked the ambiance.

“You good, little man?” you asked, scratching behind his ears.

He let out a dramatic yawn, turned in a slow, sleepy circle, and flopped onto his blanket like he had also just survived a zipper-induced emotional rollercoaster.

You grinned. “Same, honestly.”

And then – a knock at the door.

Your heart fluttered. Not dramatically, but enough to make you pause. You smoothed your dress one last time and gave Gus a look. “This is it,” you whispered. “Wish me luck.”

He blinked at you. Supportive, if slightly bored.

You crossed the room, lifted your chin, and opened the door.

There he was.

Aaron Hotchner.

Suit perfectly pressed, hair slightly wind-swept and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. For a moment, he didn’t say a word. He just looked at you, eyes warm and fixed on you like you had just walked straight out of a dream and into his reality.

His gaze moved slowly, drinking in the details like you were the best top-shelf wine he’d ever been offered – the kind you don’t rush, the kind you remember. When his eyes met yours again, something in his expression softened.

“…Wow,” he said, voice low.

“Careful, Aaron Hotch Hotchner. You keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you missed me.”

That earned a smile – not the tight-lipped professional one, not the guarded BAU version. No, this one was real. It reached his eyes, it crinkled at the corners and it felt like something just for you. “I did,” he replied simply.

Your smile widened. “Good answer.”

He held out the bouquet. “These are for you – though, I have to say, they feel a little underwhelming after seeing you.”

“Wow. Look at you being all smooth.”

“I had a whole line prepared,” he admitted. “You kind of ruined it by looking like that.”

“Guess I’ll try to tone it down next time.”

“Don’t,” he said, already a little too soft again.

You took the flowers, their stems cool against your fingers and stepped aside. “Let me get these in water, and you can meet the most important man in my life.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow.

You gestured toward the living room. “Gus.”

Right on cue, the little dachshund trotted in, ears perked, tail wagging.

Hotch crouched down immediately, like the well-trained guest he was. “Hey, buddy.”

Gus sniffed his palm, then turned and padded right past him, deeming the man neither a threat… nor particularly impressive.  

From the kitchen, you laughed. “Don’t take it personally. He’s playing hard to get.”

“I’m familiar with the type,” Aaron called back.

“Really? Who?” You reached for your tallest vase – the one that only ever saw the light of day when something mildly romantic happened. “Because it definitely can’t be me,” you continued, “I’ve been practically sending smoke signals.”

You turned on the tap, the water rushing out as you tried – and failed – to bite back your smile. You had light grip on the vase, distracted by the sound of Aaron chuckling behind you. The vase filled faster than expected and before you could react, it slipped right of your hands, clattered loudly in the sink, and half its contents splashed right onto your dress, the countertop and the floor.

“…That sounded expensive.”

“It was,” you said flatly, staring down at the soaked fabric of your dress. “It also doubles as a statement piece and apparently, a hazard.”

Aaron was at your side in a second, gently picking up the vase from where it was now sitting crooked in the sink. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, totally.” You grabbed the nearest dish towel and dabbed at your dress. “I only spent three hours getting ready, survived a zipper mutiny, and now I’m just casually being waterboarded by a flower arrangement. It’s fine.”

Hotch’s lips twitched. “Want to reschedule?”

You shot him a look. “If I put on another dress, I might start charging emotional labour.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair.”

You kept dabbing at your dress, pretending to ignore the fact that this was the second wardrobe-related crisis of the evening, while Aaron rescued the bouquet, reassembling it like it hadn’t just committed a minor act of sabotage.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, glancing down at the damp patches, “I still look cute, right?”

Hotch looked up, dead serious. “You look incredible.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest, like he wasn’t just saying it to flatter you, but simply stating a fact. “Well,” you exhaled, fluffing your hair like that might buy you back a sliver of composure, “I’m not changing again, so I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

You grabbed your clutch, slipped on your heels and gave your apartment one last once-over before turning to Aaron. “Alright. Let’s try this again.”

He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

You looped your arm through his. “We shall.”

You made it downstairs without incident and Aaron, ever the gentleman, opened the passenger side door of his car, and you slipped in without doing some ridiculous like flashing him your underwear.

Once he was settled in the driver’s seat, he started the engine, sparing you a glance. “Seatbelt?”

You clicked it into place. “What kind of date do you think this is?”

“The kind where I don’t want to fill out paperwork after.”

You grinned, turning slightly. “You’re funnier than I expected.”

“I’m told it’s my most surprising quality.”

“You are full of surprises, Hotchner.”

Just as he pulled out of the lot, the universe – ever the drama queen – decided it had been too quiet for too long. The GPS, unprompted and in the loudest possible volume setting, blared: “Turn left in twenty feet!”

You both flinched.

“Wow. Okay. Was she… yelling at us?”

Hotch reached forward to lower the volume. “She gets a little aggressive when I don’t use her often.”

“Hm,” you hummed. “Sounds familiar.”

“Is this your way of telling me I’ve been ignoring you?”

“I would never be that passive-aggressive.”

The GPS interrupted again, louder. “Turn left now!”

You jumped. “Okay, well she would.”

“I think she’s siding with you.”

“As she should.”

Things finally settled as Aaron pulled away from the curb, the GPS now speaking in something resembling an inside voice. You stole a glance at him. Then another. It wasn’t your fault. The way his hands gripped the wheel? Illegal.

And God, he smelled good. Not cologne-overkill good – the kind of good that was understated and wildly unfair. Like expensive soap, confidence and something distinctively manly. You shifted in your seat, trying to look not as flustered as you felt.

“This is fine,” you muttered to yourself, staring out the window. “Totally normal. Just a casual date with the FBI’s finest.”

“What was that?” Aaron asked, glancing at you.

You smiled sweetly. “Just talking to the GPS. Making sure she knows who’s in charge now.”

He smirked – and that should be illegal too. “Let me know how that goes for you.”

You were just about to fire back a quick, witty response (something equal parts charming and slightly unhinged), when the car made a new sound. Not a thud. Not a rattle. More like a… dramatic wheeze, a mechanical sigh of defeat.

Your head snapped toward him. “Oh no.”

Aaron frowned and pulled the car over. “It’s probably nothing. Just a –”

The engine sputtered again, the lights flickered once, then everything died.

“That felt like something.”

Aaron tried the ignition once, then twice and was met with nothing but an empty click. He sighed, finally admitting what you could already see written all over his face.

Defeat.

You leaned back in your seat, trying not to laugh. “So… what’s the verdict Hotch Hotchner?”

“It’s not the battery, not the alternator…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not a mechanic.”

“I thought you were the FBI,” you teased. “You’re telling me you can dismantle a semi-automatic in ten seconds, but you can’t hotwire your own car?”

“I could hotwire a car,” he corrected - and, okay, that was absolutely a visual you were going to revisit later. “But I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon when it’s your own.” He undid his seatbelt and added, “I’ll take a look under the hood.”

You slid out of the passenger seat and followed, heels clicking as you caught up with him. He had already shrugged off his suit jacket by the time you reached him, revealing a fitted black dress shirt that was doing far too much damage to your eyes, brain and heart.

“Here,” you offered, extending your hand. He glanced over, momentarily surprised, then handed the jacket to you with a grateful nod. You folded the jacket over your arm, watching him roll up his sleeves. Wow, even more damage. It felt like you were in some kind of fighting video game, watching all your health bars flash red in every area marked vulnerable to manly forearms.

He leaned into the engine compartment, brows furrowed, sleeves pushed back, giving you a front-row seat to the this-shouldn’t-be-so-attractive show.

“So,” you began conversationally, “did you always want to catch bad guys or was FBI agent your backup plan after professional modelling fell through?”

"I think you might have me confused with someone else."

“Nope.” You shook your head. “I’ve seen those arms. Definitely modelling material. Like, trench coat on a rooftop, smouldering into the sunset kind of thing.”

“Flattery isn’t going to restart the engine.”

“Maybe not, but it’s certainly improving the situation for me,” you shot back with a grin. “Besides you haven’t answered my question.”

He straightened up, eyes on you now instead of the uncooperative car. "I was actually a lawyer first."

"A lawyer too? That's no fair. Is there anything you can’t do?"

He glanced down at his watch, then back at you with a half-smile. “Get us to dinner on time, apparently.” His line of sight then briefly shifted to your shoes. “Think those heels of yours can survive a walk? The restaurant isn’t much further from here.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. You know what they say – give a woman the right pair of shoes and she can conquer the world.”

He shut the hood of the car with a thump, then looked at you again, eyes lingering a little longer this time. “Is that what you’re doing tonight? Conquering the world?”

“Absolutely,” you confirmed, sweeping the hand that wasn’t holding his jacket down your still-slightly-damp outfit. “One malfunctioning car, soggy dress, broken zipper and FBI agent at a time.”

His smile deepened. “You know…most people wouldn’t be laughing through all of this.”

“Are you calling me most people? Because I can give you your jacket back right now, no problem.”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze still on you. “No. I’m saying you’re beautiful, and I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like you.”

That stopped you cold. The words catching you off guard completely, so much so that you dropped your eyes down to the pavement. You couldn’t remember the last time someone made you feel so…seen. So genuinely appreciated.

Considering you track record – dating, even being engaged to nothing but jerks – it was hard not to feel like all you’d ever known were bad eggs. But standing here, it finally felt like maybe, just maybe… Aaron Hotchner was one of the good ones.

“You’re not going shy on me now, are you?” he asked and you felt his hand brush against yours as he gently took back his jacket.

You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just trying really hard not to picture you as an egg.”

He moved behind you then, and before your brain could catch up, he was carefully draping the jacket over your shoulders – warm from where it had rested on your arm, smelling like him in a way that made your heart stutter.

“Do I even want to know?” he murmured near your ear.

You turned your head just enough to catch his eye over your shoulder, your voice quieter now. “Just that you’re a good one.”

“A good egg?”

You grinned. “The best.”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you to that lava cake.”

Within seconds his car was locked and left behind on the side of the road – forgotten in favour of the warm glow ahead. His jacket was too big on you, but it was warm. And for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, it made you feel safe. Every time the fabric shifted, brushing lightly against your arm, it reminded you he was still there, walking beside you.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t quite done with you yet, a few stray raindrops tapped against your cheek, the kind of drizzle that made everything smell like damp concrete and slow evenings.

You glanced up toward the sky, then over at him. “Seriously?”

Aaron looked up too, lips twitching. “We can call a cab.”

“It’s fine. I put on waterproof mascara, might as well see if it lives up to the hype.”

He gave you a sidelong glance, like he was trying to decide if you were serious, then just nodded once – like a man who didn’t quite know what waterproof mascara was, but respected the commitment – and kept walking.

You followed, doing your best runway walk despite the slick pavement and the extra weight of his jacket. It actually looked like the two of you might make it to dinner on time.

Until your heel caught.

It was subtle at first – a shift in your step, a little tug – until you stopped walking completely and looked down to find your heel wedged neatly into the crack between the curb and the sidewalk.

You sighed, long and theatrical. “Oh, come on.”

Aaron paused, turned back, and took in the situation as you gestured dramatically at your trapped shoe. “I’m telling you, the universe is sending a message.”

He walked back toward you, crouched without a word, and gently wrapped a hand around your ankle – because of course he knew how to rescue people from their own footwear.

“I’ve had crime scenes less complicated than this,” he said, voice dry.

“Are you calling my shoe a crime scene?”

“Not yet,” he muttered, and with one swift motion, freed your heel from the crack like it was second nature.

“Wow. That was… weirdly attractive.”

He stood and handed you your balance back with one steady hand. “Try not to fall for me again.”

You shoved lightly at his chest. “Okay, absolutely not the time or place to be charming.”

His brows lifted, but he didn’t argue.

“I’m serious,” you went on, gesturing wildly. “A broken zipper, a chunk of my hair lost to a stupid roller, an almost shattered vase that somehow exploded all over me anyway, a dead car, mascara that’s probably migrated to my chin – I don’t know, I can’t see – and now the sidewalk is trying to eat my vintage Dior heels? Aaron, these are all signs.”

He tiled his head slightly. “Signs of what, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught – not because of the word, but because of the timing. He said it so gently, like it wasn’t the thousand-pound weight you were already carrying.

“Don’t sweetheart me,” you said quickly, your voice wobbling. “Not when my heart is already starting to hurt. These are signs that you need to run. Far. Like sprint away from me and this whole fake fiancé pyramid scheme I’ve roped you into. The universe is practically screaming at you to get out and I think, at this point, you really ought to listen.”

Aaron didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you. The rain had flattened his hair, darkened his clothes, but he stood there like it didn’t matter. Like you were the only thing he was aware of.

“Are you done?”

“Excuse me?”

“The speech, the spiral, the dramatic monologue,” he continued, stepping closer. “Was that the end, or should I expect an encore?”

You opened your mouth, whether to defend yourself or double down, you weren’t even sure, but he was already there, just a foot away, the rain closing in around you both like a curtain.

“You think I haven’t seen chaos before? You really think I’d be here if I needed to run?” He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t trying to fix you. He was just there. Standing in the middle of the mess you were trying to warn him away from… and not moving.

“I’m a walking disaster tonight.”

“You’re soaked and dramatic,” he corrected. “Not the same thing.”

“I’ve done everything I can to prove this is a bad idea.”

“And I’m still here.”

You stared at him, rain blurring your lashes. “Why?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

That stopped the noise in your head – the overthinking, the spiralling, the guilt, the sheer panic of letting yourself want something that wasn’t wrapped in self-protection.

And then the rain really came.

No longer a gentle drizzle, but a full-on downpour.

You gasped as it hit, cold and immediate. Rain clung to your lashes, soaked through your hair, slid down your neck in rivulets. Your dress plastered to your skin and Aaron’s jacket felt ten times heavier as it soaked up the water.

The street around you emptied in an instant as people scattered for shelter. But neither of you moved, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk like the storm had carved out a private world just for this moment.  

Aaron didn’t flinch. Didn’t suggest shelter. He just watched you through the rain, like the sight of you standing there – drenched, dramatic, furious at fate – was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“You still don’t think this is a sign?” you asked, breathless, rain slipping over your lips like punctuation.  

“I do actually,” he answered the same time his hand moved to cradle your cheek. “I think it’s a sign for me to do this.”

His lips were on yours before you could even process it. There was no hesitation, no searching for the right moment because this was the moment. You kissed him back, tasting the rain, your fingers fisting into the damp fabric of his shirt as if that would help with the dizziness you felt. The kiss wasn’t perfect, not by movie standards – it was messy and soaked and your teeth bumped slightly when you smiled against his mouth.

But it was real.

It was the kind of kiss you felt everywhere. In your knees. In your ribs. In all the places you’d spent years protecting.

When he finally pulled back, you almost winced at the loss of him, like your body hadn’t quite agreed to let go. You stood there, blinking up at him through rain-slick lashes, barely breathing.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across your cheek, as if to make sure it was still really you.

“You make it incredibly hard not to.”

He gave a small nod, then leaned in to press a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he said softly against your skin. “We can still make the reservation.”

You groaned, tipping your head back. “I’m soaked, I can feel mascara on my collarbone, and I’m pretty sure my heels would make a squidge noise with every step.”

He said nothing, just waited because of course he knew there was more.

You looked back at him, a little hesitant now. “Would you kill me if I said…we skip the reservation, grab takeout and spend the night with Gus instead?”

He shook his head again. “We could spend the rest of the night standing out here in the rain and I wouldn’t have many complaints.”

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue

[mariasficrecs]

AND EVERYBODY CHEERED !!!!! (at them kissing, not her series of unfortunate events)

the banter in this fic was sooooo delicious love love love loveeeee

kisses & kudos for u!!!!! i love them 😭😭

[pathologicalreid]

called you again | s.r.

in which you make a late night phone call to your ex-boyfriend because you're convinced he's the only thing that can lull you to sleep

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (h/c) content warnings: exes but they're still in love so... a lot of yearning, briefly mentions a bau case, inspired by a mattress and a tiktok. word count: 1.84k a/n: shout out to whichever anon from yesterday told me to post this!! you're a real one

Rolling over on your bed again, you tugged the comforter over your shoulder, hoping the fabric would form a cocoon around you. Mimicking the feeling of someone behind you, warm arms wrapped around you. You begged for the comfort that you needed in order to fall asleep, but sleep never came. 

Your exhaustion had come and gone, any hint of sleepiness wiped away when you moved from your couch to your bed. Insomnia had come to find you, a face so familiar that you had begun to greet sleepless nights with open arms. 

On your nightstand, your phone buzzed. Likely a social media notification or a news email telling you the end was near, but you rolled over anyway on the off chance that it was a text. Every night, you remind yourself that you should turn on do not disturb, but you’d spent years waiting for your phone to buzz at all hours, hoping for the opportunity to tell Spencer how your day was. That’s why you had to check your phone, hoping to see the contact with the heart next to it, remaining unchanged since you broke up with him two months ago. 

Cringing at the blue light on your sensitive eyes, you squinted at the notification. It was an email, holding the weekly advertisement for the grocery store. You tried to resist the disappointment that roiled in your brain, but it took over anyways. Disappointment that it wasn’t Spencer and shame that you’d thought he’d reach out to you after everything that happened between you. 

You clicked on your messages, looking at the short exchange from the day he came by to drop off a box of your things. He’d brought you coffee. You’d broken his heart two days before, and he brought you coffee from your favorite kiosk near his apartment. That kind of love was the epitome of Spencer Reid, and that was why it had killed you to let him go. 

As if your thumb had developed a mind of its own, you tapped on his contact and initiated a phone call, quickly sitting up in bed and ending the call, tossing your phone in the depths of your down comforter and glaring at it in horror. 

It must’ve been less than a minute before your phone started to buzz again, you rifled through the bedding to look at your phone, and there it was. The purple heart that you’d placed next to his name the night of your first date. It seemed cruel to take away his heart when you knew very well there was no love lost between the two of you. Swiping at the screen, you lifted the phone to your ear and took a nervous breath, “Hey.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked immediately, not responding to your greeting and instantly trying to get to the root cause of why you had called. 

You tried not to read into it, staring at your lap and fiddling with a loose thread on your pajama shorts. “Spence,” you said meekly, your voice hovering over a whisper as his question echoed in your head.

He was silent for a moment. You imagined he was considering hanging up on you until he spoke again, “Hang on.” 

You heeded his instruction, shifting awkwardly on your mattress and listening to the shuffling on the other end. It was almost two in the morning, and he didn’t sound like you had woken him up, so he must be out on a case. Something akin to deja vu came over you then, imagining him in some city that he’d never be able to explore while you waited in your apartment for the slightest bit of contact. 

“Y/N?” Spencer said your name, and every bit of embarrassment you felt related to this call faded away. You could deal with the humiliation if it meant you got to hear him say your name just one more time. “What’s wrong?”

Because it couldn’t just be that you wanted to hear his voice, the only reason you could possibly be calling him in the middle of the night was because something was wrong. You were stranded when the metro stopped running or someone had stolen your wallet. No, the pounding of your broken heart was keeping you up at night. Even now, it slammed into your ribcage, ricocheting with the reminder that this was all your fault. “Where are you?” You asked, sniffling through the question and wiping you face with your sleeve. 

He sighed on the other end of the call and you told yourself it was in relief that nothing was wrong. “Bismarck,” he responded softly, matching your tone of voice in only the way he could. “We got here this morning for a family annihilator,” he explained in more detail. 

You felt yourself falling into a familiar pattern, settling your body back in bed with your phone pressed to the side of your face. Family annihilators were hard on the whole team, but Spencer was someone who held family dynamics with the highest regard. It always broke him to see that destroyed. “How was the flight?” 

“It was alright,” he answered, entering a similar pattern as you. “We had to fly over tornado alley. It’s storm season, you know?” 

Humming, you nodded despite the fact that he can’t see you. “And I’m sure no one appreciated your facts about turbulence,” you said, a teasing lilt finding its way to your tone. 

He chuckled through the phone and your heart soared, “They never do. No one ever gets them like you, lo—” 

Your body stiffened as he caught himself. It would’ve been so easy for you to move past the initial comment if his instinct was to follow it up with a pet name. Lovey. He liked to call you lovey as a term of endearment. Your previously floating heart came back down to earth, “So it’s a bad case, huh? I should probably let you get back to work.” 

“Between you and me, I’m supposed to be at the hotel right now, so this would count as my break,” he told you, managing to coax you into staying on the phone. 

It was hard to be broken up with someone who hadn’t strictly done anything wrong, and it was hard to deny him conversation when he was wrapped up in such a dark case. “What’s the weather like?” You asked, choosing to talk about things that don’t truly matter. 

He sighed, “Cold, but I’m sure you could’ve guessed that. JJ whines about it every time she steps outside. We’re inside most of the time anyway, so I’m not really bothered.”

Weather was never an issue for Spencer, you used to think he’d be miserable in the winter, seeing as he grew up in Las Vegas, but it would seem that his time in Boston had completely changed him. 

“It’s finally getting warm here,” you mentioned. Though, of course he knew that already. Spencer hadn’t taken up residence in Bismarck, but sometimes it felt like he was 1,500 miles away, even when he was just across the river from you. It reminded you of all the times you’d disagreed on the temperature you should leave the thermostat at, and it brought a pit back to your chest. You used to insist that 68 degrees in the winter wasn’t the same as 68 degrees in the summer, and he’d tell you that it was the same temperature, it just felt different because of changing variables. 

Laying in your bed, you wished he was there to explain how the tilt of the earth’s axis affects the temperature, but instead, you could only talk to him about the weather. The cherry blossoms would bloom soon, and you wished he was here to take you to see them. “What’s wrong?” He asked you again, his voice was so gentle that it nearly crushed you. 

Looking at the other side of your bed, the side he used to sleep on, you sighed helplessly, “I can’t sleep.” It felt infantile to say it out loud, the average person would’ve taken something by now, but you could barely get yourself to stand up, let alone go to the medicine cabinet. 

“Have you taken anything?” He asked, reading your mind just like old times. 

You hummed, keeping your eyes on the other side of your mattress, “No. It’s too late anyway, I wouldn’t wake up for work.” 

“Maybe you should take something and take the day off, you sound exhausted,” he told you, a familiar worry crawling into his voice. 

The reminder of why you had left overwhelmed you. Spencer could give you all of the advice in the world, but he’d never be there to help you. Yours wasn’t the first relationship to fall victim to the BAUs hours, but it hurt nonetheless. You loved him so ardently that you’d forgotten to love yourself, and when you couldn’t take the distance anymore, you’d called the whole thing off. It was hard to love someone who wasn’t there, but it turns out distance does make the heart grow fonder. “Maybe,” you mumbled, looking at the divot on his side of the bed. 

It hurt you to acknowledge that the inanimate object you slept on had its own memory of Spencer. The impression of his body across the cushion reminded you of the space left by people in Pompeii, their suffering had been immortalized for people to gawk at 2,000 years later, but in 2,000 years, your romance with Spencer wouldn’t even qualify as a blip in the universe’s timeline. There would be no lasting impression of two lovers holding hands because he wasn’t yours and you were no longer his. 

“Spence?” You breathed into the receiver, looking at the memory foam imprint with tears in your eyes. 

He waited for a beat to respond, “Yeah?” 

Your chest ached to tell him that you loved him—that you had made a mistake, but that wasn’t fair to him. That wasn’t fair to you. “Stay safe, okay?” You whispered, hoping that one day things might be different, and if that day ever came along, you’d want him to at least consider the possibility of coming back to you. 

“Okay, sleep well,” he murmured back to you before the phone clicked off. 

At a sloth’s pace, you crawled onto the other side of your bed and curled yourself into a ball. When trees had objects left around their roots, they simply grew around the invasion, but your mattress was an inanimate object with no way of moving or growing or adapting to a life without him while you had no choice but to do so. Closing your eyes, silent tears streamed to the pillow that smelled faintly of his shampoo—no matter how many times you washed the pillowcase. Finally, you let your body relax into the memory of him. 

You supposed you could always buy a new mattress, but that would mean fully letting him go.

[mariasficrecs]

ardently is my favorite word so that was an immediate reblog from me

and ex spencer reid is my favorite person so that was another on sight reblog, maybe i should reblog twice to get my point across

BUT ANYWAY this was soul crushing & ur fics are always soul crushing so i dont know why i expected anything else (habitual self destruction perhaps)

the paragraph about pompeii? crazy. spectacular. made my jaw fall to the floor and then i never picked it back up, matter of fact it’s still there as i write this

10000/10 read thank u for being brilliant

[softtdaisy]

(Ignore this if it got sent twice! Clearly I’m excited!) but congratulations on 2k!!! I am SO happy and excited for you. You deserve it and so much more lovely! I’d love to request Hotch x Reader + Couldn’t Make it Any Harder by Sabrina Carpenter! Love all of your writing so much, but have not been able to stop thinking about your last angst piece!!

summary. Hotch really wished he could have loved you. He really tried to. But maybe love isn't made for him anymore.

words count. 2 392

song. couldn't make it any harder by Sabrina Carpenter

a/n.  I can never thank you enough for your amazing support anytime I post something (and even when I don't ahah), I really hope you love this story (and I am sorry for the tears) 🩷

PARTICIPATE IN MY 2K CELEBRATION

criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist| request

“I’m sorry.” 

Those were the last words you heard from Hotch after he broke your heart.

“I’m sorry.”

It all started when, on a random Wednesday evening, after dinner, Jack asked his dad if he could take guitar lessons.

“Guitar is cool, Dad!” He argued, his spoon still with yogurt in it moving in the air in a dangerous way. 

Something that made Hotch laugh. “Ok, put down your weapon; I will consider your offer,” he replied, tousling his son’s hair. 

What kind of dad would he have been if he didn’t let his son be cool?

And in a maybe overprotective way, but a very defendable one if he was questioned about it, Hotch went to Penelope to get some help about the situation. He asked her to find the guitar professor. One that didn’t have any criminal records, of course, that had good reviews and seemed reliable enough to entrust Jack to.

Hotch realized his mistake, or that maybe he should have given Penelope more indications in his research during the first lesson.

When he opened his door and met you. 

You, all so smiley, radiating happiness.

You, who couldn’t be older than thirty.

You, so pretty that his heart missed a beat at your sight.

When you offered your hand, a thin and small hand that disappeared between his big fingers when he shook it, Hotch knew that you didn’t only come with a guitar and a will to do well. You also accidentally brought a new kind of problem for him.

“You must be Jack,” you said, seeing the shy boss in the middle of the living room. “We’re going to do great things together, buddy.” 

Hotch wouldn’t say his son was really the shy type. Growing up, Jack opened himself more and more to others—ironically, the more Jack was doing that, the more Hotch seemed to withdraw into himself. Yet, he knew his son had a hard time being confident around new people, something he inherited from him.

But with you, Jack didn’t hesitate a single second. You were the definition of trust. At least, on that part, Penelope did a great job. 

Even if, deep down, Hotch could feel she had something else in mind when she chose you.

And it worked. The very first night after you came, he couldn’t keep you out of his head. He was lying in bed, trying to find some sleep. But whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was your beautiful and experienced fingers. Imagining how they would feel running down his chest. How they would so slightly bring down his underwear. How your subtle touch could probably bring him to the edge in seconds.

He had to fight against the desire to slide his hand underneath the sheet. 

Hotch won that battle that night, but the war was only beginning.

The organization for Jack’s classes was simple. It took place after school, at Hotch’s place on Wednesday and yours on Friday. 

And Hotch couldn't decide which one was harder to deal with.

Seeing you so naturally fitting in his home, drinking in the very same cup that Jack decided was yours and that Hotch couldn’t separate from the sigh of your lips on it.

Or getting to see your place, how much it looked like you, and how he felt like an intruder whenever you offered him a drink when he came to pick up his son.

“How is he doing?” he asked one day after the class. He had finally accepted to get the drink you offered, mostly because Jack begged his dad to stay a little longer. Turns out, in your building, you were also giving class to a girl from his school that the boy had a very small crush on. And so the two ended up playing in the courtyard.

Hotch watched as you moved your hand closer to his, the one resting on the counter. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from your fingers, which so slowly landed on his. He held his breath as your forefinger brushed his skin softly. 

“He’s doing amazing,” you finally answered. You knew exactly what you were doing. And when you saw the way his throat moved at your touch, you knew you weren’t the only one feeling the attraction. “Just like his dad does.”

He slightly turned to you, just very subtly, fearing his movement might break the whole moment. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

But your smile was a temptation. “You won’t know if you don’t try,” you replied, closing the gap between you and sliding your body against his legs. You could feel his heartbeat go faster. And you waited, making sure you weren’t forcing him to do anything. 

When his free hand moved to your back, you got the confirmation it wasn’t all in your head. 

Your first kiss stayed in Hotch’s head for days. The taste of your lips, so sweet and smooth against his. The heat of your body against him could be felt through your clothes. The smile and mostly the way your tongue ran through your lips after it. The images kept coming back.

He felt trapped in his desire like a sailor falling in the sirens trap.

Having no idea that actually, you were the only victim in the story.

Because the desire Hotch felt for you was scaring him. He couldn’t remember if he ever felt like that in the past, with Haley. And that was the problem.

He kept feeling bad at the idea of erasing the memory of his ex-wife with you. 

Every single time you and he shared an intimate moment, a part of him was screaming at his behavior. And he kept punishing himself and you, incidentally, for letting you take that much space in his life.

The first time you both noticed a change in his comportment was during one of Jack’s lessons at your place.

On Wednesday, after you finished your lesson, Jack ran to his bedroom to do his homework. And once the coast was clear, Hotch kissed you. You weren’t seeing each other much; it was hard to find the time and the excuse to spend time together. So these furtive kisses were the best you could do, most of the time. 

But when you saw him again, two days later, you faced a pure stranger. Hotch was cold, barely talking to you and even ignoring you at some point. Like nothing happened. The pain you felt in your heart was nothing you’ve ever experienced. 

If he apologized later that night, blaming it on a bad day, you both knew it wasn’t true. You’ve seen Hotch on a bad day before, and he was never the one to act like that. But you put it aside. The first time and all the following ones, it happened.

One day, he broke the cup you were using at his place. Jack had left for a sleepover after your lesson, and Hotch offered you to stay. The next morning, after you left, all he could see was that cup in the sink. And his thoughts spoke louder than his common sense. The next thing he knew, he had to clean up the pieces and the cut he got on his palm.

At some point, he didn’t realize he had stopped replying to your text until you called him to make sure he was alright—adding to the fact he wasn’t in town, making you more stressed about the idea of being hurt. But that was something that ended up happening more and more often.

He started to push you away more and more. And most of the time, he didn’t even mean to. Hotch really thought that each step would bring him closer to some happiness, that he would be free from all the chains he was trapping himself into. The more it went, the more the pain grew and the more the walls of the prison he built himself were narrowing around him.

To the point you couldn’t handle the situation anymore. 

“What are you doing here?”

Saying Hotch was surprised to see you at his door on a random Sunday afternoon was an understatement. Jack wasn’t home; you didn’t plan anything. And mostly, you looked far from being happy to be there.

It didn’t take years in the FBI as a profiler to know that the way you crossed your arms against your chest was a way to protect yourself from what was coming. Or maybe, and that was the profiler talking this time, you were protecting yourself from him. Which wasn’t reassuring either.

“We need to talk,” you replied in a broken voice. 

Hotch flinched at that sound. He reached for you, his hand coming close to your shoulder, but you dodged his touch. Instead, you simply walked inside. 

He followed you. With little steps, sure, to not oppress you. He would say he needed to know what was going on.

The truth was, he already knew.

“Talk to me, then,” he said, reaching for you and succeeding at holding it this time. The feeling of his thumb brushing yours used to be so delightful before. Today, it was burning your skin. But you kept it. Because at this point, you felt like all that Aaron Hotchner had to give to you was pain and bruises inside.

You stayed silent, trying to get anything from his eyes. You wished there was confusion; you wished there was something that would make you want to fight. But there was nothing. Except for some acceptance. “Why do you keep doing this?” Your voice was low. That was only the way you found to keep it from breaking again.

Hotch opened his mouth and took a step closer to you. But you stopped him and took a step back. Some kind of heartbreaking dance.

“You keep pushing me away, Aaron,” you snapped. “Don’t you think I see what you do? Every time we get closer, you push me harder. And harder. And I’m tired of this.”

You expected him to fight, to reply, to say anything that would prove to you that he cared. But he stayed silent.

Hotch just stood there, in the middle of the room, looking at you helplessly. While you were walking around, trying to find the composure to clearly speak what’s in your heart. And so he watched you, incapable of moving himself.

The truth was, he truly wished he could. He wanted to run to you, to put his arms around you, and to hold you close to him. He wanted to take away all the pain, all the sorrow that surrounded you. He wanted to make you feel loved and appreciated. 

But he simply couldn’t. His feet were glued to the floor; his legs felt too heavy to move. Yet, he was still feeling your pain. The sad part was that he wasn’t taking it away from you; it was simply multiplying.

He couldn’t do anything when you stopped and turned around. Nothing when he watched your expression change, an anger growing on your soft features. And nothing when he saw you walking to him, again, faster. 

“Don’t you understand, Aaron?” You cried this time, hitting his chest. You hated how quickly he grabbed your hand and how good it felt when he ease your fist. He wasn’t supposed to make you feel good. Not now, not anymore. “I’m tired.” 

Seeing you like that was hurting him on so many levels. But he kept looking. He looked at every tear that fell from your eyes and ran down your cheeks without stopping them. He looked at the stains they left on your skin. He looked at your red eyes and how they seemed to get sadder every minute. He looked at your trembling lips.

Hotch needed to see all of these details. Remember he was the one who hurt you. 

“I’m tired of waiting for you, of waiting for your love,” you continued. He tried to ignore the way it hurt like you were grabbing his heart in your hands and just squeezing it until it broke. 

He knew you were right. Hotch had to face the truth. He was incapable of loving like he used to. This would never feel right again. 

His vision started to blur, and he didn’t if it were real tears and just because he forgot to blink. Probably a little of both, at this point. 

“And you,” you snapped again. “Every time I try to give you my heart, you just wrench it, Aaron. Every. Single. Time.” Not even his hand could prevent you from accentuating every word with another hit on his chest.

When he heard you sobbing, his natural and protective instinct took the lead. And soon you felt Hotch’s hand on the back of your head, bringing you against his chest. You didn’t have the strength to resist this moment; you needed this comfort for a second or two. 

To get the impression that you could be truly loved by Hotch, at least once.

You didn’t get to see the single tear that ran down his cheek when he put his chin on your head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes and trying to appreciate this last contact. The last time he would see you. 

When Jack got home that day, Hotch was still sitting on the sofa. He never found the strength to move; he couldn’t care about his look. He knew he looked miserable with his red eyes, his shirt slightly opened -through which he could see there were still some red marks from your punches earlier.

Jack didn’t question anything. Because the boy knew. He could feel what happened here when you were around. He noticed his dad and his professor getting closer and then being distant again. Adults weren’t so smooth with their problems.

And so he simply sat next to Hotch and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok, dad.” 

Hotch gave him a confused look and met a reassuring smile that he didn’t know he needed.

“I mean, she was cool, but the guitar isn’t that cool, and I wasn't even great at it. So it’s ok.” 

And for Jack, Hotch accepted to pretend it was ok. 

Even if he knew it would never be.

[mariasficrecs]

oh 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 why would u do this to me 😭😭😭😭 i can’t stop sobbing 😭😭😭

but this was so brilliant and so hurtful and so good and argh my heart hurts i need to lie down

[luveline]

hotchner request :) i love love love your writing so much and he’s always so accurate!💗

maybe reader visiting him in the office late at night cause she missed him and wanted cuddles xx

There are two halves to your wanting him. The innocent half that wants to be held softly for softness’ sake, and the half with an ulterior motive, who wants the afterglow, the rough and tumble and the hand behind your neck when it’s over, encouraging your face into his neck. These halves are equal, as implied, so it isn’t salaciousness that drives you to his workplace, but you aren’t without motive as you nudge your way into his office, skin still ever so slightly damp with lotions and oils. 

And Aaron, he could read you if he needed to. If you falter and make him suspicious of you, he might watch too carefully and catch how much you miss him in something as small as a raised hand, so you enter the room with a good helping of bravado. “You!” you whisper-shout, letting the door shut soundly behind you. “Lovely man in the black suit! Warrant’s out for your arrest.” 

“What are the charges?” he asks, sitting back in his chair, a pen between two fingers. 

“Abandoning your– me.”

“That’s quite serious.” 

“That’s what I thought,” you say with a mock sniff. You follow your segue around his desk, sniff quickly melted into wanting, leaning down as he angles his face upward for a fleeting hello-kiss. 

He takes your arm before you can move away. “You aren’t abandoned. I was about to leave.” 

“I don’t trust your definition of about to,” you say lightly. 

Aaron clears a space for you on his desk. You sit on it squarely, ready to wait for half an hour as he wraps his loose ends. You worry sometimes he wouldn’t make it home if it weren’t for you reminding him so physically. 

“Do you ever get sick of seeing me here?” you ask. 

You always wind up like this on his desk, dark lacquer wood under your thighs, your foot tapping against the stem of his chair as he works. 

“Obviously I don’t,” he says without heat, “I think the work would go a lot quicker if you were there more often.” 

“Yeah?” 

He raises his eyebrows at your tone. “Are things more urgent than I thought?” he asks, hint of a smile in the lines either side of his eyes, the squinting that comes with smugness. 

It’d be easy to let him pull you to the centre of the desk, to let your legs fall to either side of him as he comes forward to kiss you, but the seconds draw longer, and you aren’t close enough. A kiss wouldn’t be enough to fix the thrumming that’s taken root in your hands. 

“I miss you,” you tell him, watching him closely, lest it be the wrong thing to say. “Couldn’t stay away.” 

“I don't want you to stay away,” he says, matching your tone, something urgent in him then as he packs his things away and steers you down to the car, as he drives you home, as he sequesters you on the couch fully dressed.

He knows exactly how he wants you, and for once he isn’t shy, pulling you against him, all your plushness to his solid chest, the ironed collar of his shirt a bite in your cheek he soothes with his nose dragged lazily over your forehead. “Still miss me?” he asks under his breath. 

“No, I feel better.” 

“You do?” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I was a little worried… Mm, you smell nice, what is that? The body oil with the brown cap?” 

You wrap your arms behind his shoulders, sure to go numb. “Feel.” 

His hand slips under your shirt obligingly. He strokes over fine, dander hair and skin like silk to the middle of your back. “Beautiful,” he says under his breath. 

Simple as that. You’re praised in his arms. You don’t ever want to move. 

[mariasficrecs]

omfggggg you’ve been feeding us this week im dying im sweating im convulsing

i need him in a way that concerns all of mankind

ur dialogue is always so natural and playful and ugh it’s just so hotch

ur hotch is my favorite hotch grrrr <3

[liaissante]

astronomy ❀ s. reid x reader

in which nothing can live forever, and you would be naive to believe that something as minor as this relationship will be exempt from that fate. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst tags: s10 spencer reid. maeve as a plot point. argument yay. spencer says some mean things (#needthat). all around unhappiness. stars and light and the sun. lack of communication. reader my avoidant attachment queen. i’m holding your hand throughout 🫂 word count: 2.7k a/n: a late happy mercury retrograde. sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth for a hot minute. here's how my brains been feeling. i don't really know what this is. it was written amidst a dissociative episode. hopefully future me figures it out.

"your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." (fyodor dostoevsky) 

A melodic hum of air whirs in this apartment. Keeping dust particles from settling on too many surfaces, swirling around your heads. Tiny, and unseen, but there. You familiarise yourself with the thought of them being there. They tickle your skin when you sit down in the armchair nobody ever really resides in now, and you find comfort in knowing there is more that exists invisibly than just your own feelings. 

He does not say anything to you as you tuck your feet beneath yourself, and it hurts, but a large part of you doesn't want him to anyways. He will only say things that will liquidise your brain into thinking he cares more than he does, and you have had too long of a day to act like he is not using bare palms to crush your heart. Too heavy of a week to let him bypass your walls once again. 

A foreign voice tells the air you need to talk, and you distantly recognise it as your own. You had rehearsed the very sentence in your car a thousand times. Once it got past your lips, this would all become easier to discuss. 

It isn't. 

You're focussed on the steam that lifts from a cup of coffee he had probably made seconds before you knocked on his door. An impromptu visit he did not ask you for, but you hope he understands your awful guest manners once this is all over. 

"Talk about what?" he answers the question you don't even remember asking, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him tense when a shuddering breath leaves your lips. 

You wonder if he's shocked when you tell him you want to end things. 

It's storming outside. The rain pelting against the window mirrors your heavy heart, but you aren't too naive to believe it is storming in your name. Though, there are few pleasures in life you still enjoy these days, and perhaps pretending the universe is centring around you for just this one night isn't selfish. 

"You want to end things," he repeats your words back to you. They don't sound right. Like a language Earth's never discovered. Two weeks ago you wouldn't have ever dreamed uttering these words. 

Two weeks ago, you were incandescent. Light bounced off your skin, the rays of sunlight creating a halo around you that would leave anyone breathless. Spencer Reid would never be an outlier in that demographic. 

You'd sat in a very similar position to how you are now, but your head was in the space between his jawline and his shoulder, and your hands were woven within his. Thumbs stroked the skin, and he'd bitten back a comment about how soft you felt. 

Unfinished — but definitely touched — Thai food sat atop the coffee table in front of your bodies, and the tenth Doctor Who episode in a row was playing on the television. He'd discovered your weakness for his widened eyes and hands-on coercion, and used and abused the power ever since. 

He stared down at you, and you could feel him without the need to look up. You should've. Perhaps, if you'd crawled out of the comfort being physically entwined with Spencer Reid on his living room couch provided, you would've noticed that beneath his intense gaze on the sunlight encircling your body, he was thinking about the dead. 

You didn't, though. You had laughed as he quoted lines as they were said of the episode he'd no doubt seen a thousand times, shoving his shoulder and calling him a nerd with the stupidest grin on your face, and the sweetest flutter of your heart. 

He said, "Nerd is a noun to describe someone who is an expert in one particular thing. I am an expert in a lot more than one."

And you replied, "Oh, of course. My mistake. What else are you an expert in, Spencer?"

Your skin would tingle, because he'd take the invitation for what it was, and his lips would brush against your ear as he whispered, "You, for starters."

And you'd get whiplash from how easy he was to go from the biggest dork on the planet to the very reason you researched early onset heart attacks. 

One week ago, you were cracking. 

Instead of the halo glow that settled around your body, it'd fractured. Sticks of light throwing out in every direction, but still reflecting back the hope you had for this crumbling relationship. 

Knives pelted into your edges with every new piece of information you learnt. 

A book you'd never paid mind to, now opened on the front page, a dedication to his name, accompanied by another name you'd only heard in passing whispers. The written down addresses of the nearest pay phones from his apartment, a phone number circled three times in the corner of the page. Written down for no reason. You knew he didn't need it, really. The slow withdrawals of telling you about his life the further into it he gets. Not mentioning more about a past relationship than that it'd ended tragically. 

The more dots you connected, the closer your personal implosion neared. 

You'd apologised to him, saying you didn't want him to relive anything that would return his mind somewhere darker than you can ever fathom. 

"I have you, now. I can't ever get there again even if I tried to," he said. You stupidly took his words with full intent, head reeling and heart racing all over again. 

You smiled, and kissed him. He tasted of coffee and content. He kissed you back with more force than you had left in you, and you'd gone down like a sinking ship. Falling back against his couch cushions, fingers entwined in his hair. 

Each new day was another loss to cut. Four days ago, it was his hands refusing to touch you intimately. Even when you'd moved them for him, pleading him with your own body. Three days ago, it was his honesty. You'd grown desperate. 

Questioning if he was okay and receiving a wordless hum in response. If he wanted to order food, and getting a disgruntled non-answer. Sitting with a foot between your two bodies this time, albeit with your feet in his lap, so maybe you were just as close as you were last week by principle. Finally, seeing if he actually wanted you there, with him, and him taking more than one second to give you his, 

"Yes. Obviously."

You lack energy when you are trying so desperately to stay alive, so you did not question why he had to think about his answer, unsure if you needed him to tell you, regardless. His mind was increasingly becoming preoccupied with the girl behind his book dedication. Behind the payphone addresses, and the thrice times circled phone number. He was disintegrating before your eyes, and your relationship was slipping through the cracks. 

"Why?" he asks you, and you're forced to stop reliving every single moment that brought you here. You will again tomorrow, anyways. The day after that, too. You will probably live through the end of this relationship a thousand times before you begin to heal. A thousand, to mirror every single shard of your heart lain out before him. 

Your voice hurts to use when you reply. "Because you don't love me, Spencer."

You're grateful he doesn't scramble to disprove your claims. You're sure it would hurt even more to hear him force a lie. 

He does, however, look confused. By you. Not your words, though. You know they register fully because the confusion doesn't come until you meet his eyes, and he really takes you in. For the first time since you met him, you see the truth behind his gaze. A disgusting reality that he is not staring at you with love, or even a hint of recognition. 

No, to him, you are a stranger. Somebody he does not know, sitting in his unused armchair across the living room, telling him words you don't really want to be saying. You don't get that luxury of choice, though. 

"Your silence is answer enough," you murmur, and you force your limbs to react to your brain's signals, feet pressed firmly on the floor as you stand. 

"Hey, wait," he stops you from moving without even a lick of firmness. You grow sick, knowing he will always have some subconscious hold on you that you'll never not respond to. "Why do you say that? Have I done something to make you feel that way?"

Yes, you want to scream. Yes, you have, and I'm begging you to tell me I'm wrong and that you do love me. Instead, you're jumping through hoops to turn this into an unnecessary conversation. 

However, "I'm just becoming... aware. Of certain things. That would mean us ending things is the best thing to do," is what you do say. 

"Like what?" he quips.

"Things."

Air blows out his nose, frustratedly. "That's not an answer."

Light bulbs burn out when the filament — the three wires in its centre — breaks down, and ceases to produce electricity. Burning out after an average of a thousand hours per lightbulb, because nothing can live forever. Nothing can live forever, for the sun will eventually burn out. Not in this lifetime, and definitely not in the next five, or ten, or twenty. The hydrogen will eventually deplete, and it will die the way fifty-two stars die each century. Nothing can live forever, and you would be naive to believe that something as minor as this relationship will be exempt from that fate. 

"What does it matter, Spencer?" you whisper. A pathetic tone for response, but you think you'll choke on anything louder. 

"You matter," he argues. Words are bullets, and he seems to have perfect aim. 

"Not to you, I don't," you stumble over your feet as you try to head towards his door. You've said what you needed to say. You've ended things. You can go, and this can all be over. 

"Yes, you do," he's standing too. He got closer to you at some point. You don't really remember. 

"You don't even know me!"

You're crying, you think. Staring at him, and he's blurry, which must mean your eyes are full of water. Ridiculous, because he is very clearly not. Too emotional for this conversation to drag out any longer, and yet he has the power to keep you constrained to it like a prison as long as he keeps talking. 

"You're shutting me out as a form of defence for something," he says. The words are calm, but he's taken on a higher pitch in his voice, which tells you this is affecting him. Or maybe he's pretending. "I don't know what. You won't tell me. That's your prerogative, I guess."

"You don't love me," you repeat the words from earlier with less conviction. You believe them less, yes, but still trust your instincts enough for them to hurt. 

"I don't understand why you think that," he replies, a hand dragging down his face. "I don't. All the knowledge in the world, and I cannot think of any logical reason behind you believing that."

"Who's Maeve?"

The silence that follows is deafening. His head snaps up and his hands fall limp by his sides, your vision clearing in an instant. You know, deep down, who Maeve is. The tragic ending to an even more tragic relationship has her name printed all over it.

"That's why you think I don't love you." It isn't a question, and he almost sounds like he's ridiculing you for coming to such a conclusion. 

Your panic rises. "I saw the book, and the addresses, and the—"

"—Maeve is dead!" Your heart sinks, as, for the first time in your life, you see Spencer Reid exhibit anger. No, not anger. He is not angry. Not with you, at least. He's hurt. "I am never going to get over her because she is dead. I watched a bullet go into her head. I mourned her, and I told myself I would never let myself get that close to somebody again. Yet, here you stand."

You stay silent. You don't know if he's finished speaking. If he is, he doesn't let you know. He doesn't prompt you for a response. He continues before you even start to think of something to say back.

"I didn't plan on letting you into my life like this. When I met you, you were not supposed to be this important to me. Is that why you think I don't love you? Because you saw me and got attached at first sight, and had to work for me to give you attention?"  Your chest aches. "Was it because I distanced myself from you for weeks in the beginning? Every coffee date, more spread out than the last. Not letting you into my space until you were my girlfriend? No sex for months?"

"You're angry," you state the obvious, and his eyebrows shoot up. A deprecating laugh leaves his lips. Not to deprecate himself, though. No, you. 

"You somehow played a role in getting me out of the self-loathing pit I fell into after Maeve died, and now you're telling me I don't love you—Yes, I'm angry! We were fine two weeks ago. I loved you the same way I did two weeks ago as I do right now. I'm frustrated, because I don't understand how you can possibly believe my feelings for you have changed so drastically!"

"The books are new. And the addresses. And the phone number," you say, almost desperately.  

"No. They're not. I have had that copy of that book for two years. Those addresses have been printed in there for longer. Everything you are finding are results of you noticing more about my apartment, which happens when you are in a space often enough. You will pick up on things you didn't notice the first time you were here. Or the second. Or maybe even the tenth. I have not hidden the fact that I had a girlfriend two years ago from you. Just how it ended." You don't have any energy to fight back, despite how badly you want to. You suppose, deep down, you know you deserve this. His bulleted words and cold voice. Even his sarcasm, as he drawls, "I hope you can forgive me for not making you privy to my ex-girlfriend's death."

"Spencer," you take a step forward, and he stiffens, so you halt. 

Now, you feel stupid. Scrutinised under his gaze, knowing how ridiculous he probably now views you as. Starting an argument over something you should've just asked him about. Driving yourself crazy, letting every single element still fuelling your mind run dry, when you could've just said something. 

"Is this going to be a one time thing?" he asks you, carefully levelling his voice. To hide how he really feels, or to make you feel worse, you don't know. "Or should I live in fear of you jumping to conclusions every time something from my past gets brought up?" 

It isn't a nice assumption to make, but it's fair. You give him that. Still, your gut twists uncomfortably, each organ stuttering in their role of keeping you alive for only a second. Just enough for you to feel sick, and stumble backwards. 

"I... I don't know," you provide him with honesty. "I'm sorry," you add, quietly. A poor attempt at making this situation any better. A bandaid over a bullet hole. 

"I know," and you're sure he does. There's bound to be regret painted on your face, mixing wonderfully with fear of where this relationship is going to go now. 

You don't even want to ask him, but you're sure if he doesn't force you to, you'll start throwing up at his feet. "Do you want me to go?" 

A shuddering breath is his response. You take it for what it is, and nod your head with the most sincere smile you can conjure up. You barely have anything to collect before you leave. Just your ruined mind, and new astronomical statistics.

Fifty-two star deaths this century just became fifty-three.

your reblogs and replies are always welcome ♡

[liaissante]

[mariasficrecs]

oh just run me over with a bulldozer it would hurt less promise. self sabotage fics are going to do it for me everytime but oh my gods im hurting so bad. you're a genius. an evil on FOR SURE, but a genius nonetheless.

the relationship breaking apart but like not in like crazy flames but in dust, silence, and missed eye contact. devastating actually. youll be needing to pay for my therapy.

and UGH the way you wrote this so perfectly that i managed to be pissed off at them both. like fuck u spencer but also fuck u reader

“Fifty-two star deaths this century just became fifty-three”

this killed me. like is reader trying to intellectualize the heartbreak, make it science instead of emotion because that hurts less?????? (so spencer coded) idk i almost threw up.

because it's not just sad for the reader it's inevitable. like of course this couldnt last. of course it burned out. stars die. lights go out. nothing!!!! lasts!!!! forever!!!! and their love, which as you beautifully put it, is a whole galaxy they built between each other, is just another one of those collapsing things

this wrecked me, actually. thanks for that (no like literally thanks for that because this was so beautiful)

[luveline]

i just saw someone on tiktok say “behind every girl that always wants to be around their partner is a little who’s dad didn’t choose her.” with aaron pls :(( and reader reveals her daddy issues? xxx

—hotch comforts you when you worry you depend on him for the wrong reasons. fem, 2k

You were aware of the irony. Girl who hates her father latches onto the first older man to give her any positive attention: the framing isn’t complimentary to either of you, and it’s not true, really. You love Aaron because he’s kind, and he’s handsome, and because he loves you first. You won’t pretend he’s perfect even if he might say that about you. He doesn’t have to be. 

Aaron is kind where all the other men in your life have been cruel. He is the person you go to when things go wrong, even if you don’t expect him to fix things for you. You know you have ‘daddy issues’, and you don’t want them to affect how you and Aaron are when you’re together, but it’s obvious to the both of you that you crave being looked after. The way Aaron takes care of you absolutely factors into why you love him. 

He wraps the tail end of your scarf into your coat and flattens the lump of it until it’s under your chin. “Alright?” he asks, not expecting an answer as he turns away to grab his own scarf. “Will that coat be warm enough? It might be a few hours.” 

“Fine. We’ll be inside most of the time.” 

“Mm,” he hums, reaching back to pinch your side. You laugh and he smiles but doesn’t say anything further, pulling open the front door, and holding it for you until you’re on the porch. 

“You know you don’t have to… spoil him, so much,” you say lightly. 

“It’s not spoiling, he only wants a few things.” 

You’d personally felt that Jack’s birthday wish list was a bit long, but you don’t care. You don’t have a vendetta against Jack's happiness. If Aaron wants to spend half a paycheck (alright, a quarter, if that) on some toys, he should do it. But he probably knows already that Jack won’t care if he doesn’t get all of that stuff. “I didn’t get half as much for my birthdays,” you say. 

“Believe me, honey, neither did I.” 

“One year someone’s mom got me a full box set of movies though. That was a good one.” 

“One year, I got two different pagers.” He snorts. “And now they’re useless.” 

“I never used a pager.” 

Aaron goes a bit red, self-shame or something silly like that. “Don’t tell me that.” 

“Cradle snatcher.” 

“Stop, that’s not funny.” 

It’s funny. You aren’t shockingly younger than Aaron but it’s definitely enough time to see the difference (not that you care, you quite like him with his permanent wrinkle between his brows and his big, big hands). “I really haven’t. I know what they are, of course, but I went straight to a cell phone.” 

He grumbles something unheard. Together, you get into his car and drive to the shopping centre nearest the house, a maze of storefronts with outdoor entrances, like a mall that’s been shaken and thrown out over two streets. It’s not entertaining but in a way, it’s good. Aaron holds your hand and you can walk around with your head held high, proud to be a well-dressed, in love-looking partnership. See, your face says to anyone who’ll look, I’m well-loved. 

After an hour or two he kisses your cheek and decides aloud that you need dinner. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry, he just chooses, and you love it. 

“Thank you for letting me come today,” you say, sitting across from him behind a dinner plate and a towering glass of lemon water. 

“Did I let you?” he asks, distracted by his steak and fries, though he sounds as loving as usual. 

“You could’ve said no.” 

“I have no reason to. I like when you’re with me. Thank you for letting me bring you, then, and boring you half to death.” 

“Freezing me the other half.” 

“Ah, so smart, so clever,” he murmurs. 

“Witty.” 

“Always, aren’t you?” 

You wonder about the dessert menu, find your mouth working of its own accord. “It doesn’t feel believable, sometimes. That you want me around so much.” 

He pauses, resting his knife across his fork. With a free hand, he gestures to your hand. “Would you like more proof?” 

You aren’t sure what he means, the tennis bracelet he got you for your first anniversary, or the engagement ring that sits heavily on your marriage finger waiting to be traded for a golden band. Maybe he means the teeny silver bracelet that falls down your arm whenever you move, that one just for fun. 

“Not,” he says slowly, his eyes squinted to tell you that you’re caught, “that jewellery should be your sole proof.” 

“Would you like to prove it to me now?” 

He reaches over to squeeze your hand. “I want you around all of the time. If I could I’d have us sewn together at the hip.” He’s grinning, thumbing against your knuckles. “It might not be comfortable at night when you’re trying to climb all over me.” 

“You climb all over me, Hotchner, don’t lie.” 

Aaron nods appreciatively. “That’s right. You’re the second most important thing in my life, and that’s not your fault, only Jack is so endearing.” 

“He’s a lucky kid.” 

“No, he’s not,” Aaron says gently, “but I really do love him.” 

“Of course he’s lucky. He has a dad who loves him to pieces, his Aunt Jess is like, superwoman, and– you know, I know I’m not the same as that, but I love him.”

“You look after him,” Aaron says. 

“It’s honestly just nice that you seem to like him. You don’t act like he’s an annoyance for you, you aren’t angry to have to come out today to get him his presents.” 

“Well, no. It’s not something to be angry about. When you have kids, you’re signing up for every part of having them.” 

“I know.” 

He takes a sip of his drink and puts it down beside your own in what you know to be him buying a little time. “Honey, is there something… I don’t know, something you want to talk about? Is it Jack's birthday…?”

You feel your heart fall into your mouth, as though it began life somewhere else, heartbeat mortified on your tongue. He sees you fluster and immediately softens, turning your hand in his to stroke along the inside of your wrist. 

“Nevermind,” he says. 

“No.” You clear your throat. “It’s not about Jack’s birthday. It’s just… you know you weren’t always the best father you could’ve been.” 

He nods. “I do.” 

“But you are now. You’ve made sacrifices, you– you chose Jack.” 

“I couldn’t not.” You’re quiet. He understands. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to talk about it now. Would that be better? You can think about what you have to say, and I promise I’ll listen without judging you when you’re ready to tell me about it. Okay?” He gives your wrist a squeeze. “You aren’t upset, are you?” 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“Are you too distracted for dessert?” 

You let Aaron pick one for you. Let him pay the bill, he’d be insulted if you even asked about splitting it, and he might genuinely get annoyed if you offered yourself. You usually love it. Someone loves you enough that money is practically immaterial. Just last month he had to have the roof of the house redone, and you know his money isn’t infinite, as does he, and yet it didn’t stop you from being spoiled, because any money he has was money shared. You know if he suddenly turned pauper he’d still spoil you, same way you’re spoiled with soft touches and less chores than you should take. 

“You know I don’t think of you as my father, right?” you ask. 

Aaron chokes on a startled laugh. “Of course I do,” he says, coughing, clutching your elbow. 

“So if I tell you that sometimes the way you treat me reminds me of my father, you won’t take it the wrong way?” 

“No.” He smiles where he should frown, wraps an arm behind your back when he should be judging you. “Men are still men. And I am a father, so it makes sense that you’d have those connotations in mind sometimes.” 

“I don’t want you to be my dad, but I do wonder… I wonder if I want to be around you so much because my father didn’t want to be around me. Does that make sense?” 

“I think it makes sense to wonder about it,” he says diplomatically. 

You’re nearly back to the car and this is a strange place to bare your heart, but it’s not so dramatic, you suppose. “I just think that sometimes I cling to you so much, and it must be– I’m insecure about you.”

“Mm, but you have no reason to be,” he says, pulling you closer still, his fingers aligned against your ribs and warming through your layers. 

“My father didn’t like me, not like you like Jack. There were things that were far more important to him. But with you, I’m important, and– and I know it’s not the same relationship, but–” You groan, not sure what you’re trying to say to him, or what you want him to understand. 

“My father didn’t like me, either,” Aaron says, encouraging you to keep walking to the car. “He was not a nice person. And it absolutely affected how I feel now, even if I don’t always think about him. The way he treated me when I was young influenced the person I am now. And looking for the things I wish he was, looking for kindness, for a gentle partner, it doesn’t mean that I need a placeholder for him, does it? I know what you’re saying to me. Don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to be looked after.” 

You can’t help breathing out a sigh of relief. “Right.” 

“I’ve never been a young woman, and I don’t have a daughter, but it’s not hard to imagine how you felt. It’s okay to wish you’d been loved properly.” 

“I was never a daddy’s girl,” you confess. 

“It’s not fair. Everyone wants to be treasured when they're a kid. And it makes sense that you’re still looking for that feeling. We both know it’s not the same, but I really will look after you.” He smiles. “Okay?” 

“Okay. Sorry if it’s too weird.” 

“It’s not weird to want someone who takes care of you.” 

You bring your hands to his face. They’re smaller than his, you’ve shorter fingers with softer palms, but they fit perfectly on his cheeks. You tease the scratchy hill of his chin with your thumb before closing your eyes, reaching up for a kiss. The bags hanging from your elbows crack, crushed as Aaron gets his hands behind your back to hold you. 

“You’re too good to me,” you say softly, returning flat to your heels. 

Aaron pulls your face back to kiss your cheek. “You deserve everything you get, honey. I promise.” 

[mariasficrecs]

oh my gawd user luveline does it again

you can’t keep getting away with this 😭😭😭😭😭 too good

ur version of hotch is always so soft i could literally disintegrate and cry wowow 10/10, hit a little too close to home

[spicypal]

About Time

Pairing: hot!BAU!reader x boss!hotch About: You've been flirting with your boss for months, and you've decided to do something about it--only you don't expect him to be quite so receptive. CW: NSFW, MDNI, lots of teasing, fingering, CHOKING, light dom/sub/good girl play Word Count: 2k A/N: This is a Hotch fic, this is also my first NSFW fic. This probably won't be the last of hot!bau!reader. dividers by @/esote-rika

You’d been an agent at the BAU for 342 days. You’d had a crush on your boss, Aaron Hotchner, for 341 days and 3 hours. You’re pretty sure the feeling is mutual. You’ve now decided that it’s About Time you do something about it.

The sexual tension was thick. At first it was subtle, a lingering glance here, a touch that lasted just a little too long there.

Over time, it had slowly turned into intentional touches, little favors, overt flirtation—and you were sure the vibe had not gone unnoticed by your teammates. Luckily, they didn’t seem to mind—you were new, but they’d all known Hotch for a long time, and it almost seemed as if they were pleased to see him smiling more often. You were grateful for this unspoken approval—you weren’t sure you’d be able to help yourself either way, so the blessing was welcomed. They didn’t know, however, how haunting the wanting looks had become—Aaron Hotchner was thirsty, needy, starving for you.

Back to the doing something about it.

You know what you have. ‘Young’ and ‘hot’ are two things that will get you far; you’re sure that applying little light pressure on your boss would end up with you backed into a corner, Hotch’s hands pinning you against the wall, hot breath over your mouth, neck, anywhere.

The execution would be easy. Get him alone, bat your eyelashes, bite your lip. You’re sure you can even throw in a little sigh, really get him aroused, make him flush. You relished in the idea of playing with him a little; you already know the way he doesn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes off your chest, the way his hands ball into fists, stiff at his sides, or shoved into his pockets—as if to keep himself to reaching up to touch.

Your boss could not resist you, and you knew it.

It’s time.

You stand up, tugging your skirt down a little and reapplying your lip balm. You never wear a lot of makeup, usually choosing to play it subtle; but you’ve seen Hotch after you’ve applied your tinted lip balm, the way his focus a little scattered as his eyes drift down to your lips—you know he’s a simple man. You unbutton the top of your blouse, just a ghost of cleavage revealed—that would be enough.

You can see him from the bullpen, head down over his desk. You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Here goes nothing.

As you approach his office, your hands are trembling. You take one more steadying breath before knocking lightly. “Come in,” Hotch says from the other side of the door. You quickly step in, closing the door gently behind you. He’s bent over a case file, the crease between his brows deep as he concentrates on reading what is in front of him. He hasn’t looked up from his desk since you’ve closed the door, so you clear your throat to get his attention; after a moment, he looks up, the crease in his forehead slowly relaxing as he takes you in. 

You see his eyes drag up from your waist, stopping on your top button, before continuing to your face. You flutter your eyelashes, biting your lip as you turn to his blinds, deftly rolling the the tilt rod between your fingers, effectively closing his blinds as sensually as you can manage. You can feel his eyes on you, so you cock your hip to the side, giving him a little butt wiggle. 

When you turn back around, his eyes are dark. He’s no longer looking at your body, but studying your face—questioning sternly, frowning, warning. His lips part slightly as you approach his desk, frown deepening as he studies your eyes for an answer. You don’t say a word, though, instead lightly placing your fingertips on his desk, shyly looking down. 

Your fingers trace little circles on the edge of his desk, and his eyes flicker to them, watching them intently. He tilts his head a little, further questioning your intentions. The silent conversation progresses as you slide one hand a few inches towards him, and his eyes widen, before he quickly sits back in his chair, legs spread, expression dark. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, and his voice sounds tight; you can’t help but notice the way his hands have moved to grip the arm rests of his desk chair, knuckles white. His thick, muscular thighs remain splayed, and you think you can see a ghost of an outline behind his zipper.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start softly, making sure to flutter your eyelashes a bit. “I know you’re my boss, but…” you bite your lip, looking him directly in the eye, daring him to prompt you to continue.

“But?” he questions, quietly this time, expression now schooled, lips slightly parted; you take in the way his breathing has sped up, and you’re pretty sure you can see his pulse throbbing in his neck.

You take a chance, making your way slowly around his desk, never breaking eye contact. His breath hitches as you reach out to stroke his hand, still grasping desperately onto the chair.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you,” you say seductively, giving him an innocent, wry smile as you look down. You lean down, free hand ghosting over his knee, sliding up a little, and he’s absolutely still as you move to wrap your hand around his wrist.

You can tell he’s hanging on for dear life, pupils blown, breath now shallow, and you knew this wouldn’t be difficult—but you’re so delighted at how very easy this was. 

You squeeze his wrist once, and his fingers twitch, so you take that as permission, slowly pulling both his hands slowly to your waist, pressing his hands onto your waist, and his hands hover for a moment, trembling lightly. With a swallow, he bunches the fabric of your skirt in his fists.

You let out a soft sigh, eyes fluttering closed at the touch. Your sigh sends him over the edge, and in a moment, his hands are on your ass, squeezing, his frustration palpable as he pulls you into him. 

“What are you doing?” He groans as you start to straddle him on the chair, but his question must be hypothetical, because before you can say anything, one of his hands moves up to the back of your neck, squeezing lightly and pulling you in, smashing his mouth against yours. 

He kisses you so hard you’re sure your lips will be bruised. He grunts, sounding brutish. He kisses hungry, forcibly, tongue pushing its way into your mouth, lapping at you, and all you can think about is how lovely his tongue will be between your thighs.

You groan, rolling your hips, finding relief in the press of his hardness against all of your pressure points, and his responding grunt is downright animalistic. His huge hands return to your hips, guiding them to rock against him, and you’re pliant underneath his fingers as he grinds his cock into you. 

He pulls your mouths apart with a smack and gently pushes you out of the chair, and you’re literally panting as he stands and backs you up against the wall behind you.

You’d always suspected Hotch could be a bit dominant, and you smile smugly, tracing your teeth with your tongue, now knowing you’d been correct. 

“You’re naughty, coming in here like this,” he says sternly, and he torturously takes his time rolling up his sleeves before sliding a hand to your neck. You tilt your head up, inviting him to choke you, but instead he moves his hand into your hair, thumb brushing lightly at your cheekbone as he studies your face. 

“Yeah?” You ask, challenging, and you push your hips up off the wall towards him—but he places his other hand flat on your stomach, pushing you away from him, back up against the wall. His hips pin you tightly against the wall, and you can feel his hard cock digging into your hip bone as he selfishly grinds into you. His left hand is still tangled in your hair, and he slides it down the nape of your neck, pinching a bit of hair between his thumb and forefinger. 

He yanks at your hair, tilting your head back and moving his other hand to rest on your throat. 

At this point, his entire, long body is pressed up against you, pressed so close that can see every weave in the fabric of the collar of his shirt. 

His left hand still rests on your throat, but he still doesn’t squeeze—the gentle pressure is there to hold you in place, his hot breath fanning over your cheeks as he gently slides his nose up the side of your face to your temple. You hear him smell your hair possessively, softly whispering your name. 

“Please, Aaron,” you moan, desperately, and he grinds into you again before pulling away. 

You groan at the absence of his touch, but it’s less than a second before his right hand presses against the low of your stomach, then teasingly traces the hem of the pantyhose on your thigh, circling lower until he can sneak his hand up your skirt. When he finally reaches your panties, he finds them soaked through, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan you let out when he brushes his middle finger over your clit.

At this point, with one hand on your throat and one between your legs, he’s basically holding you up against the wall as your knees start to give, panting heavily as he continues to lightly stroke you, and you nearly lose your mind when he starts whispering in your ear.

“Such a good girl,” he says, “so nice and wet for me.” He presses a kiss to your ear and gently puts more pressure on your neck, restricting blood flow just enough to make your eyes close involuntarily in pleasure. 

His right hand deftly moves your panties to the side, and he carefully slides his long fingers along all of your wetness, teasing your entrance with his fingers while his thumb takes over with making small circles over your clit. His mouth starts to nibble on your ear, and you’re overstimulated by all of the arousal you’re experiencing in all of the different parts of your body.

He continues on teasing like that, soft palpations turning into sloppy strokes, all the while slowly grinding his hips against yours. After a moment, he decides you’re moaning and squirming enough to finally warrant him sliding first his middle finger inside you, then he adds a second, curling both fingers forward to hit your g-spot while simultaneously holding a steady rhythm on your clit. 

“Thank you for coming to see me like this,” he says in your ear, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,”  and as he’s whispering, he’s rhythmically rocking into your thigh with his cock, hot breath on your ear. 

At this point, his steady rhythm is starting to build something inside you, and you start rocking against his hand as it’s fucking you. You press your neck forward into his other hand, silently pleading for more pressure. 

“Good girl, I’d like you to come for me,” he says gently, and you rock for a few more seconds against him as he carries you into the best orgasm you’d maybe ever had. His hand squeezes around your throat just a little tighter, and your vision goes black as you fully tremble to pieces in his grasp, his thigh now between your legs to help hold you up as you come down from your silent climax, knees having gone out from underneath you. He pulls his hand away from your neck and uses it to steady you, and his other hand slowly slides out of you and into his mouth, licking you off of him. 

“Such a pretty girl,” he says softly, sweetly, once his fingers are clean, and you lean into him, still shaking. He wraps both his arms around you as you continue to come down, slowly rocking side to side as he strokes your hair. 

Once you’ve finally pulled yourself together, you let out a shaky sigh and step back, all of a sudden very shy. 

“Is that what you wanted? Did you think I didn’t know the little game you were playing when you shut those blinds?” He says, his tone is gentle and teasing.

“A girl can try,” you flirt back, making a futile attempt to readjust your skirt and smooth your hair. He of course helps, straightening your blouse, even reaching up to re-button the top button you’d bravely undone in your salacious plans. 

He bends over one last time, sensually kissing your neck just behind your ear.

“You could’ve just asked,” he whispered, giving your butt a little pat and stepping back with a smirk.

You’d count this one as a win.

[mariasficrecs]

“Thank you for coming to see me like this,” he says in your ear, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart,”

so my heart actually flatlined reading this part omfg

but HEYYYYYY welcome to the dark side of writing smut 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 you absolutely devoured that shew

[minswriting]

CLOSET RENDEZVOUS- S.R x Reader

About: You wear a form fitting skirt to work and Spencer can’t help but run off to the janitor’s closet to get off. You follow him and sexy fun time ensues.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, masturbation, perv!spencer, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, use of “good boy”, porn no plot

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: border made by @esote-rika !! please support your creators by commenting and reblogging! thank you to @gold-onthe-inside for proofreading for me!!!

Spencer was someone who prided himself on his intelligence. It’s the one thing no one could ever take from him. Not his bullies, parents, friends, or a lack thereof, and he certainly didn’t think you’d take it either. That was until you came into his life.

The day you stepped into the bullpen on the seventh floor, dressed in a professional pantsuit that fit you wonderfully, looking nervous about your first day, Spencer knew he was a goner. You are the embodiment of beauty, the goddess that blessed him with your presence while he was nothing more than a mere mortal, gawking at your existence. And that day, Spencer couldn’t think of anything other than you.

It was wrong, of course, to be attracted to you. You were a member of the team, have been for three years now, and are a wonderful friend to everyone. With the way you are highly skilled and your deduction skills are something to be admired. And how you are so loving and caring to those around you, especially after something really bad goes down. Spencer knew he shouldn’t harbor feelings for you, that they cloud his judgment, but he just can’t help it.

Especially when you look so pretty in everything you wear and everything you do. You never failed to have Spencer hard in a heartbeat. It was rather pathetic, really. The way you’d just walk into the room and Spencer’s already got a raging hardon. And when he thinks he’s finally alright, he'll get a whiff of your perfume, and he’s hard again. The amount of times he’s jerked himself off to you over the past three years was ridiculous. He should be disgusted with himself and yet, he continues to do it.

When you had come into work wearing that stupid form-fitting skirt, Spencer knew he was immediately done for. The way the black material hugged your figure had blood rushing straight to his cock, his IQ of one-eighty-seven dropping down to sixty. The black pencil skirt, going down to your knees, hugged your butt so beautifully that Spencer could imagine how it looked underneath it.

“Hi, Spencer,” You greeted, smiling brightly as you walked towards his desk.

Spencer blinked a few times as his brain tried to process what had just been said to him. “Uh-,” Spencer tried to conjure up words but nothing came to his brain as he looked at you. “Hi,” his voice cracked as he said the small word.

The way you beamed at him, always smiling so brightly whenever you walked into the room, Spencer really shouldn’t feel such a way towards it. You’re his coworker and someone he’d consider a good friend. But ultimately, he was just a man with urges and his biggest urge was trying not to pin you against his desk and take you right then and there in front of everyone. He knew it was his biology, the hormones and all. Perhaps he should think more logically about it, to not allow such feelings to control his thinking. And yet, you had that pathetic effect on him.

“Spence?” You said, furrowing your eyebrows and tilting your head as you looked at the genius, pulling Spencer out of his thoughts.

“Hm?” He said, blinking a few times as he looked up at you. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I asked how you’re doing.” You said, eyebrows softening. “Are you alright? You seem so out of it today.”

Spencer took a deep breath, nodding his head. He was perfectly fine until you came in but it’s not like he could say that to you. “I’m fine,” He said, pressing his lips into an awkward smile. “Just tired. I didn’t get much rest last night.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, nodding your head. “Would you like me to grab you a coffee?” You asked softly.

God, you were perfect. Always so kind and caring, ensuring everyone is doing good. He cleared his throat, nodding his head. “Uh-yes, please, if that’s alright,” He said, eye lowering to the file on his desk. Right, the file. He was supposed to be doing paperwork right now to help with the case you guys had just finished.

And yet, all Spencer could think about was how much he wanted to bury his cock inside of your pussy.

As soon as you walked away from Spencer’s desk and to the coffee area, Spencer stood up and beelined to an empty janitor’s closet, walking in and closing the door behind him. His cock was aching, to say the least. The way you looked in that tight pencil skirt had Spencer’s brain reeling. The usual relatively-composed doctor was reduced to nothing more than a horny, pathetic man. His thoughts were consumed by images of you. Oh, how desperately he wanted to fuck your cunt from behind, seeing the way your ass bounced as his hips collided with your skin.

Spencer hurriedly unzipped his pants, pulling them down just enough to let his cock breathe. He was already so hard and his tip was red, leaking with precum. He was incapable of helping the small whimper that escaped his lips as he gripped his cock, eyes fluttering shut as he began to tease his tip, spreading around his precum. The image of you on your knees in front of him flashed in his mind and he wondered what it would feel like to have your lips wrapped around his cock. Your mouth was likely so warm and would feel so good around him. God, he craved you so badly.

Just as Spencer was about to properly stroke himself, the door opened. Spencer jumped, eyes widening as he immediately moved to cover himself as he looked at the door. There you were, closing the door behind yourself, as you looked at Spencer. To say he was mortified was an understatement. You had just caught him red-handed, about to jerk himself off.

“So this is why you’ve been acting weird today, huh?” You spoke quietly, ensuring no one could hear the conversation if they ended up walking past.

Spencer didn’t speak as he looked like a deer in headlights, unable to formulate words to try and get out of this. He expected you to berate him, to be disgusted with him, and to stomp out of the room to immediately go tell Hotch about what you had seen. Instead, what you did was smirk at Spencer and take one step closer to him so that you were almost pressed against him in the tiny closet.

“I notice the way you look at me, Spence,” you murmured. “The way your gaze is always looking at my tits or fixated on my ass.” You placed your hand on his chest, causing Spencer’s breath to hitch. “Do I turn you on, Spencer?”

Spencer didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he swallowed, nodding his head.

“Use your words,” you commanded softly.

“Y-yes,” Spencer whispered, his breath shaky.

You hummed in acknowledgment. “Good boy,” you murmured, causing Spencer to let out a soft whimper as a shiver went down his spine and straight to his cock. His hands were still covering his cock as you brought your hand down to his, pulling them away from his length. “Do you want me to help you?” You breathed out as you looked at Spencer’s cock. He was hung, that was for sure.

“H-how?” And so, Spencer’s dream of a lifetime became a reality when you lifted your skirt and bent over for him, placing your hands on the wall to hold yourself up. “Are you sure?” He asked, suddenly breathless.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” You replied softly. “Please, Spence.”

That was all he needed to pull your panties aside and drag his cock along your folds. He ran the tip along your slit, gathering your wetness. He couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his lips as he did so. You were soaked and he hadn’t even done anything to elicit such a reaction from you. Spencer lined himself up to your entrance, slowly easing himself in carefully.

You had to stop yourself from moaning, putting a hand over your lips as Spencer pushed his cock inside of you. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” Spencer whispered, staying still as he gave you a moment to adjust.

“So big,” you breathed out, eyes fluttering shut. After a few moments, you clenched around Spencer’s cock, signaling he could start moving.

And so, he did. Spencer pulled his cock out, his eyes fixated on your pussy as he thrusted back in. It took everything in him not to whine at the feeling of your cunt wrapped around his cock. You were so wet, tight, and warm. It felt like absolute perfection wrapped around him and Spencer knew that regardless of what happened after this, nothing would ever compare to the beauty that was you and your pussy.

Spencer didn’t bother to take his time with it, regardless of how much he desperately wanted to. The two of you were still at work, in a government building, nonetheless, and jobs to focus on. He moved his hips fast, his thrusts messy and desperate but neither of you minded as it was still very pleasurable.

“Oh my god,” you whispered against your hand, moving your hips in sync with Spencer’s as you met his thrusts. The closet was filled with the sounds of your pussy squelching around Spencer’s cock and the subtle sound of skin slapping. You hoped no one walked by otherwise, they’d definitely be able to hear what was going on behind the door.

The hand that was on your mouth moved to your clit as you rubbed circles, bringing yourself closer to the edge. With Spencer’s cock thrusting inside of you, grazing that special spot of yours, you could feel the heat building inside of you. And with the way Spencer’s hips stuttered with each thrust, you knew he was getting close too.

It wasn’t long before you came with a gasp, thighs shaking as you tried your best to hold yourself up with your one hand. Spencer wrapped an arm around your waist, supporting you a bit as he chased his own high and with a whimper, he began cumming inside of you, filling you up with his cum.

And when you were both finished, he pulled out, carefully placing your panties back and rolling down your skirt, making sure you were back to your nice and pristine self. The two of you were breathing heavily, mind reeling from what had just occurred. You stood up, turning to look at Spencer as he tucked himself back into his pants.

“Come to my apartment tonight,” you said, smirking at Spencer. “Perhaps I’ll let you try other things with my body.”

To say Spencer was surprised would be an understatement but it was certainly not unwelcome. And with a small nod of his head and a hoarse “S-sounds good,” it was a plan.

“It’s a date then,” you exclaimed, winking at the genius before opening the door and closing it behind you, walking back to your desk and leaving Spencer alone with his thoughts once more.

You were going to be the death of him.

[mariasficrecs]

You are the embodiment of beauty, the goddess that blessed him with your presence while he was nothing more than a mere mortal, gawking at your existence.

UGHHHHH i know that’s right!!!!!!! loved this line if you couldn’t tell

reader finding him in a storage closet? joining him in said storage closet? yes lord 🙏🏼 the bau storage closet hates to see reader coming fr