Bloody Queen

💀She/Her ♀️26 years⏳Aquarium ♒Venezolana🇻🇪

[queenbloody]

It took me almost four days to finish this drawing, it feels good after so much time of creative inactivity, I hope to be able to do more when I quit my job :D

[reiderwriter]

hi i love your writing

could you do something with reid loving that reader is pregnant. fluff or smut or both

A/N Hello! Thanks for the request! Dad!Spencer is the cutest thing on the planet so this is some unapologetic fluff. And now I have baby fever.

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, idiots in love. Loosely based on Haley and Hotch's conversation in 1x1. Very fluffy and probably very cheesy and sentimental too... Sorry, you give me girl dad Spencer and suddenly there isn't an impure thought in my head, I just want to lovingly stare at him like I'm the dead wife in an action movie montage.

My requests are open, check out my masterlist for more 🌸

“Okay, what about Amelia?”

“No, Amelia Dyer, Victorian serial killer. She killed multiple infants over a thirty-year period.”

“Okay, okay, how about, Myra?”

“Myra Hindley, she and her partner Ian Brady abducted and killed five children and teens in the early sixties.”

“God, not that then. There can’t be a psychopathic murderer called Belle, right?”

“You’re making this too easy for me, y’know. Belle Gunness, Hell’s Belle, she’s one of the most prolific female serial killers of all time, even 100 years after her supposed death. It’s fascinating, you know, people think that she actually faked her death - when the doctor who performed the postmortem testified, he noted that the cadaver was about five inches shorter and about fifty pounds lighter than Gunness supposedly was….” You raise a single eyebrow at your wonderful husband, and he immediately shuts up.

“I’m rambling aren’t I?” He smiled down at you as you sat curled up as much as you could in your favorite spot on the couch, the cosiest part of your shared apartment. You smiled back up at him as he leaned down for a kiss and you gladly craned your neck up in response, meeting his lips for a sweet moment.

“Hotch was right you know,” you joked when the two of you parted. “All of the best baby names have been taken by serial killers.”

“Yeah, you’d think with the ratio of female to male serial killers, a girl would be easier to name.” He leans down to kiss you again before falling into a crouch next to you, resting his head on your shoulder and placing his hand on your stomach.

“How big did you say our little girl is now?”

“Y/N, you asked me that half an hour ago. I know pregnancy messes with your brain a bit, but if you’re that bad we’re going to have to get you back to Dr Patel and see if you’re doing okay.” He was joking of course, but you showed him your little pout anyway, knowing that he loved seeing the silly expression on your face.

“Humor me, Doctor.” He strokes your stomach and moves away, but not too far away, taking up right next to you on the couch, and pulling your legs over his lap.

“At five months, she’s roughly 10 inches long with a weight of about 0.5-1 pound. But that ‘How Big is My Baby’ book would say that she’s roughly one banana in length.” You giggled up at him and he grabbed your hand and just held it, content to have you in his arms in any way, big or small.

“I can’t believe it’s been five months already,” you giggle as he presses another kiss to your hand.

“I get it. It doesn’t feel quite real yet to me, either. I thought for so long that fatherhood just wasn’t in my future, but you’re the gift that keeps on giving I guess. I don't know what I did to deserve you.” Even if the words weren’t so sweet, with all of the hormones, you would’ve started crying at anything. Or at least that’s what you’re going to tell him when he sees the small tears threatening to drop into enormous loving sobs.

“Spencer Reid, I am not a gift. I am simply the woman with the correct combination of sense and foolish luck that got to marry you.” He’d done this before, and you were used to his small habit of self-deprecating talk, but after a year of marriage and three years of dating before that, you’d managed to work him down to the occasional comment.

“Don’t try to argue about this, I’m definitely the one benefitting the most from the situation right now,” he joked with you, and you could see the genuine adoration shining from behind his eyes. It was a little spark that not many got to see, a glimpse of true happiness in someone usually so reserved.

“Spencer, you’ve given me foot rubs everyday this week, you’ve read more pregnancy and parenting books than every OBGYN and midwife in the area combined, and you’ve somehow attended more of my clinical check-ups than me, and I’m the one whose pregnant.”

“And you’re growing our child inside of you, which is itself more impressive than anything I could ever do with a book and some modern acts of chivalry.”

“Yeah, tell your boss that. I think the only thing keeping Emily from pulling her hair out over your constant absences is that she thinks she’s competing for the title of godmother. She thinks Penelope and JJ are trying to corrupt me with parenting advice and all those baby clothes Pen keeps bringing over.”

“She’s going to be crushed when she remembers we’re not religious, right?”

“Devastated,” the two of you shared a laugh on the couch, and it quickly devolved into a giggle fit after Spencer leaned over and tickled your side. You jolted away from his touch, but he was on you again, attacking your sides with small caresses, and you were gasping for breath between laughs.

“Spence stop- ahh!” Your squeals stopped as you cried out in shock. It was small but you felt something tap against your stomach. Spencer stopped immediately upon seeing your expression change, and a serious look settled on him as he assessed you for any damage.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Are you in pain anywhere, is the baby okay?” He shot out the questions rapidly, one after the other, barely leaving space to catch his own breath from the laughter of earlier.

It happened again and you put a hand to your stomach, finally realising what’s going on.

“I think I just felt her kick. Spencer, I think I just felt the baby kick.” You couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across your face, as much as you couldn’t help the tear that dropped from your eye as your hand rested against your belly again, scared to move for fear that the baby wouldn’t communicate with you again.

“What? Now? Can I- Can I try and feel it, too?” His hands hesitated at first but when you enthusiastically nodded and used your other hand to put him close to yours, you could feel his eagerness to feel the small kicks of your daughter as well.

Almost as if she was waiting for him, as soon as his hand was in the right position, your little girl kicked again, almost as if screaming “I’m here mommy and daddy,” for the two of you to hear.

“I think she’s trying to tell us not to have fun without her,” Reid whispered in your ear, kissing your tear streaked cheek, and using his free hand to rub them away from the other side of your face.

“I am so thankful everyday for this gift you have given me. And for the record, the gift isn’t the baby. The gift is the overwhelming happiness you bring to my life, and the beauty you make me see in this world. The fact that you’re going to be the mother of my child gives me the confidence to get up and go to work every morning because I know that there is joy and there is kindness and there are beautiful people in this world, and you are one, and she will be, too.”

His attempts to dry your tears are now completely vanquished as you let your emotions run wild, but you almost laugh when you realise that his eyes are just as glassy as yours, and you both sit there, overwhelmed by the pure, unadulterated joy that a small kick from a child who has yet to be given a name has bought you.

[reiderwriter]

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Teacher f!Reader

Summary: You're a little bit worried about one of your brightest students recently, so you call her Dad to come in for a meeting. Her absolutely adorable - and single - Dad.

Warnings: the birds and the bees as explained by a kindergardener. Some angst about being a single parent.

A/N: Here's another entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Kid Fic Challenge! Dad Spencer has my heart, and I've been in a really fluff forward mood this weekend, evidently! I think I have one more Kid Fic left to go before the end of the challenge, but we'll see what the will of the fanfiction gods is...

Masterlist

If you were to be asked what the hardest part of being a teacher was, you would, without question or even a second to think, have an answer. Parents. The worst part of teaching is talking to parents. 

Little kids were easy to talk to. They asked questions if they didn't understand things clearly, and they didn't typically say things they didn't mean. Adults were the opposite, and it just so happened that all of your kids' parents were adults. 

Including your most recent problem  child. 

You were used to the kids in your class having some behavior issues - for one, they were kids, it was to be expected that their little bodies couldn't quite handle all of the emotions they were feeling at once. But you were doubly struck by your school area being close to Quantico, meaning half the kids in your care had families with law enforcement backgrounds. 

Absent parents plus growing bodies plus normal kid stress equalled attachment issues, and your problem child Harper Reid was one of your more worrying cases. 

You really hoped everything was okay in the Reid household, so you'd called the little girls parents. She was lovely - honest to god - one of the sweetest little kids you'd ever met. 

Every day she came to school with some older kids and their mom, carpooling on the way in, so you had yet to meet her parents, but you thought that anyone who could produce something that sweet and cute and brilliant couldn't possibly be a bad person. 

You didn't know what to expect, so when her little pigtails peaked around the corner and she came running in, you were momentarily filled with anxiety. 

“MOMMY!” The little girl yelled, launching herself into your arms as soon as she spotted you behind your desk. 

“Hi, Harper! Hi, you must be, Mr. Reid-”

“Doctor, actually, um, but that doesn't really matter. I'm so sorry about this, Harper doesn't usually tackle people.” 

The 3ft tall ball of energy had managed to crawl into your lap and wrap her arms around your neck, so you had to pick her up when you stood to greet her dad. 

“Will your wife be joining us for the meeting today?” You asked, already used to Harper's hugs and general closeness. 

“Oh, no. No, she's not coming. She, uh, doesn't exist. Single father.” 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume, it's just not on my files-” 

“It's okay, it's a …bit complicated.” 

You took your seat at the desk and gestured to the man to do the same. Finally, looking at him for the first time now that some of your anxiety had died down, you couldn't help but think that Doctor Reid was incredibly attractive. It wasn't one part of his face that stuck out to you as being particularly pretty, just the entire ensemble of it together that took your breath away. Either that of Harper was gripping you so tight she was restricting your ability to breathe, and considering a five year old is not a boa constrictor, this was all dad's fault. 

“So, you said on the phone Harper's been having some problems at school?” 

You snapped your attention back to the issue at hand, searching for the relevant files and pictures you wanted to show the man. Harper turned herself around in your lap and looped her arms around your arm, pulling it in close to use as a pillow. 

“Isn't Miss Y/N so pretty, Daddy?” You froze and flushed in an instant, suddenly so aware of the man's eyes on you. You weren't sure if you were thankful or even more embarrassed that Harper's dad seemed to be even more flushed than you. 

“Daddy? Isn't she pretty?” Harper insisted, and you realized that you both weren't going to get out of this without him answering. 

“Yes, angel. Miss Y/N is very pretty.” The little girl smiled in triumph and nuzzled into your arm even more, happily curled up into your lap like a cat. 

“Hey, Harper. We got a new puzzle delivered yesterday. It's got My Melody and Cinnamaroll on it. They're your favorites, right?” 

The little girl nodded in glee, eyes shining as she hung on your every word. 

“How about you go over to the play area and get it started, and then me and your daddy will come over and help you finish it?” 

In a flash, she'd hopped up out of your lap and wriggled away, shouting a quick “You promised, right?” behind her as she went. 

“I'm so sorry about that, I don't know what's gotten into her, she's usually very shy and-”

“Doctor Reid, it's fine. That's just why I called you in today. Teachers and parents are a team, right, we work together to make sure the kids grow up well, you don't need to apologize to me for that.” 

The man seemed to take a deep breath and nod, to regain his wits about him for a second. 

“Is she… this attached in her regular classes?” 

“Well honestly, she was a bit like that at the beginning of the semester, but she grew out of it after a while. In the last week or so, she fell back into it, and now she's calling me ‘Mommy,’ too. I was wondering if anything happened recently at home that could've led her in this direction, or…”

The man looked a little bashful, but there was a twinge of sadness in his expression that you recognised all too well. 

“Harper, uh, doesn't have a Mom. I adopted her, and it's a long story, but... She's been asking me to get her one recently, because she doesn't really understand all that well? I'm sorry, I didn't know she'd do something like this. I should've done a better job at home-” 

“Doctor Reid, raising a child is hard. It's so hard that humans usually do it in communities, or at least in couples. You're doing it alone, and Harper is already one of the smartest and most empathetic little girls I know. You're doing your job as Dad just fine.” 

The man smiled at you and looked down, quickly wiping away a tear as you gave him a moment of privacy. 

“So. If nothing at home set Harper off, we should probably go and ask her why she's calling me mommy, right?” 

You stood, and he stood with you, leaving his satchel next to his chair and unbuttoning his jacket. 

“Great. Sure, let's go see.”

Walking to the back of the room, you both smiled quietly, looking at the small girl. The 100 piece puzzle you'd guided her to was neatly arranged on the desk, pieces split into edges and centre pieces as she slowly looked at each one with a quietly focused face. Each time she found the piece she was looking for, her smile was bright as she connected it to the small part she was working on. 

“Mommy! Daddy! I can't find the melody's face, can you help me?” 

“Sure, Harper, we'll help you.” You moved to sit beside her at the tiny desks, giggling when the older Reid on Harper's other side struggled to fit himself in the toddler sized chairs. 

Harper assigned you roles, and you all started quietly doing your jobs, waiting for Harper to focus again so you could ask her questions without agitating her. 

“Harper, can you tell your Daddy why you call me Mommy?” 

“Sure! You're Mommy because I want you to marry with Daddy.” 

If you weren't already still flushed from her earlier comments, you certainly were lightheaded with embarrassment now. 

“Harper, that's not how it works-” 

“Yes, it is, Daddy! Henry said so. He said his mommy and daddy were sad one day, but then they were together again and they had a big party called a wedding and now they're happy, and that's why we have Michael.” You didn't quite follow from all the names and the story events, but it was evident that Reid did, so you waited quietly for his explanation. 

“My friend. Her son was at her wedding a few years back. They have another son who is a couple years older than Harper, they come to school together?” 

Your mouth made a small ‘o’ as you slowly filled in the blanks. 

“Harper, you want daddy to have a wedding so he isn't sad anymore?” 

The little girl gave a big nod and a smile, like she was so happy that she was finally being understood. 

“Miss Y/N should marry daddy because he thinks she's pretty. Henry said that was important for a wedding, your mommy has to look beautiful.” You made eye contact with Doctor Reid awkwardly as she spoke, both of you looking away for fear of seeing the embarrassment on each others faces. 

“And Miss Y/N wants a baby. So I will be Miss Y/N's baby, so everyone can be happy!” Harper's kid logic was a little hard to find fault with, but you still had to push back a little. 

“Harper, why do you think I want a baby?” 

“Angie asked you, and you said," the girl pouted, almost frustrated woth habing to answer all these silly questions.

"She asked you why you don't have a baby, and you said that you can only have a baby if you're married and that you wanted to have a baby when you were married. So marry my dad, and I'll be your baby!” 

Harper's smile was so happy and content that you really didn't want to spoil her dream just yet. You continued putting the puzzle together for a few minutes in silence, the full picture nearly being complete now. Harper seemed to fidget a little in her seat next to you, pushing closer and closer to you before tugging on your sleeve. 

You leaned down and she whispered in your ear - though you didn't doubt that her dad heard every word. 

“If you really want, I'm sure we can get another baby like Henry got Michael. I'll ask my dad, but I think it's allowed.” 

The poor man on the other side of the desk had to cover his face with his hands to stop the blush from showing, devolving to just straight up resting his head on the desk when his daughter kept going. 

“A boy is okay, but my dad doesn't really know about boy stuff. Uncle Derek says that my daddy is just a pretty boy with a book brain. We should get another girl, so daddy can be not worry.” 

The more you listened to Harper's adorable family plan, the more you just wanted to squeeze her tight and say yes and give her everything she wanted. 

“Miss Y/N, once again, I'm so sorry for everything, I'll talk with Harper at home about this.” 

“It's okay, I actually find it all very sweet,” you laughed a little and smiled back at him. 

“No, I'm sure your boyfriend would be so uncomfortable if he knew that she was trying to marry you off-” 

“Doctor Reid, are you trying to ask me if I'm single?” 

The small grin that quirked his lips up was nothing if not unfair. He really was a very pretty boy. 

“It was that obvious?” 

“Yep.” You made sure the ‘p’ popped a lot as you both shared a small laugh. Harper looked up between you and smiled, too. 

“So, can you get married now? Henry said you can do it really quickly, like in Grandpa Rossi's garden, and then you can go and do the secret part at home while Auntie Penny looks after me.” 

“Secret part?” 

“To make the other baby, silly!” 

[marcidstars]

i'm what's left (of when we swam under the moon).

summary: spencer has all but shut you out after being released from prison. after he snaps at you and does some minor damage to your apartment wall, you're convinced there's nothing that can save your relationship. but a timid hand in the dark brings with it an offering of peace and, just maybe, a small drop of hope.

genre: angst pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

tags: post-prison reid, pent-up emotions, he snaps and punches a wall, but that's all, poor coping mechanisms, lack of communication, pushing people away to avoid hurting them but that only hurts them more, complete emotional exhaustion, relationship is Not Healthy, mentions of PTSD, reader is a nurse, angst with a hopeful-ish ending, title from a mitski song: i don't smoke, 2.6k words

notes: of course i come back and immediately post angst, what else did you expect?

── .⟢ based on this request!

You told yourself that you knew what to expect following his release from prison. That you understood the hardship that awaited you, and you were prepared for it; the way you were prepared for everything. Always. You expected him to be different, full of holes—healing emotional scabs that had been ripped off, new wounds that had been carved into scarred skin—and tender, delicate, in places he hadn’t been in the past. You expected him to hurt in ways you’d never hope to understand, and you were okay with that.

You had visited him in prison when you could, when work had allowed for it. You had seen first-hand the extent of his suffering, and it tore you to pieces. And then there was the empty bed, the quiet apartment, the constant awareness that he wasn’t there where he should have been; it wasn’t pleasant, but you learned to manage.

You learned to weave safety blankets out of memories, to spray his cologne when the air grew too heavy, to play his favourite classical compositions on his stupid old, malfunctioning record player that he refused to replace because he thought it was charming. You learned to cope in his absence, because you had to. You had to keep it together, if not for yourself, then for him. For Spencer, who had it infinitely worse than you did. Spencer, whose keys you never stopped listening out for, as though he may come walking through that front door at any moment, face alight with that dumb grin like nothing was wrong.

The day he did come home, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. There was so much going on with his team at the time you hardly got to see him at all, but maybe that was for the best; what you did see upon his release left you far more concerned than you had been expecting. The unfocused gaze, the anxious disposition, the poorly masked paranoia that followed him like a shadow. All clear signs of PTSD, or PTSS. All things that you had been expecting but, somehow, found yourself wholly unable to process when faced with them. 

Spencer was different, there was no fooling yourself there. He was colder. Not in the sense that he was callous or mean, but that he now lacked the very warmth that had once defined him. He was sharper in places he used to be soft, and he was in pain, constantly—it seeped into the very walls of the apartment.

And your presence did little to ease any of it. You were the one thing that was supposed to bring him comfort, to keep him grounded, and yet he didn’t seem to want to be around you whatsoever.

He never said it outright—hell, he hardly said anything at all—but you could feel it. The quiet discontent that spread through the room like some kind of noxious gas whenever the two of you shared a space. The restlessness that seemed to take possession of him every time you tried to speak.

You felt like an unwelcome guest in your own home. You still do—and he does, too, you’re sure of it.

Mind reading has, in your opinion, always been the most desirable superpower—it would make working as a nurse a hell of a lot easier—but you have never needed it as desperately as you do now. Because you know that something is wrong with your boyfriend. You know that something sits simmering just below the surface, something he’s trying his best to keep hidden from you, buried under layers of false apathy, and something that, hopefully, he’s working through in therapy. 

But it still comes home with him, and he’s taken to pretending it isn’t even there.

He snaps sometimes. Rarely, and almost never around you. It’s always quick, and it’s always clean; a flash of lightning in an otherwise clear sky, and with no rumble of thunder in its wake. He never raises his voice, never directs any of his frustration towards you, or towards anyone for that matter. The lapses in his composure are quiet. They’re contained, managed and, on the surface, they’re healthy.

Until they aren’t.

Anger isn’t something you’re used to seeing in Spencer. You doubt he’s used to seeing it in himself. But it’s there. Lurking around corners. Always felt, but never truly seen. Never truly expressed, even when keeping it bottled up is doing far more harm than good.

He comes home late one evening, moving like there’s something sitting on his shoulders, impossibly heavy. Something invisible, but something you’re able to sense from the kitchen. You watch him through the doorway, pressing your cold glass of water to your bottom lip, as he tosses his bag aside and drags his fingers through his hair like it’ll rid him of whatever’s plaguing his mind. He inhales slowly, shakily, in a last-ditch attempt to calm himself down before he has to face you, but his efforts prove nothing but futile.

You know to recognise a man balancing precariously on the edge of his cliff; you see it all the time at work. But seeing it in Spencer leaves you frozen—dumbfounded, almost—and at a complete loss for what to do, what to say, how to help. It leaves you hovering just shy of the doorway, watching from afar. Through the barrier that he has built between you.

“Spence.”

You speak his name so softly it’s a miracle he even hears you.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

All he gives you in response is this nondescript hum as he rubs his eyes. You assume it’s a yes, and that’s conformed by the way his head snaps in a sharp, stiff nod. Down and up. As certain as it is dishonest.

“I’m fine,” he says, doubling down before you even get the chance to question him. 

You watch the way his face scrunches: eyebrows, eyes, nose. Even his lips curl up in that pained, almost disgusted looking expression that you silently dubbed his headache face when you first started dating.

“Sure?” you ask.

“Mhm.”

His responses are as short as your questions are. You, because you don’t want to bother him. And him, because he doesn’t want to be bothered.

You expect him to walk away, to retreat into the bedroom where you won’t see him again until it’s past midnight and you finally decide to try your luck at chasing sleep, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, hands pressed to his eyes like he’s trying to wrangle something that is desperately trying to claw its way out of him.

It’s your mistake, really, that you take that step closer.

“Is there anything I can—”

You’re cut off by a thud as the side of his clenched fist hits the wall. It’s a dull, hollow sound, yet it pierces straight through you the way a gunshot would.

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps. The bitterness, usually kept buried, has dug its way out of its grave and taken over his normally gentle voice like a parasite. “Can you please just—”

He turns to you with this unfamiliar look in his eyes. Sharp and cold, like he’s finally hit his breaking point. Like he’s about to unload everything onto you not because he’s particularly mad at you, but just because you’re there.

But then he sees you. Standing, wide-eyed, in that doorway. You’re holding your breath. 

And that sharpness dulls in an instant.

He groans—a strangled, frustrated noise that sounds almost like a choked-back sob—and brings his hands to his hair once more as he pivots away from you, hiding from your gaze as he tries to piece together the shreds of his composure.

The silence is awful. Broken only by the distinct thump of your pulse in your ears. Quick and shallow, at first. Then it slows, gradually, suffocating under the weight that sits, immovable, on your chest. You count each beat, and you use them to measure the distance between you as it grows wider, until the apartment if full of them. Stifled beats. Unspoken feelings. Words lodged permanently in raw throats. 

“…I’m okay,” is all he manages to get out. His voice is meek and apologetic, as though he’s expecting you to retaliate. But you don’t. You can’t.

You just nod, wishing you could lie to yourself as effectively as he does. But concern always bleeds through your poorly constructed mask of indifference. It trickles down your cheeks, collects at the point of your chin, and drips onto the linoleum floor until you’re left standing in a pool of your own feelings. Ones kept hidden for so long they’ve all but rotted.

Spencer clears his throat. He turns to you, partially, but he doesn’t look you in the eye. As tall as he is, as old as he is—older than he was, older, almost, than he should be—he looks oddly enough like a child, stuck in a body too big, too hurt, to ever be comfortable. Forever squirming internally under your gaze as though merely existing in your line of sight is enough to cause him some visceral, wordless agony. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, burying his fists so you cannot see them, as if it’ll wipe clean the memory of what you have already seen.

“…I’m gonna go lie down.”

He’s gone before you can re-calibrate. Before you can respond. A simple don’t may have sufficed. Don’t go. Don’t shut me out. Don’t do…this.

This being the morbid waltz you’ve been trapped in since he came home. One month wasted on feeble attempts to breathe life into the corpse of a relationship that wasn’t made to house this new version of you. The people you were four months ago are not the people you are today. You know that, yet you cling blindly, ignorantly, to the hope that things might still change.

Spencer’s body can no longer contain the capricious sea of emotions tearing through him. Prison stretched his skin too thin. Shrink-wrapped his ever-growing feelings until he’s fit to burst. It made him tough, but terribly brittle. Impossible to read, yet much too easy to break.

And you—you’ve become passive. You’ve resigned yourself to this miserable balancing act because at least it means he’shere.

You’re afraid, but not of him. Not really. Spencer would never hurt you. Not intentionally. Not in any way that mattered.

You’re afraid of losing him. So afraid you’ve turned docile just to keep the thin veil of peace. Unable to speak up in case he may turn and leave. Unable to do anything out of that crippling fear that it may just drive him away for good. That, instead of shutting himself in the bedroom, he may storm out of the apartment entirely—and what then? What if he actually left? What if, God forbid, something happened to him because you pushed that little bit too hard? You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.

So you linger in doorways, left to haunt an apartment that used to be paradise. Eden. Now cursed to wither away, to be broken down by an eternity of silence. A thick loneliness that should never be felt in a place that was once so full of love.

You feel more alone now than you did when he was in prison, and you hate yourself for it.

You aren’t sure how long you spend standing there, willing yourself to move. To think. To do anything. But how can you, knowing he’s in that bedroom? How can you continue with your pointless day knowing he is right there? So close, yet so impossibly far away, and drowning in this silence just as you are?

Something has to give. Either you, or him, or just…something.

Carrying on like this, living in shadows and stiff reticence, isn’t sustainable. You deserve better. Both of you do.

The apartment is cold. Too cold for the season. The summer heat cannot burst this bubble you’ve built around yourselves, and you’re stuck here freezing to death. You grew used to the lack of warmth when he was away. You acclimated. You always do. But you had held out hope that his return may bring some of it back, restore some of the colour to this place.

But what Spencer brought home with him was not the warmth he had left with. All he brought was more cold. Tons of it. Icy air that nips relentlessly at your sensitive skin. Frost that you are too afraid to try and melt in case you get burned. In case it’s the only thing keeping him together.

But it’s tearing you apart. It feels as though every day that passes in here is another piece of you chipped away, never to be recovered.

Something has to give. And you know it’s going to be you. You aren’t strong enough for this, and you were a fool to think you ever were.

When you finally move, it’s without thought. You don’t formulate any kind of plan before pushing open the bedroom door; it would only end with you talking yourself down, opting to keep the barrier up in the vain hope that he might one day gather the strength to knock it down himself. You don’t know what to do, what will save you, but you know you must do something.

Spencer’s lying on his side, facing the wall. Facing away from your side of the bed. Away from the indent you’ve left in the memory foam pillow that he kept bugging you to replace, citing countless studies that showed it wasn’t as good as people said it was so that you may toss it out and sleep on him instead. He’s made no comment about that pillow since he got back.

His eyes are closed, and you find yourself hoping, stupidly, that he may actually be asleep. God knows he needs it.

Gingerly, you perch yourself on the edge of the bed, feeling as though you’re somehow unwelcome despite the fact that it was you who picked out this gorgeous mahogany frame. Inch by inch, you shift until you’re lying down. Not close enough to touch him, but enough for him to know you’re there.

You fix your gaze on the ceiling, counting the bumps in the ugly popcorn texture you swore you were going to remove but never did, until your eyes grow weary, and you can swear you’re actively rotting from the inside out. 

But then you feel it.

A finger hooking over yours, pulling your hand to the middle of the mattress. To the invisible line that separates your opposing halves of the world. He doesn’t turn over to face you. He doesn’t speak a word at all. He just interlaces his fingers with yours, and you try not to cry at how cold his hand feels.

You squeeze gently. Cautiously. You half-expect him to tear his hand away.

And he squeezes back. A little firmer. More certain. And, you realise, even more afraid than you are.

It takes all of your strength to stay quiet, to bite back the words of comfort that bubble up like shaken soda. You want nothing more than to hold him, to tell him it’s okay, even though you know you can’t; nothing good would come of it, not right now.

But he’s holding your hand. It isn’t a lot, and it certainly isn’t a cure, but it’s something.

And, in this moment, it’s enough.

The relief laps over you slowly, like gentle waves on a quiet beach and, for once, you feel a sense of calm. And you hardly know what to do with it.

So  you just decide to let it sit, hoping that it may reach him, too.

You give his hand one last squeeze, and you finally let your eyes close.

[tiredandbisexual]

ow.

[corollaim]

do i wanna know?

── ✶⋆.˚ series masterlist

summary: after your breakup with spencer, you receive some well-intentioned yet questionable advice from none other than penelope garcia. relationship: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: (slight) angst word count: 4.3k tags: garcia is a Gossip, angsty breakup flashback, spencer is a Liar, spencer has abandonment issues, reader gives spencer the silent treatment, garcia gives questionable relationship advice, morgan is the Best Wingman, hotch is a Known Meddler author's note: new series!!! i do Not consider myself the best at writing arguments so sorry if this is terrible but i need y'all to break up For The Plot <3

The sound of Penelope’s hot pink nails clacking against the keyboard is therapeutic; it’s almost a sufficient distraction from the disaster that has been the past few days of your life. You and Spencer had been broken up for all of forty-five minutes when you were called into the briefing room and swept into a serial arson case halfway across the country. Your best friend has been waiting—ever so impatiently—to get the scoop, a story which you insisted on waiting to tell her in-person.

You’re not entirely sure what Penelope’s doing on her computer; you’re sitting atop her desk, facing her, but during the last glance you stole at her computer screen, you saw her moving a folder labeled “OTP” toward the trash bin icon. You’ve just managed to grind out the basics of your last conversation with Spencer, but hearing yourself explain the situation aloud is jarring, to say the least.

“I’m glad you’re not crying,” she says, accentuating her statement with a few clicks of her mouse. She looks up at you, as if worried that she’s jinxed you and that the tears will now start to flow. 

“Why the hell would I be crying?” you scoff, brow furrowing. “He’s a goddamn idiot—it’s his loss.”

“You know what? You’re right,” Pen agrees, nodding emphatically. She points a finger at you, one glittery pink nail shimmering under the fluorescent lights. “Tears spilled over men are tears wasted, my love. More power to you.”

“Exactly,” you affirm. Garcia’s confident expression dissolves into one of incredulity as she blinks up at you.

“He really broke up with you over a… key?” she asks.

“No,” you deny. Before she can question your response, you clarify, “I broke up with him over a key.”

“I’m gonna need more details,” Pen declares. “As many as you can spare. I need to know exactly how icy of a cold shoulder to give the Good Doctor for hurting you.” Brow knitting, she pensively notes, “Well, I guess he’s more like the Bad Doctor now…”

If she wasn’t referring to your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, you remind yourself—you’d almost find her remark funny. You appreciate her unwavering support, but you can’t find it in yourself to laugh or even crack a weak smile at her commentary. Still, you steel yourself to relive the events of Tuesday night.

You’re in Spencer’s apartment. He’s gone to the kitchen to grab some snacks for your movie night, so you figure that now is the perfect time to kick your plan into high gear. You tiptoe across the living room, approaching his entryway table. You reach for his keys, blood thumping so loudly in your ears that you don’t even hear him enter the room.

“What are you doing?” he calls from the opposite corner. You jump and whirl around to face him, his keyring still clutched in one hand. 

“Well, I was trying to be sneaky, but I’m not the one who knows all the sleight of hand tricks,” you joke self-deprecatingly.

Spencer’s gaze falls to your other hand; the one holding a single, silver key. One that you had made specially for him. It glints from between your fingers, and Spencer doesn’t need to see it up close to realize what you’re holding.

“Is that…” he trails off, swallowing thickly.

“Well… yeah,” you shrug casually. If you’ve noticed his stiff posture or the waves of tension radiating off of him, his distress hasn’t fully registered in your mind. You excitedly continue, “I thought, ya know, we’ve been dating for a while, so I wanted to give you a key to my place. Ya know, take the next step or whatever. I thought it might be cute to put it on your keyring when you weren’t looking, so then you’d see it later and it could be some like, unspoken romantic gesture of my trust and everything, but obviously now it’s… spoken.” You loudly clear your throat, a bit sheepish now that you’ve finished your ramble. 

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it. Once. Twice. He inhales deeply, and then, before he can psych himself out a third time, the words come tumbling from his mouth. “You don’t think it’s… maybe too soon for that?”

Ever the ray of sunshine, you continue to hold out hope that perhaps you’ve just caught him off-guard. Maybe he’s more excited about this development than he’s letting on. “I mean, I wondered if it was, but I did some digging—aka, I spent an ungodly amount of time browsing relationship subreddits—and it seems like the best time to do it is subjective.” You drop the key on the table and take a step closer to him, suddenly despising the distance between the two of you. “I’ve never been in a super serious relationship before, but it feels right to me,” you murmur, cracking a small smile. You had hoped that a smile might ease his nerves, that he might smile back at you, but he doesn’t. Suddenly, a heavy weight begins to press on your chest. The weight of realizing that… “You don’t… you don’t want it?”

Spencer sinks onto his couch, anxiously scratching at the back of his neck. Your feet carry you across the room, your body instinctively positioning itself beside him on the cushions. Even in disagreement, you’ve always yearned to be close to him. 

“I, um… I just feel like it’s a big… commitment?” he stammers. The words are less of a sharp sting and more of a watery, cold dread settling in your veins. The smile you had been fighting to keep on your face starts to contort, molding into a tight-lipped frown. 

“I guess, maybe, but I thought it was a more sensible step than just asking you to move in,” you say, an edge of defensiveness in your tone. You don’t think you’re being unreasonable; you love Spencer, and you want him to have this small token of your affection. Why is he reacting like you’re demanding something unfathomable of him?

“You’ve thought about that?” Spencer blurts. His eyes meet yours, and the usual warmth in his gaze has been replaced by something chilling—uncertainty. He’s always looked at you like you were the one sure thing in his life, but now he just seems uncomfortably taken aback. 

The fact that he even thought to ask that question has you stunned.

“We’ve been dating for almost a year—of course I have,” you answer, thinking that he should’ve expected this reply from you. Yet, he appears surprised. You blanch, whispering, “You… haven’t?”

“Well… no.”

You swear you can hear your heart crack.

“He seriously said ‘well, no’?” Pen interrupts, looking appropriately offended on your behalf. “What an asshole—no wonder you’re pissed!” She schools her expression into a calmer look and gestures to you with an open hand. “Sorry for interrupting. You may proceed.”

Seeing the obvious heartbreak on your face, Spencer attempts to remedy the situation by saying, “Look, it’s not that I can’t picture a future with you, it’s…”

A pause. 

“You don’t want to?” you offer. 

“I do, I just…” Spencer fervently shakes his head in response to how you opt to finish his sentence. For a man notorious for rambling, he’s at a jarring loss for words—and at the worst time. “I don’t know.”

Spencer has always been the type to offer endless words of affirmation. Unprompted, he’ll remind you that you’re gorgeous, and that he’s the luckiest man on Earth to have you by his side. He has always seemed so deeply in love with you, which makes his sudden disinterest even more confusing. 

It would be so easy to tear up at the crushing realization that he doesn’t love you as much as you love him, but you’re not too keen on getting emotional at a time when it appears that Spencer will do little to comfort you. So instead, you get angry.

“Jesus Christ, were you planning on telling me this at any point?” you snap. 

“I love you, I do, I just think… um…” Spencer wrings his hands, and the anxiety rolling off his body nauseates you. He might as well have said, “I love you, but—.” He could’ve chosen to give this relationship a quick, dignified end; instead, he’s being torturously vague, prolonging what now feels like the inevitable. 

“Think what?” you prompt, tempted to grab his hands and force him to stop fidgeting. You’re quickly growing agitated, exasperatedly scoffing, “What? That I’m not good enough for you?”

Spencer’s head snaps in your direction. 

“I didn’t say that,” he retorts, brow furrowed.

“You’re not saying much, actually,” you counter frustratedly. Something that was meant to inspire a tender moment is quickly devolving into an uncontrollable argument. Perhaps tensions have been roiling just beneath the surface for a while now, and you haven’t realized. “‘I don’t know’, ‘um…’, well? What is it?”

“I’m trying to think of the best way to say it,” Spencer replies defensively. You suppose whatever he must be thinking is pretty hurtful if even he is at a loss for words to deliver the message. The air in his apartment feels thick—unspoken sentiments threatening to suffocate you.

“Say what? That you’re just not that into me?” you supply. “My God, Spencer, it’s just a key.”

“It’s not just a key, and you know that,” Spencer rationalizes. His words are logical, but his tone is edged with some sort of annoyance. He adds, “You even just admitted to wanting more than that.”

How could this have gone so poorly? You had really thought he would be excited to take this next step with you, but now you just feel like a humiliated fool, beaten down by reality.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” you exclaim, voice wavering with emotion. “Why shouldn’t I want more than that?”

“You should!” Spencer answers, voice rising to meet your climbing volume.

“But you don’t?” you seethe, mind reeling with how badly you’ve misjudged his feelings about you. Once the words are thrown out, they reverberate in your ears. You realize how true they are. You had meant them as a question, yet you don’t truly need to hear his response—not when you’ve already received so many clues as to what’s on his mind. The scared little glint in his eyes when he saw the key, the uncomfortable shifting on his feet; even the way he’s currently positioned on the sofa, body taut like a rubber band about to snap.

He doesn’t want what you do.

“I don’t know,” he all but confirms. He says it in a low voice, almost apologetically, like he knows his words have as much of a punch as if he had outright said “no”. His eyes skirt to the floor. Once again, the onslaught of emotions threatens to drown you in sorrow, yet you refuse to appear desperate. Needy. Instead, you allow the torrent of feelings to stoke the fire rising in your chest. 

“That’s not good enough,” you say flatly, resisting the urge to yell. “You don’t know? Are you fucking kidding me? When are you gonna figure it out? Another ten months from now? ‘Cause I will happily take things slow, but I will not wait around for someone to figure out if they even want me.”

“I do want—” he starts.

“You are not acting like it,” you interrupt. You’re beyond furious at this point, but your stupid, bleeding heart yearns to remedy the situation. With one final whisper of hope, you ask, “Is it just ‘cause you’re scared to use the damn key or something? You don’t have to, ya know, you can just hold on to it.”

“It’s not just the key.” He shakes his head, the familiar motion as painful as a knife to your abdomen. So, this is really it. How long has he been playing the role of the caring boyfriend without having much interest in the part? 

“How can you say you love me when the more you talk, it sounds like you don’t even like me?” A surprisingly vulnerable question, a raw ember among the blazing inferno of undiluted pain in your heart. Spencer tilts his head toward you, and you level him with an angry glare, attempting to throw as much hurt at him as possible through one expression. 

He turns his head just so, and the light catches on an unshed tear glistening in his eye. The sight douses some of that fire within you; it’s been your gut instinct for the past ten months—longer than that, even—to drop everything to care for Spencer when he’s upset. Even when he’s hurting you, some part of you longs to care for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not even denying the words you’ve just spoken. You’re in such shock from the events of the past ten minutes, energy rapidly leaching from you, that you no longer see the point in arguing. You shouldn’t try to fight for something he clearly doesn’t want.

“For what? What are you apologizing for?” you ask instead, shoulders slumped. 

“I hate making you unhappy—I just don’t think I’m ready for this,” Spencer confesses quietly, as if afraid his words will instill the wrath of God in you once more. “And to answer your question, I don’t know when I will be ready. And I know it’s unfair to ask you to wait, but—”

“Yeah, it is unfair,” you reply flatly.

“I’m sorry—” he starts, but you promptly cut him off.

“Stop saying that. This is ridiculous,” you declare with a dissatisfied grumble. “It’s not like I’m fucking proposing to you.”

Spencer blinks harshly, paling at your rebuttal. You swear you see him recoil just a fraction of an inch away from you.

“Oh my God, just the mention of that made you look ill,” you laugh sardonically. At this point, you’re feeling pathetic and ready to mope in bed for the next year. Not even sure if you want a response, you vocalize, “Spencer, why would you even ask me to wait if the thought of a future with me is so terrible?”

Spencer gulps. 

“You just don’t wanna be alone,” you mutter. When he doesn’t correct you, you continue, “Am I right? It’s not me you’re interested in, it’s the idea of having a relationship. Any relationship. But things get real, and that’s too scary?”

“That’s not…” Spencer fumbles for a solid statement, settling on, “I am interested in you.”

“I don’t really believe you right now,” you admit, huffing bitterly. “I think you’ll say anything to keep me, but the truth is written all over your face.” You’re not sure why you’re still sitting on his couch, entertaining this conversation. Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed by the need to leave. Not just to be in the comfort of your own home, but to be far away from the embarrassment of begging for someone else’s affection. If he can’t string together a coherent reason for you to stay, then you’ll go. Rising from the couch with more confidence than you truly feel, you announce, “You know what? Forget the key. Forget the whole damn thing. I don’t exist just to satisfy your needs.”

“W-what?” Spencer stutters, clambering to his feet.

“You heard me,” you say, simultaneously heavy with the weight of this decision and lighter because of it. “Thanks for stringing me along and making me think that there was a future for us. I get it now. There’s not.”

“And then I left,” you conclude. “So.”

Penelope’s staring up at you with wide eyes and an even wider mouth, her jaw having been halfway to the floor for the past five minutes. She presses her lips into a thin line, blinking rapidly like she’s having trouble processing your story. Her eyebrows rise and fall in a perplexed—and somewhat impressed—little jump.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “You really kicked his ass to the curb.”

“Yeah,” you nod. You’re exhausted from reliving the details of the other night, and you’re half-tempted to fake an illness so you can go home and watch a comfort movie—or three.

“Have you… talked at all? Since then?” Garcia hesitantly inquires. 

“Would you talk to him after that?” you ask, hackles rising. You sigh deeply, shooting Pen an apologetic glance. You may be on edge because of the breakup, but it’s nothing you need to take out on her. You amend, “No. He’s been texting me, but—”

Like clockwork, your phone buzzes.

“I’m ignoring him.”

“That’s not gonna work forever,” Penelope says pointedly. “Hotch is a meddler. He’ll probably assign you two the same job to force you to talk.” She looks up at the corner, as if deep in thought. She muses, “I can just picture him scheming, sending you both to the M.E. and careening towards an exceptionally dramatic argument in a morgue.” 

“Ugh,” you groan at the thought. “Yeah, I know, but until that happens, I need space.”

“Sounds like you could use a distraction,” Pen concludes, perking up slightly.

“To say the least,” you huff, tilting back your head to slump against the wall. 

“Well, you know what they say,” Garcia lilts. “‘The best way to get over a man is to get under another.’” A glimmer of mischief sparkles in her eyes. “Another man, that is. Oo, or woman! You know, Emily’s single.” She wiggles her fingers, clicking her nails together in a thrilled little gesture.

“One, I know,” you reply, looking down at her with an unimpressed face. “Two, I’m swearing off dating BAU members. Clearly having a clinical understanding of psychology does nothing to foster emotional maturity in profilers.” You raise three fingers. “Three, JJ’s been giving her googly eyes for years. I wouldn’t dare interfere with the inevitable duo there.”

“Fair enough,” Penelope agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “So someone else, then?”

“Four, I doubt that a hookup is gonna be a very productive distraction,” you reason. Feeling restless, you hop off her desk, smoothing your skirt before beginning to pace the room. “Short-term, sure, but long-term, how does that help me find someone who’s interested in a serious relationship?”

You look over your shoulder expectantly. Of course, your best friend already has a pitch prepared.

“You just spent ten months with Reid,” she says emphatically, spinning in her chair to face you. “I personally see no harm in having some fun before you jump into another commitment.” Her nose scrunches. Revealing her true intentions, she adds, “And hey, maybe seeing you with someone else will open his eyes to the reality that you are a super hot catch and that he made a grave mistake getting squirrely?”

“Oh no, I’m not playing the ‘make him jealous’ game,” you deny, crossing your arms in a definitive gesture. “I need to move on, for real.”

“Alright, alright,” she concedes, nodding her approval. Meeting your eyes, she earnestly promises, “I support it, obvi.”

“Good,” you respond insistently, “because I’m gonna get over his dumb ass.”

“She just read it. She’s leaving it on read. Again,” Spencer says, slumping into his desk chair. While you and Garcia have been unpacking the breakup in her lair, Spencer and his best friend have commandeered the bullpen. The rest of the agents are effectively tuning them out; well, besides Prentiss, who offers the occasional dramatic sigh to let them know they’re being too distracting.

“Pretty Boy, she’s literally in the next room,” Derek reminds him. He clicks his pen with a flourish, crumpling a Post-It note and chucking it at Spencer’s head as he suggests, “Just go talk to her.”

For the past thirty-two minutes and seventeen—now eighteen—seconds, Spencer’s been relaying his version of events. Of course, his memory of the breakup consists of verbatim insults and eerily minute details about your physiological response to his stupidity, but it’s essentially the same download Penelope’s getting in the other room. 

While Morgan’s trying to be a good friend, he has the attention span of a house fly, and has resigned himself to doodling pictures of the not-so-happy and not-so-coupley couple. Spencer flattens out the most recent paper ball and narrows his eyes at the poorly-drawn stick figures; as rudimentary as Derek’s artistry may be, he’s clearly depicting you and Spencer kissing, a sensation of which Spencer does not need to be reminded right now.

“She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me,” Spencer pouts. Not that he blames you in the slightest for edging him out. “Plus, the door’s been closed for over half an hour. Garcia would wring my neck if I interrupted their… girl talk.”

Spencer looks longingly down the hall, remembering a time when you would have emerged from Penelope’s office with a delighted expression on your face. You’ve always been soft smiles when your eyes would find him across the room, but he’s ruined any semblance of hope that he’ll see that look directed toward him again.

“She has to come out at some point, though,” Morgan reasons, starting in on another sticky note. Distractedly, he adds, “Baby Girl doesn’t have room for her to move in.”

“What do I even say?” Spencer groans, throwing his hands exasperatedly in the air. “‘Sorry I lied to you about not wanting a future with you because I have a crippling fear of abandonment and am convinced that you would eventually leave me, causing me to push you away and force you to understandably leave me anyway’?” 

Derek looks up from his sketch.

“Well, it would be an interesting conversation starter,” he taunts with a cheeky grin. If Spencer had any hand-eye coordination whatsoever, he’d throw something at Morgan in return, but he doesn’t trust himself to not accidentally bean JJ. 

“I’m serious, Morgan,” Spencer huffs. At his pitchy exclamation, Emily lets out a long-suffering sigh. Reid lowers his voice, leaning toward Morgan and pondering aloud, “How do I beg the girl of my freaking dreams to take me back when I was such an asshole the other night? She’s not gonna hear me out. I wouldn’t hear me out.” He grimaces. “God, I’m such an idiot. I should’ve just sucked it up and taken the damn key.”

If Derek’s grin had been teasing before, it’s downright shit-eating now. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and quips, “Girl of your dreams, huh? Man, I knew you were into her, but I didn’t realize you were in love love.”

Spencer’s not even able to deny it. “Yeah, I am, and I messed it all up for what?” he asks. “I just panicked. I totally floundered.” Spencer buries his head in his hands for a brief moment before looking up with horror in his eyes as he recalls the details of his last conversation with you. “I even told her I haven’t pictured a future with her when that’s literally what I do for approximately ninety percent of my time. What is wrong with me?”

“You don’t want me to answer that,” Derek deadpans. Spencer shoots him a flat look, to which Morgan amends, “Dude, relax. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships, it’s how to perfect my groveling technique.”  He nods solemnly, vowing to assist his friend. “I’ll help you get her back.”

“How?” Spencer questions, unable to fathom any possible route resulting in you giving him the time of day. 

“Baby steps,” Morgan answers calmly. “Here’s one.” He holds up his notepad, revealing a yellow square that simply says:

TALK TO HER!

Each word is underlined several times. 

“How?” Spencer repeats dumbly.

“Easy,” Morgan shrugs. “Get Hotch to put you two on the same task on our next case. He’s a meddler, he’ll do it.”

Spencer considers this for a moment. It’s verifiable that their Unit Chief relies on the team to settle their differences the mature way—open communication. He’d never let something like this fester for too long without intervening. 

“That’s… true,” Spencer nods. Then, unsure how to proceed, he questions, “So, I just… ask him?”

Morgan reclines in his chair with a shrug, propping his hands behind his head. “Tell him you’re getting the silent treatment. If there’s one thing he values, it’s efficiency in the workplace. He’ll wanna get her talking.”

“That feels… dirty,” Spencer shudders. “Won’t she be mad that I got him involved?”

He doesn’t really need Derek to answer that question for him, of course. He knows you’ll be livid. Still, it’s something of a comfort to air out his concerns and be met with his friend’s validation. “Of course she’ll be mad, but she’s already pissed at you. It can’t get much worse.”

Spencer’s thoughts exactly, yet he rhythmically taps his fingers on his desk and murmurs, “I’m not sure I really want to test that theory.”

“But you want her back, don’t you?” Derek asks pointedly.

“More than anything,” Spencer answers easily. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do—to push you away. He couldn’t disagree with anything you said. Well, not most things, anyway. He was scared of a serious relationship; that much was true. The one thing you had really gotten wrong, though, was thinking that he would be happy with just anyone.

No, Spencer wouldn’t be content to be with any man or woman. Now that he had known what it was like to love and be loved by you, he didn’t want to experience anything different. He was determined to make his regret known, and he would do just about anything to make it up to you and earn your forgiveness. 

Morgan knows it, too. He offers a smirk and declares, “So rat her ass out.”

taglist: @reidmiss-3 @dc-reid-heliotrope @theglitchywriterboi @toomanyfanficsbruh @lotsie2234 @opaliite13 @reidswife-x @rairaine @the-tpd-bau @lovergirliris @rottenstyx @hiddentattooodyssey @unalivebread @gaslysgirly @veronicawinters444

[tiredandbisexual]

reading this on my ipad, i’m already excited for the next part 🙏🙏

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Unexpected Visitor

Pairing: Spencer Reid x G!n Reader

WC: 788

A/N: A lil Spencer Xmas Blurb while I figure my shit out. Also! I'm imagining older seasons Spencer for this one.

"Hi! I'm, uh, so sorry to bug you but, um, do you know where Spe--Doctor Reid's desk is? Or, really, where D-Doctor Reid is?" .

Derek Morgan had to get his shit together because his jaw almost dropped when you walked in. What was some hot piece of ass doing, dressed like that, looking for Boy Genius.

He jumped up from his chair and strolled over to where you had stopped Garcia, who was just as flabbergasted as he was. "Reid is currently in a meeting sweetheart--may I ask what you, uh, want with him?"

You raised your eyebrows at the 'sweetheart', but smiled anyways. "He was supposed to be home about an hour ago and he wasn't answering his phone, so instead of panicking, because I know what you do for work, I wanted to come in and check before I lost my shit."

"Home?" Garcia squeaked out, still baffafled by how gorgeous you looked. It was like you were sent straight from heaven, a literal vision.

You nodded and tilted your head, slightly confused. "Y-Yeah...I'm sorry why is that---"

"We just didn't know Reid was living with anyone, let alone seeing someone."

"Ah." You nodded. "He's private like that, isn't he." Your smile warmed the two of them, and you shifted the coat from one arm to the other.

"y/n?"

You turned your head towards the back of the bullpen, and Spencer was walking out of Hatch's office. "What are you doing here?"

"Being introduced to your friends and coworkers since you haven't."

Spencer bit the inside of his cheeks and walked over to you both, placing his hand on the small of your back. You felt how tense he was.

"I'm here because our reservation is in twenty minutes and you said you'd be home over an hour ago." You looked at Spencer, whose eyes went a little wide.

"Shit. I-I didn't realize what time it was---"

"I have your suit in the car, and this is why I made the reservation for eight pm, instead of Seven."

"And this is why I love you." Spencer kissed your head and rushed over to his desk, scrambling to grab all of his papers and his bag and his coat and his scarf and his--

"Hi Y/n." Spencer looked up at the mention of your name, pausing in his frantic nature.

"Hi Aaron." You gave him a quick hug, but a bright smile. "How are you?"

"Well." He laughed a little. "I'd be better if we didn't have to work the day before Christmas Eve since I still need to wrap all of Jack's presents still."

"Oh how is Jack!"

"He's doing well. finally starting to enjoy reading, no thanks to you."

You laughed at his joke, all the while Derek and Garcia just shared an incredulous look. How the hell did you know Hotch? Jack?!? Why does Jack's reading habits connect to you--

"Ready sweetheart?" Spencer appeared at your side and you nodded. "It was lovely to see you Aaron. I'll stop by some time tomorrow to drop off Jack's gifts as well as yours. I got it when Spence I and went to Paris last month. I think you'll enjoy it!"

"That's why you weren't here for two weeks?" Penelope's jaw was on the floor. "I didn't take you to be a Parisian man Doctor Reid."

"W-Well, um--"

"It was for my birthday. My choice. I love art and museums so it made sense. Well, it was lovely to meet you all but we have a reservation to get to." You gave them all a quick smile before taking Spencer's hand and walking towards the elevator, your shoes clicking on the floor with every step you took.

"How long have the two of them been together?" Morgan turned to Hotch after you both had gotten in the elevator.

"I think today is their two year anniversary."

"TWO YEARS." Garcia clutched her hypothetical pearls. "How have I not known? How have WE not known?"

"He's private, and...well. You know Y/n."

"No we clearly do not know Hotch."

Hotch gave them a little smirk and a shrug. "Merry Christmas guys. I'll see you on the twenty-seventh."

As Hotch walked away, Garcia and Morgan just stared at one another. "So we're..."

"Going to spend then next ten minutes in my office finding everything out about this mystery person Spencer has been apparently dating for two years?"

"You read my mind mama. A little Christmas snooping never hurt anyone..."

[spencersmopbucket]

Au Revoir | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: Going to prison changes relationships, but you were determined to withstand it until Spencer broke up with you in a letter. His return changes things. Themes & Warnings: Prison!Reid, i am addicted to writing angst with happy ending

You were happy. You were so, so incredibly happy.

You met Spencer at the university where you taught forensic psychology. He was consulting on a case involving a former student, and his presence was magnetic. His voice -- soft, precise, laced with more knowledge than most tenured professors -- filled the lecture hall with calm authority. He quoted studies off the top of his head, spoke of human behavior like it was poetry, and didn’t so much walk as glide through conversation.

You’d never met anyone smarter. Honestly, you doubted anyone smarter existed. His genius IQ, his eidetic memory, and his multiple phD's made it evident.

He was awkward and sweet and a little too fast with his facts, but he never talked down to you. In fact, he always looked awed by you -- by your wit, your lectures, your stubbornness. He remembered your favorite tea after one conversation and quoted your syllabus back to you a week later.

It didn’t take long to fall for him. It was easy.

Within months, you practically lived at Spencer’s apartment. You had a routine, a quiet rhythm that made the chaos of the outside world feel far away. He came home from work, jacket half-shrugged off, his tie loosened. And you’d be there waiting. You always sat and talked first. Not because you had to. Because he needed to. His head was always full -- of cases, of trauma, of things he didn’t know how to say -- and you were the only person who ever made it all quiet enough to sort through.

While he showered, you made dinner. Simple meals he always claimed were better than anything in Quantico. You'd plate it for him just the way he liked -- never too much, everything not touching. You knew his quirks. You loved his quirks.

Afterward, you'd curl up on the couch, some old noir or classic foreign film playing, and he’d play with your hair absentmindedly while reciting the film’s trivia under his breath.

Then, you'd crawl into bed. Sometimes you'd talk until 2am, whispering nonsense between kisses and laughter. Sometimes you'd fall asleep immediately, tangled in each other, warm and safe and whole.

It didn't matter if he was on the brink of sleep or wide awake. Before you drifted off, Spencer always said, "I love you, darling." Never failed. Like clockwork.

You went to bed happy. Giggling. Overjoyed at yet another day of loving each other.

Sometimes, it was hard. Sometimes, Spencer was gone for a long time. And now, he'd been gone a while. But you stayed at his apartment, keeping it clean and tidy and warm with your presence for when he came back. He needed your presence right now. His mother was getting sicker by the day, cases were getting more brutal, and the only thing that made it better was that you were always there waiting for him.

You didn’t believe it at first.

The call came early in the morning -- a colleague, hushed and panicked, asking if you’d seen the news. You turned on the TV, bleary-eyed, your heart already tightening with dread before you even found the right channel.

Dr. Spencer Reid. FBI profiler. Arrested for drug possession and murder in Mexico.

You stared at the screen like it was playing a joke. Like any moment, Spencer himself would walk through the door, rambling about how the media misrepresents facts and how probability makes false accusations more likely in cross-border cases.

But he didn’t come home.

And it wasn’t a joke.

Spencer had been arrested in Mexico, alone, without authorization, without backup, trying to obtain medication for his mother. It didn’t matter that it was compassionate. It didn’t matter that it was Spencer. He was caught with narcotics and implicated in the death of a doctor who had tried to help him. A setup. Clearly. But it didn’t stop the trial. It didn’t stop the sentence.

And it didn’t stop him from being sent to prison.

The man who recited Baudelaire in the kitchen and alphabetized your spice rack for fun was now behind bars -- bruised, cornered, alone. The letters started coming then, short at first. Then longer. Then emotional. You read each one a hundred times, your fingers brushing over the creases like you could smooth away his pain.

You cried for him. His friends and colleagues comforted you. Penelope had been by with one too many casseroles and cupcakes decorated in pink glitter. JJ tried getting you out of the apartment, even just to sit on a park bench and talk in the fresh air.

Finally, you were taken by David Rossi to visit him. They said you wouldn't want to see him. Said he looked rough. But you never stopped asking until they gave in.

You remembered every step through that prison like a dream you couldn't wake from. The clink of doors. The sterile, suffocating scent of bleach and old paper. The fluorescent lights that made everything feel too sharp.

Rossi kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you gently. He didn’t say much. Just, “Brace yourself.”

And you did. Until the moment Spencer walked in.

He looked nothing like the man you knew. His curls were wild, uneven, untamed. There was a cut on his cheek, a bruise blooming beneath one eye. His frame -- already lean -- seemed thinner. Clothes hung awkwardly on his bones. But it was his eyes that gutted you. Still the brown eyes you loved. But cold. Wounded.

They didn't light up when he saw you, like usual. But they did soften.

They softened until he got angry.

A fiery glare was directed at Rossi, one you'd never seen Spencer wield.

“I told you not to bring her here,” Spencer snapped, his voice low and ragged but edged in fury. “It's not safe for her here, these men are like animals, and I didn't want her to--”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “She asked. Repeatedly. You think I enjoy watching the two of you suffer?”

Spencer shoved back from the table slightly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the concrete. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn't have listened. I needed her to be safe, away from this. Away from me.”

You stepped forward before Rossi could respond, your voice softer than either of theirs -- but stronger, too. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Spencer.”

His gaze snapped to you. Raw. Defensive. Cracked open. You glanced at Rossi, a look that told him it was finally okay to step out.

Spencer’s jaw tensed as he looked at you. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t want to be here.”

You moved closer anyway, heart aching. “I do. And I am. And I’m not leaving.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue -- like he had a hundred reasons why you should walk away and never look back, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the table between you, his hands curled into fists.

“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he finally whispered. “I'm not the same.”

You sat across from him, hands folding in front of you. “Then let me get to know this version of you, too. All of them. I’m not here because I want the perfect version of you, Spencer. I’m here because I love you.”

His breath hitched.

“You think I haven’t imagined this?” you asked. “What it would look like? Seeing you like this? I have. And it still doesn’t scare me off.”

Spencer’s eyes were red-rimmed now, and his voice cracked when he finally said, “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhaled, eyes softening at the tears developing in his.

“Spence..”

You thought the visit had gone well. You thought he was finally letting you in.

He'd squeezed your hands in his before you left, his eyelids squeezed shut as a tear dropped from his eye. Like he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch you. To talk to you and have you close to him.

When you went home, a few days passed before you received a letter from Spencer. You opened it eagerly, expecting to see how he'd changed his mind and he was happy you came. How he'd missed you and wanted to see you again. How he "loved you, darling," as he'd said to you for years.

But that wasn’t what the letter said. Not even close.

I need you to understand something very clearly: I’m not the man you think I am anymore. This place changes people and not for the better. I don’t want you anywhere near it, or me. You deserve better than the husk I’ve become. What we had was a mistake, a foolish hope in a situation that’s already lost. Holding on to me will only drag you down into a life of misery and pain. You’re stronger than that, and you don’t need me poisoning your future. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t send letters. Don’t wait. Forget me, because I’m gone. The man you loved died the day I walked through those gates. This is the last time you’ll hear from me. -- Spencer

You read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word like a hammer blow to your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision, and your fingers curled around the paper, threatening to crush it -- but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was still his.

This wasn’t a breakup. It was a severing. A mercy killing of the most sacred thing you’d ever had.

He hadn’t signed it love, Spencer. Just Spencer.

And that alone shattered you.

You let the letter fall from your trembling hands, your knees buckling beneath you. The world blurred as tears spilled freely, raw and endless. Your chest heaved with sobs that clawed at your throat until your voice was stripped away, until your body convulsed with silent agony.

You curled in on yourself, the sharp sting of heartbreak twisting deep inside, and when your body could take no more, your pain spilled over, leaving you empty and broken on the cold floor.

You went through phases.

Awful depression was the first. All you did was sleep -- sometimes sleeping days away without eating. You'd lost a considerable amount of weight, but the sleep didn't help. All you did was dream of Spencer.

Your friends were concerned. Your mom was concerned. She began staying over at your apartment, forcing meals down your throat and waking you up every morning. She even held you while you cried, wiping your eyes and the snot from your face.

Next, you were angry.

Not just irritated -- furious. Blindingly, bitterly angry. At Spencer, at yourself, at the system that swallowed him whole and spit him back out as someone you barely recognized. You smashed a coffee mug when you re-read the letter. You ripped one of his old shirts out of the laundry basket and tore it in half with shaking hands. The quiet, aching grief hardened into something sharper, something that boiled behind your ribs like acid.

How dare he? How dare he shut you out, cut you off like you were nothing? Like what you had meant less than the pain of keeping you?

You’d stood by him. You’d waited. You’d believed in him when the world didn’t.

And he still left you bleeding with nothing but a letter. Just Spencer.

You didn’t cry that week. You paced. You snapped at people. You dug your nails into your palms just to feel something other than the sting of abandonment. Anger, at least, gave you control -- and control was the only thing you had left.

The anger stayed with you, burying the anguish. Until Spencer got out.

You saw it on the news first -- a quiet headline, a fleeting mention: Dr. Spencer Reid released after wrongful imprisonment. No fanfare. No apologies. Just a footnote in a week of chaos.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand.

He was free.

And he didn’t tell you.

Of course he didn’t.

That night, your rage came back in full force, but it was quieter now. Sharper. More refined. It didn’t explode -- it simmered. You cleaned your apartment top to bottom, tossing the last remnants of him into a trash bag. That scarf he always wore when you visited bookstores. The annotated copy of Lolita he left on your nightstand. A pair of mismatched socks. The tea he used to brew just right.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just whispered to the empty room, “Don’t come back.”

And he didn't.

For weeks, you didn't see him. You didn't hear his name when you went shopping with Penelope, as if she knew you wouldn't want to. It was like your life before this evaporated into smoke. No mention, no sign of Spencer at all.

A month later, it was Luke's birthday. There was a party for him coming up, a little get together at his house. He begged you to come, and Penelope, and JJ, and Prentiss, until you finally caved. You could do it, right? You could withstand it, whether Spencer was there or not. You didn't care. It was in the past.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a gathering. Just old friends. That you’d walk in, make polite conversation, maybe even laugh once or twice. You’d wear something nice, something that made you feel like you — not like the hollow ghost you’d been when Spencer vanished from your life.

Luke greeted you with a hug that lasted a beat too long, like he was bracing you. JJ’s smile faltered for just a second before she pulled you into her arms. Penelope beamed at you, glittery and brave, but her eyes scanned the room anxiously -- almost like she was trying to prepare you for something she couldn't say out loud.

"I'm so glad you're here." Luke smiled, trying to disarm the tension. "Wouldn't be a birthday without you."

“Yeah, well. I owed you a drink and an awkward hug, so here I am.”

Luke laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him the first genuine grin you'd had in months.

"Don't bullshit me."

It was almost familiar. Almost comfortable and warm. A party with old friends who loved you.

And then you saw him.

Spencer.

Standing in the kitchen, hair trimmed now but still wild, wearing a soft gray sweater you hadn’t seen before. He was thinner still, but no longer fragile. He was composed. Collected. Familiar in all the worst ways.

And when his eyes met yours, they didn’t just soften -- they broke.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like seeing you had hit him harder than any prison wall ever had.

You stood frozen in the doorway, one hand curled tightly around the strap of your purse.

You hadn’t prepared for this. Not for the way your stomach twisted. Not for the way your heart stuttered at the sight of him. Not for the way every inch of you remembered -- vividly -- how it felt to be loved by him. And left by him.

You blinked once. Slowly.

Then, you turned away and headed straight for the liquor table.

Prentiss followed.

Shakily, you poured yourself a glass of whiskey, lifting it to your lips in a hurry. You hoped the liquor burning down your throat would arm you, hardening around you like a shell and making you impossible to break.

Prentiss didn’t say anything at first. Just stood beside you, watching you pour and drink like it was survival -- like this party was a battlefield and the whiskey was armor.

“You okay?” she finally asked, voice low.

You gave a humorless smile. “Peachy.”

Prentiss leaned a hip against the table. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

“I know.” You stared down into your glass.

“Ease into being around him. There's no rush.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the next sip with a wince. “Yeah..”

Prentiss was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you want me to stick around? Watch your six?”

You smirked faintly, heart pounding. “I think I can handle one skinny genius.”

She gave a soft snort. “Alright. But if you need backup…”

“I know,” you said, finally meeting her eyes. “Thanks, Emily.”

She squeezed your arm gently, then stepped away, giving you space.

You drank there silently for a while. It wasn't helping like you thought it would.

The burn in your throat faded too fast. The warmth in your chest settled into nothingness. You were still too aware of the room -- the quiet laughter, the conversation, the way people kept glancing toward the hallway like they were tracking someone.

Like they were tracking him.

You gripped the edge of the table until your knuckles ached, breathing slow through your nose. It wasn’t working. The whiskey wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t dulling the pain or the memory of his letter. Just Spencer. The cruelty of it. The cowardice.

And yet… you still felt him. Like gravity. Pulling at you even across the room.

You turned your head just slightly, and that’s when you saw him.

He was standing half-hidden near the archway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, looking smaller than you remembered. His eyes were already on you. Not moving. Not blinking.

Like he’d been watching the entire time.

You almost looked away.

Almost.

But you didn’t.

You needed some air. You quickly walked towards the door, muttering apologies and promising to come back, before you reached the front porch. You sat on the porch chair, threading your hands through your hair and inhaling deeply.

You thought you could do this. Hell, you even thought it would be easy. But you just couldn't.

The dreaded tears came to your eyes before you noticed them, dripping down. You sniffled, looking up at the stars.

The stars blurred above you, gentle pinpricks of light in a sky that didn’t care how much your chest ached. You wiped at your face roughly, as if that could erase the entire last year: the prison, the silence, the letter. Him.

You’d told yourself you were over it. Over him.

But here you were, falling apart on someone else’s porch like the wound had never closed. Maybe it never had. Maybe it never would.

The screen door creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

You knew it was him.

There was a long pause. Then footsteps, soft and hesitant, and the subtle rustle of fabric as Spencer slowly sat on the step beside your chair, not too close, not touching. Just there.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was sharp, cutting, full of all the things that should have been said months ago.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally, his voice low, almost broken.

You laughed bitterly through your tears. “I shouldn't have.”

Another silence.

“I'm glad you did. I didn't even know if I'd talk to you.. I just wanted to look at you again.”

Spencer’s voice cracked on the last word, and when you glanced sideways at him, his profile was haloed in porchlight. Soft, tired, and somehow still beautiful in the way that only he ever was to you. His hands were folded tightly in his lap like he was afraid they’d shake if he let them move.

“I used to dream about this,” he admitted quietly. “Just… being near you again. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice.”

Another wave of tears washed over you. You just listened to his voice. Part of you hated him. Part of you missed his voice.

“I counted the minutes I was in there. One-hundred and thirty-nine thousand and six-hundred eighty minutes," He continued, looking across the lawn at the cars that occasionally passed on the street. “With every minute that passed, it got more probable that I wouldn't leave. After all, the statistics for false imprisonment are..”

He stopped himself with a tight, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m doing it again -- hiding behind numbers.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight with grief and memory and the ache of loving someone who had broken you in the name of protection.

Spencer glanced over at you, his expression open and fragile. “But I did count the minutes. I counted them because I was scared that you'd waste a good life waiting for me.”

“It wasn't your choice.” You hissed quietly, refusing to look at him. “But you made it your choice with that damn letter. Cruel.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. You could feel him flinch beside you, like your words had physically hit him, maybe harder than anything he’d taken inside those prison walls.

“I know,” he said eventually, the words barely more than breath. “I read it back a thousand times after I sent it. And every time, I thought: I hope she hates me enough to forget me. I kept a copy. To remind myself not to reach out. Not to pull you back to me.”

You laughed, bitter and wet. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I hated you, but I couldn’t forget you. You don’t just forget the person you built a life around, Spencer.”

Finally, you looked at him. He was already staring at you, devastated, like he was watching something crumble that he could never put back together.

“I wrote that letter like I was dying,” he admitted. “Because I thought I was. Not physically. Just… everything that made me who I was, it was getting chipped away. I thought if I died to you then, at least I wouldn’t take you down with me.”

“It wasn't fair. What happened to you wasn't. But it wasn't fair of you to shove me away,” your voice began to wobble, tears coming down your face again. “I loved you, Spencer. Wasn't it enough?”

Spencer’s face crumpled -- not all at once, but in small, controlled fractures, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together for your sake, even now. Even after everything.

“It was,” he whispered. “God, it was more than enough. It was everything. That’s why I let it go.”

You shook your head, the ache blooming sharp again. “That’s not how love works. You don’t just… take someone’s heart and decide for them what’s best. You don’t destroy them to save them.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know that now.”

You let out a trembling breath, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “I would’ve waited. I was waiting.”

“I know, baby,” he said softly, his voice watery with tears he was trying to force back. The pet name slipped -- he hadn't even noticed he'd used it. It was too natural for him. “But I didn't know if I was coming back. And I didn't know who I'd come back as.”

You exhaled, but your lungs felt punctured.

“God, I hate you, Spencer. I hate that I still..”

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and glistening. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Your confession seemed to punch the air from his lungs the same way it had yours.

You shook your head quickly, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, ashamed of how raw you sounded. “I hate that even after everything, the silence, the letter, the fucking goodbye, I still see you and my chest hurts in a way that feels like home.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just another tear trailing down.

“I used to think if you ever came back, I’d slam the door in your face,” you said, laughing bitterly through your tears. “But I didn’t. I let you sit here. I let you look at me.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you. But I love you more than anything in the world. All I did was pray to a God I don't believe in for you to heal.”

“Then how could you walk away? Like I was nothing?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Because I was nothing in there,” he said hoarsely. “I was a number. A threat. A punching bag. Every day, I woke up wondering who I’d have to fight to stay alive. What part of myself I’d have to let die just to make it to the next hour. And the one thing that kept me going was you. The memory of you.”

You whimpered like the words had stabbed you.

“The only things I had in my cell were photos of you. That's all I wanted,” he said, his voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “When I felt human enough to read, I only read your favorite literature and poems.”

“Spencer--”

“I started with Jane Eyre. Because you said it was the first book that made you cry. I wanted to cry with you, even if you weren’t there.”

Your breath caught.

His voice was shaking, but steady enough to recite what he’d clearly read over and over, committing it to memory like a prayer.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love -- I have found you. You are my sympathy -- my better self -- my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you.”

Tears streamed down your face freely now. You remembered reading that line to him once, years ago, curled together in bed.

“I used to repeat that in my head just to fall asleep,” he admitted. “I read the book hundreds of times. It was your voice.”

You covered your mouth, shoulders trembling.

“I thought I could bury it. Bury you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. And if I never get to hold you again,” he said, crying entirely, “I needed you to know… you were never nothing. You were the only thing that made me anything at all.”

“Spencer, I'm begging you not--”

“Let me finish,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for you but not quite touching you. “If there's any chance at all, any chance you'd let me come home, I'd make it my mission to love you for the rest of our days on this doomed Earth.” He said, his words rushing out as if he couldn't control them.

You were silent. Shocked. Your jaw dropped, but lips still quivered.

“I'll go right now and buy a ring if that's what you want. I'll recite your favorite poetry every single night. I'll scratch your back without asking for it in return. I'll listen to your favorite song in the car on a loop every damn time we go anywhere even though I hate it.”

He was breaking open in front of you, pouring himself out in fragments: hopeful, desperate, all the pieces you never thought you'd get back.

“I’ll memorize every meal you’ve ever loved and learn how to cook it perfectly. I’ll fix the leaky sink. I’ll reorganize your bookshelf a hundred times until it makes sense to you again.” His voice wavered desperately, rising into something raw and aching. “Just -- please. Please give me the chance to make it right.”

You stared at him, stunned. That flood of emotion -- grief, fury, heartbreak, love -- came crashing down at once. Your body shook from it. You had waited for this moment for so long. You had dreamed of it. But now that it was here, you didn’t know if you could move.

Spencer inched forward on the porch step, slowly, as if afraid to scare you off. His hands trembled between you, still waiting for yours.

“I don’t want anyone else. I can’t want anyone else. You were it for me before prison. You were it every day in there. And you're it now. No matter what you say.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“What if you leave again if things get difficult?”

His breath hitched.

“I won’t,” he said, instantly but then gentler, more broken, “I can’t.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you like the question had gutted him, like he’d been waiting for it.

“I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he continued, voice low and shaking. “But I see now -- God, I know now -- that hurting you to keep you safe wasn’t protection. It was fear. And I let it win.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to see how wrecked he was, eyes glassy and wide. “But I’ve lived through the worst thing imaginable. And it wasn’t prison. It wasn't Tobias Hankel. It wasn't Dilaudid, it wasn't those damn headaches, and it wasn't losing Maeve. It was the thought of you moving on, thinking I didn’t love you. It was living with the idea that I’d made you feel abandoned.”

His hand finally touched yours, featherlight. “So no. I won’t leave again. Not when things get difficult. Not when I’m scared. Not when I’m hurting. Because I’d rather face every nightmare in the world than ever look into your eyes again and see pain that I've caused.”

A pause.

“Please,” he whispered, “let me stay this time.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was heavy, aching, filled with all the memories of the man he used to be and the one breaking before you now. His fingers were still barely touching yours, like he didn’t believe he deserved to hold your hand, only to beg for the chance.

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. You had imagined this moment a hundred times. In the best versions, he came home with flowers, apologies, promises. In the worst, he never came at all.

But this raw, desperate truth from him was something else entirely.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered. “I want to. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Spencer closed his eyes, nodding like the words bruised but didn’t surprise him. “Then I’ll stay outside your door every day if I have to. I’ll write you letters I sign with love this time. I’ll sign my soul away to you if that's what it takes. It's yours now anyways.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw him again. Not the hollow shell who’d walked out. Not the angry, scared man from prison. But the Spencer you’d loved. A little more broken. A little more changed. But still him. Still yours.

Your hand turned, slowly, fingers curling around his. He gasped quietly at the touch, like it shocked him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said softly.

His eyes met yours, glassy with hope. “Never again.”

And suddenly, you were yanked forward. A watery giggle, half laughing and half crying, escaped you as you were pulled into Spencer's chest, your cheek coming into contact with the gray threads of his sweater.

His arms wrapped around you like they were made for it: tight, trembling, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His face tucked into your neck, breath shuddering against your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You just held each other.

The night around you was quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of a passing car, the soft rustle of leaves, and the ragged breathing of two people who had survived too much.

“I missed you so much,” Spencer whispered into your shoulder, voice cracking. “More than I knew a person could miss someone.”

He smelled like memories. Like all the nights you'd spent cuddling on the couch watching old Russian romances that you didn't understand, but he translated for you in his soft, lovely voice. Like kissing in the rain, but being scolded for “common cold inducing behavior.” Like a long hug after an especially drawn out and difficult case.

He smelled like home. Your home.

You were so happy to be home.

[tes-conscience]

This had me sobbing!!! I love it so much! And It’s so well written!!

[king-mila]

♡ — cutie

pairing: off the wall era!michael x latoya's bsf!reader

summary: michael has a huge crush on you, and you have one too. hearing his brothers tease him that he has no chance with you gives you the confidence you need to act on your feelings themes: fluff, mutual crush, michael yearning, brothers teasing him author's note: from this request! hope you enjoy.

1980 encino

michael had the biggest crush on you.

you’d been friends with latoya for years, and for just as long, he’d thought you were gorgeous. every time you came to hayvenhurst for dinner, he found himself hanging onto every word that came out of your mouth as you talked and laughed with his family. the sound of your voice settled somewhere deep inside him, warm and comforting in a way he could never quite explain, and hearing you laugh always managed to bring an unconscious smile to his face. he loved whenever you were around, even if he could never hold a conversation with you for longer than five minutes before his nerves caught up to him and left him stumbling over his own words.

he’d never said anything about his crush because he was convinced you only saw him as "latoya’s younger brother," and nothing more. so instead, he admired you from a distance, content with whatever moments he could steal while pretending his heart wasn't racing every time you looked his way. now, he was sitting in the living room with his brothers while you and latoya were upstairs getting ready for the pool day everyone had planned.

“watch when she comes down in her bikini, mikey’s gonna short circuit,” marlon teases and michael rolls his eyes as he turns to his brother.

“shut up, marlon,” he says and his other brothers laugh.

“you will, you always do whenever she’s around,” jackie says as he shakes his head.

“come on guys, don’t start,” michael says because he’s already blushing.

“when you finally gonna tell her, huh?” jermaine asks and they all laugh again.

“oh come on, mike’s got no chance with her, have you seen her?” marlon says and they all laugh again while michael’s cheeks burn hotter.

the truth was, you also had a crush on michael. there had always been something about him that drew you in, from the quiet kindness in his smile to the way his shyness only made him more endearing. you'd figured out a long time ago that the easiest way to pull him out of his shell was to ask about his music, and every time you did, it was like watching him come alive. he could spend hours talking about melodies, lyrics, and ideas that danced around in his head, and you loved listening because he never seemed to realize just how talented and thoughtful he really was.

“he’s just gonna keep writing songs about her and yearning,” tito says as he shakes his head.

“stop, y’all, you’re embarrassing me,” michael says, right as you and latoya are coming down the stairs.

“cmon mikey, what’s the worst that could happen, she tells you no?” marlon teases.

“which she probably will,” jermaine says and they all laugh again.

“you guys are terrible,” michael says with a soft laugh.

you shake your head at the teasing, but then the meaning behind every word finally settles in, and your heart nearly skips a beat.

michael has a crush on you too?

all at once, every little moment you'd brushed aside came rushing back. the conversations where neither of you seemed to be the first to look away, the way his eyes lingered on yours just a heartbeat longer than anyone else's, the softness that always settled over his features whenever you walked into a room. you'd spent so long convincing yourself you were reading too much into it, telling yourself that michael was simply attentive and sweet by nature, but hearing his brothers tease him made it impossible to ignore what had been right in front of you all along.

because you had noticed the way his entire face seemed to brighten whenever he saw you. you'd noticed how his smiles stretched just a little wider around you than they did with anyone else, and how, no matter how many times you told yourself to act normal, you always ended up blushing whenever he looked at you for too long.

latoya glances over at you, and the knowing look she gives you says everything. she already knows about your crush, and judging by the tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, she knows exactly what you're thinking now.

when you walk into the living room in your bikini and cover up, the brothers fall silent, immediately wondering how much you heard. you make a beeline for michael, and to everyone's surprise, even your own, you settle yourself right onto his lap.

the room seems to freeze.

michael's eyes go wide as you make yourself comfortable, one of your arms naturally slipping around his shoulders to steady yourself while your fingers find the soft curls at the back of his head. you gently begin playing with them, smiling to yourself when you feel him go completely still beneath you, like he's forgotten how to move.

“hi, michael,” you say with a smile and michael’s entire face flushes as he looks at you.

“h–hi,” he says softly which makes you smile wider. “are you um… are you comfortable?” he asks and his brothers fight the urge to laugh at his question, and you nod your head.

“very… is it okay that i sat right here?” you ask and he quickly nods, and then tries to recover himself.

“y–yeah, it’s okay,” he says and you nod with a bigger smile.

his heart is beating so hard he's almost certain you can feel it through the way you're sitting against him, but somehow, despite how overwhelmed he is, he can't bring himself to look away from you. all he can think about is how close you are, how gently you're running your fingers through his curls, and how this has to be some wonderful dream he'll wake up from at any second.

“you know michael… i was wondering if i could ask you something,” you say and michael bites his lip, trying to hide his smile as he nods.

“yeah?” he asks.

“i was wondering…” you trail off and lean close to his ear to whisper so his brothers won’t overhear. “if you’d like to go out on a date with me?” you whisper and michael’s eyes widen, only making you smile more when you pull back from his ear to look at him.

his brothers haven't taken their eyes off either of you the entire time. moments ago they'd been teasing michael about never having a chance with you, and now they can do nothing but stare as the entire situation unfolds in front of them in a way none of them could've possibly predicted.

“r–really? with me?” he asks and you nod.

“of course, silly. you’re so sweet and cute, and i love when we get to spend time together,” you say and jackie’s jaw basically hits the floor.

for a moment, michael can only look at you. he'd spent so long convincing himself this could never happen that hearing the words come from your lips leaves him completely speechless. every insecurity his brothers had joked about only minutes ago melts away beneath the warmth in your eyes, replaced by a happiness so overwhelming that he can barely contain the smile spreading across his face.

“i’d love to… i–i’ll make it real special,” he says and you smile, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheeks and you feel the warmth of his flushing skin.

“perfect… will you come swim with me?” you ask and michael quickly nods, making you smile wider.

you stand from his lap, and as soon as michael finds his feet again, you reach for his hand without a second thought. your fingers lace together effortlessly, and with a smile that says you know exactly what you're doing, you purposely saunter past all of his brothers on your way toward the backyard. michael follows right beside you, still blushing so hard it reaches the tips of his ears, but he can't stop smiling as your hand remains wrapped around his.

the brothers watch the two of you disappear toward the pool with matching looks of complete disbelief. “well, i’ll be damned,” marlon says and they all laugh again.

“we should’ve known,” jermaine says as he shakes his head, and then all the boys and latoya come out and join you all at the pool. the afternoon quickly fills with laughter as you and michael splash each other, trade playful teases, and steal shy smiles every time your eyes meet. somehow, despite all the noise around you, being together feels effortless, and by the time the sun begins to settle lower in the sky, the only thing either of you can think about is how excited you are for your first date together.

taglist: @daddysporsche @angelofmikes @neverstreett @humannaturess @ghosteras @0ffth3walll @raefoxiegirl @a-motherfcking-fish @lauren7050 @lestatress @prettygurljo @daddytillerrr @thesecretvaultt @doveduh @mvkas @ooooglymoooogly @iwasntreddieforthis @sunsetdrvr @ikeuusstuff @saigesspace @g1antgoodfish @starbycurls @immultifandom16 @faiology @savagenctzen @plan3tch1ld @kayybaereads @ollingpop678 @lanibuggg @cannonindeez @ifthistown

[mikedotorg]

weird comfortability

You laid on your stomach on the plush bed in your room, going through your photographs you took with your best friends, you smiled to yourself—maybe you could hang these on the wall.

the door to your bedroom opened and shut, footsteps softly padding on the carpeted floor. You knew it was michael, he usually came by your house to see you after recording some songs.

“Hey Mikey, how was—The hell!” you gasp when you feel a weight against your ass, craning your neck to look behind you.

Michael was literally laying his head on your butt, face in it and all. “Mm.. missed you mama, jus’ wanna lay down..” you groan.

“On my ass? seriously?” He hums, already dozing off. “Yeah.. it’s comfy and soft, can’t help it.”

you sigh and leave him be, after a while of sitting there with him asleep on you, you find yourself dozing off as well—cheek pressed into the mattress as your breath evens out.

tags: @yourleogf @michcarrillo02-blog @princesspluuto @whimsihoe @myah4livz @jermajestysbaby @0-n-1-x @pixieelixer-24 @4ppl3h34d @fairydustdiary @siighrns @theraynecries @yearlyjams

[kkgalerii]

look at me, baby. 𐙚🧸ྀི

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ description: a rainy night takes an unexpected turn when michael stumbles across your secret toy. what starts as a tense, quiet confession quickly turns into an intense lesson in desire. suddenly, waiting isn't as easy as it used to be.

content: 18+, smut, established relationship, fluff, usage of sex toys, religious michael, otw!michael, my mind is so nasty lmao, not proofread…so if yall see sum, no yall don’t…

۶ৎ the storm outside was unrelenting, the heavy downpour beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your apartment windowpane. inside, everything was warm and isolated. minnie riperton was playing low on the turntable, the soft needle pops blending into the sound of the rain.

you were sitting on the edge of the sink counter, setting out small glass bottles, while michael leaned against the doorframe, a thick white headband holding back his soft curls. he was watching your hands with absolute, intense concentration as you prepped your skin.

"so wait... you gotta put that liquid stuff on first?" michael asked, tilting his head with wide doe eyes. "before we put the face masks on?"

"yeah, baby," you chuckled softly, lifting the glass bottle to show him. "this is the toner. it balances your skin and cleans off whatever the soap missed so the face mask can actually do its job."

"hmm," michael hummed, stepping closer to inspect the bottle. "i wanna learn it all. show me how to do it. i gotta keep my skin right for these studio sessions this week... quincy’s got me under those bright lights all day."

"well, if you wanna do it right, i need a couple of cotton pads," you smiled, turning to look for the plastic sleeve on the counter before realizing it was empty. "oh, shoot... without even thinking, i left the backup pack in my bedroom."

"where in the bedroom?" michael asked, already turning toward the doorway, his socked feet making no sound against the tile.

"they're right in my nightstand drawer, baby. top one, right in the front."

"top drawer, got it," michael said smoothly, padding down the short hallway into the dim light of your room.

you turned back to the mirror, uncapping the bottle and humming along to the vinyl playing in the living room, completely oblivious to what was resting in that drawer right beside your spare skincare backups.

and then, the entire apartment went dead, suffocatingly quiet.

stepping out into the bedroom, you found him standing rigid by the bed, staring wide-eyed into the open drawer. sitting right beside your spare lotions was your seven-inch realistic dildo. michael stood completely shocked, his jaw slightly open, trying to form words that just wouldn't come out. the silence alone told you everything he had seen.

you hurried over and slammed the drawer shut, grabbing the cotton pads off the top and trying to convince him to come back to the bathroom to finish like nothing had happened. but michael just stood there dead in his tracks, his expression completely unreadable, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

then, he murmured out so quietly, his voice raspy over the storm. "are you—are you not satisfied in our relationship?"

you could see the deep worry on his face, almost as if he’d been physically hurt by the sight.

you let out a soft sigh, putting the cotton pads down on the nightstand before sitting right on the side of the bed, looking up at his tall, frozen frame. "yes baby, i’m happy. so very happy with you."

michael slowly raised his long hands, rubbing his face tiredly before looking back down at you. "mama, i asked if you were satisfied. not happy."

you sighed, completely unable to lie to his handsome face and big, searching doe eyes. "it’s not that i’m unsatisfied… i just have personal needs, baby."

michael hummed softly and nodded, his hand moving up to nervously pick at his afro, a habit he fell into whenever his mind was racing. "but i thought we agreed we weren’t ready to have— to go all the way."

you readjusted nervously on the mattress, nodding slowly. "yes baby, i know what i agreed to. and i meant it. michael, if you aren’t ready, then you aren’t ready, and i’m okay with that."

michael sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "clearly you aren’t... now that you’re using a toy instead of me." he frowned, his dark eyes fixed on the carpet.

"well baby, i know where you stand on sex," you said softly, reaching out to gently grab his long hands, pulling him closer until he was standing right in front of you between your knees. "you’ve told me it all, about how you’d like to wait till marriage or whenever you’re ready. i’d never force you to do anything just for my pleasure. i love you, michael."

a thick, heavy quiet settled over the room, filled only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the window and the faint, distant crackle of the vinyl turntable in the living room.

michael didn't say anything right away. he stood there with his jaw tightly set, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow breaths as he searched your face. you could see the war playing out behind his big doe eyes—the deep-rooted shyness, the weight of his upbringing, and the overwhelming desire to just be everything you needed.

slowly, the sharp tension in his shoulders began to thaw. his thumb smoothed over the back of your knuckles in a slow, rhythmic circle, his touch softening from hesitant to deliberate.

"yeah... well, now i’m jealous," he joked softly.

you chuckled to yourself, breaking the heavy tension. "no need to be, i always imagine it’s you anyways."

michael’s big eyes went wide at your vulgar comment. "wow, that’s… sexy," he whispered, saying the word like it was a swear word he wasn't supposed to utter out loud. "tell me more, mama. i wanna know what i been missin' out on."

he moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. you scooted your back up against the headboard, pulling your knees up, while he remained on the side of the bed, gently rubbing your leg through your nightgown.

the rain kept beating steady against the glass, but inside the room, the air had turned thick and still. michael’s long fingers trailing light, feather-soft circles along the side of your leg. his big dark eyes didn't leave yours for a single second.

"so..." michael whispered, his voice dropping low, almost hesitant. "when you're layin' here by yourself... what actually goes through your head, mama? walk me through it."

michael let out a quiet breath, looking down at your joined hands before bringing one of them up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

"i just... i hate thinkin' about you layin' here alone, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, low husk that made your heart do a quiet flip. "i thought i was protectin' you, but the thought of another thing—some object—givin' you what i should be givin' you... it drives me crazy."

he shifted closer, on the edge of the mattress until his knee was pressed flush against yours. the vulnerability in his eyes slowly shifted into an intense, quiet curiosity that made the air in the bedroom feel instantly warmer.

you took a slow breath, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush up your neck. "it's... usually on nights after you drop me off. after our dates."

"after our dates?" michael echoed softly, tilting his head. a faint, curious brow raised above those wide doe eyes. "what about our dates makes you go open that drawer?"

"just you, michael," you admitted quietly, shifting your hips slightly against the sheets.

"i come home, and the apartment is so quiet, but my head is still spinning. i'm thinking about the way you looked at me across the table. the way your hand felt wrapped around mine while you were driving... or how your voice sounds when you lean in real close to whisper somethin' in my ear before you leave."

michael’s breath caught sharply in his throat. his thumb stilled on your leg for a split second, pressing a tiny bit firmer into your skin before continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke.

"you... you really lay here thinkin' about my voice?" he murmured, leaning a fraction of an inch closer, entirely captivated.

"mhm," you hummed, your breath growing a little shallow as the memory settled in your chest. "i lay right here in the dark, and i pull the covers up... and i think about what it would feel like if you didn't leave. if you stayed."

"and then what?" michael asked, his voice dropping another octave into a smooth, thick hush. he leaned in so close you could feel the soft warmth radiating off his face. "tell me every detail, mama. don't skip nothin'."

"i reach into the nightstand," you whispered, uncrossing your legs slowly, letting your knees fall open just a little wider as a sudden, restless ache began to pulse between your thighs. "i grab the toy... but when i touch myself with it, i don't think about silicone. i pretend it's your long fingers...or just you."

michael swallowed hard, the sound sharp in the quiet room. his eyes widened, a deep, dark intensity swirling in his pupils as he listened. "you pretend it's my hands on you?"

"yes, baby," you whined softly, your chest rising and falling fast now. "i close my eyes and I imagine your weight on top of me. i imagine you holdin' my wrists down against the pillow, pressing your mouth right against mine..."

"gosh..." michael whispered, his breath completely hitching as he stared at your parted lips. "i had no idea... i didn't know you wanted me like that."

"i want you all the time, michael," you breathed out, your voice trembling as your body subtly twitched, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips at the sheer thought of it. "i lay here and i slide it in real slow... and all i can do is moan your name into the dark. michael... oh, michael..."

michael’s eyes tracking the subtle flush spreading across your chest and down your neck. he saw the way your legs shifted nervously, the way your breath hitched every time you spoke his name, your body visibly growing warm and needy right in front of him.

he shifted his weight, moving his hand from your knee up to the warm, soft skin of your inner thigh, his long fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there.

"looks like you want it right now," he spoke softly, the words sliding out smooth, deliberate, and undeniably bold.

you were surprised at his sudden words. "michael… baby…"

"shhh," he hushed you softly.

leaning forward, he caught your lips in a warm kiss, whispering against your mouth. "i hate that i can’t please you the way you need."

you just kissed him deeper in response, hands resting on his chest, before mumbling, "s’okay baby. i understand. i’ll wait for you."

michael’s hands began to ride up your legs gently, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath your nightgown as he continued to kiss you, trailing his lips to your jaw.

"i hate how bad i wanna be inside you, but just can’t," he murmured against your skin.

you breathed deeply as michael whispered in your ear, his long fingers rubbing your thighs, turning you on so fast your head was spinning.

"you teasin’ me baby…don’t do that," you whispered against his lips while gently holding his face.

michael pulled away slightly, looking you right in the eye with a fierce, quiet intensity. "maybe i can do somethin’ bout it this time."

eyeing your expression for any doubt, he shifted his body and leaned over back into the drawer, pulling out the dildo. you gasped at how naughty he was being, having never seen this side of him before.

"baby, what are you doin—" you tried to speak, but michael just cut you off with a deep, heavy kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth and stealing your breath away. you whimper against him, pulling his warm body closer by the shoulders.

"you said you think about me kissin’ you, huh?" his lips left yours, trailing down to gently peck along your throat. "all down here?"

you moaned out desperately, clenching his white t-shirt, balling the fabric into your fist needily. "mhm... yes..."

"you think about me touching you all over? like this, mama?" he questioned, pulling back to hold eye contact intensely.

his hands were now roaming your body, reaching up under your nightgown to gently stroke your tummy before moving up to caress your breasts. you bit your lip at this sudden burst of sexual intensity. his long fingers tugged at the strap of your nightgown, pulling it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

"you imagine me kissing you right here baby?" he wondered softly.

his long, slender fingers grasped the plump roundness of your breasts, lifting you gently before his lips met the thick hardness of your nipples.

you moaned out, your head falling back against the headboard, hips bucking up begging for something… just something. the lingering thought of his religious stance lingered in the back of your mind as he licked and sucked softly.

"i get those feelings too," he whimpered against your breasts, his breath hot against your skin. "that need to feel you, to hold you close and feel that warmth… and wetness."

your hands tangled in his afro gently as you felt his warm tongue working over your sensitive skin. "i just know it’s so unholy for me," he whispered, almost to himself. "it feels so forbidden mama."

"then baby, why you feelin’ on me so good like this?" you whined, desperate for any kind of pleasure, knowing actual sex was unlikely.

he pulled back from the kiss, his lips hovering right over yours teasingly. "cause you deserve it… mama. y’been holdin’ back for so long. just for me."

you gently rubbed his cheekbone with your thumb, pulling back with a softened expression. "i’d never wanna rush you baby."

michael leaned back in for another kiss before mumbling, "i know sweetheart, and that’s why you deserve it most."

before you could even react, you felt something hard pressed up against your clothed warmth. you gasped, feeling the firm pressure against your clit. half of you wished it wasn’t the toy, and the other half wished it was really michael.

looking down, you saw michael gently moving the dildo up and down your core over your panties, grinding it slowly. before you could speak, his free hand took you by the chin, pulling you to meet his eyes.

"no baby. look at me. feel me," he directed softly, pressing the toy down harder in a slower, torturous grind. he leaned forward, kissing your neck and whispering sweet, filthy promises into your skin.

you begged him not to tease, writhing under his touch. seeing your desperation, michael reached down and pulled your panties down your legs, throwing them aside, completely in love with the sight of you bare and wet for him.

resting the warm, smooth tip right against your wet opening, he paused just to meet your gaze. then, with a slow and deliberate tilt of his wrist, he slid the dildo all the way into you, letting out a soft breath as he set a steady, intoxicating pace.

"look at me," he murmured, keeping his eyes locked onto yours as he established a steady rhythm. with every deep glide of the toy, he talked you through it, his voice low and heavy as he described precisely how he’d take you if it were his own body. his grip stayed firm, anchoring you to the mattress with each smooth stroke.

slowing down, he whispered right into your ear, "this is how slow i’d go when holding you close..." while he kissed down your neck.

and then speeding up, his wrist moving faster, "and this is how fast i’d go, when you keep making noises like that for me."

"look at me, mama," he reminded you continuously, his voice commanding yet infinitely tender. "keep your eyes on me, not the toy. imagine it's me. tell me who's touching you."

"you... it's you, baby," you whimpered, completely lost in his dark eyes and the steady push of his hand.

michael leaned in close, his heavy gaze never leaving yours for even a second. his wrist kept a steady, torturous rhythm, sliding the smooth length deep into your warmth before drawing it back out to the sensitive entrance, only to push right back in.

"that's right, mama," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a quiet authority that made your core pulse tightly around the toy. "i want you to keep lookin' at me. don't look down, don't look away. keep your eyes right here."

"michael... oh god, it feels so good," you gasped, your fingers digging into the cotton of his shirt, your hips rising up off the mattress to meet every deliberate thrust.

"i know it does," he murmured, his thumb moving to gently stroke your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat. "i hear the way you're breathin' for me. i feel how tight and wet you're wrapped around this... but you're not gonna rush it. not yet."

you whimpered, feeling the intense coil tightening dangerously fast in your stomach. "baby, please... i'm so close—"

"shhh, hold on for me," michael hushed softly. you were right on the very edge, your whole core coiling tight, ready to snap—when suddenly, michael pulled the toy clean out of you.

a loud, desperate gasp tore from your chest at the sudden emptiness. "michael! wait, no— baby, please!"

"shhh," michael hushed softly, his voice dark and smooth as velvet. he placed the smooth handle of the dildo right into your trembling palm, closing your long fingers tightly around it. "i wanna see you do it."

you looked up at him through heavy, blurred eyes, panting hard.

"what baby?” you questioned, clearly taken aback, as the pleasure lingered in your lower stomach.

"you heard me, mama," he whispered, shifting his body until he was hovering directly over you, his knees slotted firmly between your thighs, pressing his full weight down against you. "you do it for me every night when i'm not here, right? so show me. put it back in."

your hand was shaking so bad you could barely guide it, but with his heavy dark gaze locked onto yours, you slowly lined the tip back up and slid the smooth length back inside yourself. a long, shuddering moan escaped your lips.

"gosh, look at you," michael rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned down, taking your mouth in a deep, heavy kiss.

while your hand worked the toy inside yourself, michael completely took over the rest of your body. he shifted his hips, pressing his weight down right between your thighs, grinding down against your core so you could feel the massive, firm shape of him straining through his trousers. it felt so real—so heavy and solid—it was almost like he was actually inside you.

"mmph... michael," you sobbed into his mouth, your wrist trying to find a fast rhythm, but he reached down, his long fingers wrapping tightly over your hand on the toy, slowing your pace down to an agonizing, deep glide.

"not yet," he commanded against your lips, trailing his mouth down to your jaw, sucking a dark, wet mark into the soft skin of your throat. "go deep, mama. just like that... slide it all the way in."

his free hand roamed up your body, squeezing your breasts gently before his lips tracked down to take your nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking wet friction into your skin while your hand kept moving under his steady guidance.

between the wet heat of his mouth on your chest, his heavy hips grinding against your thighs, and the silicone sliding deep inside you, your mind went completely blank.

you felt a sudden, intense wave of heat build deep in your core—so sharp and overwhelming that your whole body twitched, a sudden, wet gush spilling out around the toy and coating his long fingers.

you gasped out loud, thoroughly embarrassed. "oh god, michael— i'm sorry, i—"

"don't you dare apologize," michael growled softly into your skin, his eyes blowing out wide and dark as he felt the hot wetness soaking his hand.

it sent a visible shock straight through him, his chest heaving as he stared down at how completely undone you were for him. "that's so pretty... you're doing so damn good for me, mama."

he pressed his hips down harder, grinding against you with a slow, relentless tilt that made your head throw back against the headboard.

"now move your wrist faster," he instructed softly into your ear, his breath scorching hot. "don't stop. picture me right here, holding your wrists, taking everything you got."

"i can't— michael, i'm gonna—" you choke out, as you desperately trembled at every wave of pleasure surging throughout your body.

"i know you are," he whispered, his voice dripping with quiet authority as he captured your lips in one final, deep kiss, his hand speeding your wrist up until the movement was a frantic, blurring friction. "let go for me, mama. do it right now. let go. don't hold nothin' back. let me see how good it feels when you're thinkin' about me."

that last, deliberate push pushed you completely over the edge.

a high, helpless cry tore from your throat as your entire core clamped down tight around the toy. wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure crashed through your body, making your back arch off the bed and your legs tremble uncontrollably against his sides.

"yes, mama... just like that," michael whispered softly, his own breath hitching as he watched your face undo completely. he slowed his hand to a long, gentle glide, encouraging your wrist to continue plunging the toy deep inside you to ride out every last pulse of your release. "i got you. i got you, baby..."

you sobbed out his name, completely overwhelmed, hiding your flushed face in the crook of his neck as the sweet, lingering waves finally started to settle.

the intense, heavy mood in the room snapped the second your breathing finally slowed down.

michael carefully pulled the toy free, setting it aside on the nightstand with the absolute extreme caution of someone handling live dynamite. he immediately pulled you into his arms, tugging the heavy blanket all the way up to your shoulders.

for a long moment, you both just lay there in the quiet. your head was resting against his chest, listening to his heart beating a mile a minute.

then, a quiet, muffled giggle escaped his throat.

you raised your head slightly, looking up at him. michael was staring straight up at the ceiling, his cheeks flushed bright red, a massive, goofy grin spread across his face.

"what?" you murmured, a tiny smile tugging at your own lips.

"nothin'," michael said quickly, his voice cracking just a little bit before he let out a full, breathy laugh. he covered his face with one long hand, shaking his head against the pillow. "gosh... i can't believe i just did that."

"you were pretty smooth, mr. jackson," you

teased gently, poking his ribs through his white shirt. "where did all of that suddenly come from?"

michael wheezed, curling up slightly away from your poking finger. "stop! don't tease me, mama, i was tryin' real hard to be serious for you!"

"oh, you were serious," you chuckled, leaning up on one elbow to look down at his flustered face. "you were ordering me around! 'look at me, mama, keep your eyes on me.'"

"hey!" michael gasped, his big doe eyes widening as he pulled his hands away from his face to swat playfully at your arm. "i was being attentive! you said you wanted me to talk to you!"

"you sounded like a whole boss," you giggled, resting your chin on his chest. "i didn't know you had that in you."

"well... i gotta make sure i'm doin' a good job," he mumbled, a proud little smirk replacing his bashful look. he reached up, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. "did i? do a good job?"

"you did amazing, baby," you soft-smiled, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to the tip of his nose. "ten out of ten."

"good," michael hummed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you back down against his chest. "cause i am not losing to a piece of silicone in that drawer ever again."

you wiggled a bit, getting ready to sit up and tug him by the hand. "alright, mister. come on, let’s go back to the bathroom and finish those face masks before they dry into cement on our faces."

you made a move to toss the blanket off, but michael’s hand darted out, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a sudden, surprisingly firm tug that pulled you right back down onto the mattress.

"woah, hold on," he said quickly, his voice pitching up an octave.

"what?" you laughed, turning back to face him. "what's the hold up?"

that’s when you noticed his cheeks were burning a bright, dusty crimson, all the way to the tips of his ears. he was holding his lower half completely stiff, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

your gaze naturally dropped down past his hands, and your eyes went wide. straining hard against the front of his trousers was a massive, unmistakable bulge—one that was noticeably thicker and longer than the toy sitting on the nightstand.

michael gasped softly when he caught you looking. in a sudden flash of panic, he snatched the big floral throw pillow off the bed and slammed it right over his lap, hugging it against himself like a shield.

"don't—don't look down there!" he squeaked out, hiding his face behind the edge of the pillow.

you couldn't help it; a loud, breathless laugh burst right out of you. "michael!"

"i'm fine!" he mumbled quickly from behind the cushion, his voice muffled and thoroughly mortified. "i'm totally fine, mama, really! it's... it just does that sometimes! it's a natural reaction!"

"baby, that pillow isn't hiding anything," you giggled, leaning over and trying to tug the corner of the cushion. "you look like you're carrying a whole extra package in your pants!"

"stop it!" michael groaned, wheezing with laughter while desperately holding onto the pillow for dear life. "leave me alone! i was tryin' to be a gentleman and now you're making fun of me!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you laughed, resting your chin on his chest, looking up at his dark, timid eyes peeking over the top of the floral cushion. "i'm actually pretty impressed."

michael flushed an even deeper shade of red, a shy, proud little grin tugging at the corners of his lips despite his utter embarrassment. "yeah? well... don't get used to it. i'm staying right here under this blanket until next week."

"fair enough," you smiled, feeling a huge wave of warmth and affection wash over your chest.

you stopped teasing him, leaning up to press a soft, sweet kiss right onto his warm cheek. instead of pulling him up to the bathroom, you just slid back down beside him under the heavy duvet, wrapping your arms securely around his waist and resting your head over his heart.

"we can do the masks tomorrow," you whispered softly into his shirt.

michael let out a long, relieved breath, letting the pillow drop as his arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you in close.

"good," he mumbled, resting his chin on top of your head with a sweet, sleepy chuckle. "cause i wasn't plannin' on standing up anytime soon anyway."

[wokekoi]

can u do flirty/pervy!michael headcanon? 🙈🙈

thanks for feeding us mother 😮‍💨♥♥

FLIRTY!MICHAEL JACKSON HEADCANONS. 🎹 !

a/n - hey!! i read one of ur early requests and i couldn't do it much early cause school so sorry plus im not sure if this is good enough for you!! but i will might do that mj x model!reader request tho 🥹

flirty!michael who's 100% i guarantee you a shy type of flirt. yes, he's very bold and intense when it comes to live performances on stage but off stage, he's one hell of a shy gentleman but still, he always tries at giving playful compliments and teases.

flirty!michael who is either a fluffy gentleman where most of his flirting would come from attention, the kind where even in a crowded room, he's the first one you would lay your eyes on or probably the most pervy kind of one (respectfully tho).

flirty!michael who can't help himself whenever his eyes keeps lingering on you whenever you dress finely, like imagine you busy with photoshoots while he's there admiring you like a glutinous man seeing a feast.

flirty!michael who always hides his dirty-mindness with his gentlemanly acts, he would let you go first and secretly eyes your body silhouette cause gosh, you're so perfect in every way possible.

flirty!michael who loves spoiling you in many ways, either luxury or just pure emotional affection– when something catches your eye, he notices it immediately and buys it for you, you're so precious to him– how could he not spoil you really??.

flirty!michael who gets super jealous if he noticed someone flirting with you, he wouldn't confront directly but instead he'll subtly pull your attention away from that person and toward him– lingering close to you, telling playful jokes to make you laugh, sometimes even getting touchy if he's that extremely jealous.

flirty!michael who always have you as his muse in his short music flims as an excuse to be close and get all touchy with you. whether the way you make me feel, in the closet, you rock my world— you're in every of them as his muse.

flirty!michael who can be quite clingy with you. whenever you visit him at his studio during rehearsals or filming sets, he immediately softens up and would give his all to try impress you. after filming– he'll then run up to you and pull you in for a bear hug and sweet kisses all over your face, watching you giggle and shriek from how sensitive you were to touches.

“michael stop I'm ticklish—!” you whined as you can't help but giggle from his kisses, feeling both touched and a little embarrassed as michael kept his hold on you. “oh c'mon honey, you know i can't help it when you look so beautiful mmh... ♡”

flirty!michael who just can't help himself thinking about you every single day, the thought of you keeps playing in his mind like a constant pop-up ad and his loved ones always wonder why he sometimes zone out so much when in reality he's just daydreaming about you. ♡

[kkgalerii]

look at me, baby. 𐙚🧸ྀི

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ description: a rainy night takes an unexpected turn when michael stumbles across your secret toy. what starts as a tense, quiet confession quickly turns into an intense lesson in desire. suddenly, waiting isn't as easy as it used to be.

content: 18+, smut, established relationship, fluff, usage of sex toys, religious michael, otw!michael, my mind is so nasty lmao, not proofread…so if yall see sum, no yall don’t…

۶ৎ the storm outside was unrelenting, the heavy downpour beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your apartment windowpane. inside, everything was warm and isolated. minnie riperton was playing low on the turntable, the soft needle pops blending into the sound of the rain.

you were sitting on the edge of the sink counter, setting out small glass bottles, while michael leaned against the doorframe, a thick white headband holding back his soft curls. he was watching your hands with absolute, intense concentration as you prepped your skin.

"so wait... you gotta put that liquid stuff on first?" michael asked, tilting his head with wide doe eyes. "before we put the face masks on?"

"yeah, baby," you chuckled softly, lifting the glass bottle to show him. "this is the toner. it balances your skin and cleans off whatever the soap missed so the face mask can actually do its job."

"hmm," michael hummed, stepping closer to inspect the bottle. "i wanna learn it all. show me how to do it. i gotta keep my skin right for these studio sessions this week... quincy’s got me under those bright lights all day."

"well, if you wanna do it right, i need a couple of cotton pads," you smiled, turning to look for the plastic sleeve on the counter before realizing it was empty. "oh, shoot... without even thinking, i left the backup pack in my bedroom."

"where in the bedroom?" michael asked, already turning toward the doorway, his socked feet making no sound against the tile.

"they're right in my nightstand drawer, baby. top one, right in the front."

"top drawer, got it," michael said smoothly, padding down the short hallway into the dim light of your room.

you turned back to the mirror, uncapping the bottle and humming along to the vinyl playing in the living room, completely oblivious to what was resting in that drawer right beside your spare skincare backups.

and then, the entire apartment went dead, suffocatingly quiet.

stepping out into the bedroom, you found him standing rigid by the bed, staring wide-eyed into the open drawer. sitting right beside your spare lotions was your seven-inch realistic dildo. michael stood completely shocked, his jaw slightly open, trying to form words that just wouldn't come out. the silence alone told you everything he had seen.

you hurried over and slammed the drawer shut, grabbing the cotton pads off the top and trying to convince him to come back to the bathroom to finish like nothing had happened. but michael just stood there dead in his tracks, his expression completely unreadable, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

then, he murmured out so quietly, his voice raspy over the storm. "are you—are you not satisfied in our relationship?"

you could see the deep worry on his face, almost as if he’d been physically hurt by the sight.

you let out a soft sigh, putting the cotton pads down on the nightstand before sitting right on the side of the bed, looking up at his tall, frozen frame. "yes baby, i’m happy. so very happy with you."

michael slowly raised his long hands, rubbing his face tiredly before looking back down at you. "mama, i asked if you were satisfied. not happy."

you sighed, completely unable to lie to his handsome face and big, searching doe eyes. "it’s not that i’m unsatisfied… i just have personal needs, baby."

michael hummed softly and nodded, his hand moving up to nervously pick at his afro, a habit he fell into whenever his mind was racing. "but i thought we agreed we weren’t ready to have— to go all the way."

you readjusted nervously on the mattress, nodding slowly. "yes baby, i know what i agreed to. and i meant it. michael, if you aren’t ready, then you aren’t ready, and i’m okay with that."

michael sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "clearly you aren’t... now that you’re using a toy instead of me." he frowned, his dark eyes fixed on the carpet.

"well baby, i know where you stand on sex," you said softly, reaching out to gently grab his long hands, pulling him closer until he was standing right in front of you between your knees. "you’ve told me it all, about how you’d like to wait till marriage or whenever you’re ready. i’d never force you to do anything just for my pleasure. i love you, michael."

a thick, heavy quiet settled over the room, filled only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the window and the faint, distant crackle of the vinyl turntable in the living room.

michael didn't say anything right away. he stood there with his jaw tightly set, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow breaths as he searched your face. you could see the war playing out behind his big doe eyes—the deep-rooted shyness, the weight of his upbringing, and the overwhelming desire to just be everything you needed.

slowly, the sharp tension in his shoulders began to thaw. his thumb smoothed over the back of your knuckles in a slow, rhythmic circle, his touch softening from hesitant to deliberate.

"yeah... well, now i’m jealous," he joked softly.

you chuckled to yourself, breaking the heavy tension. "no need to be, i always imagine it’s you anyways."

michael’s big eyes went wide at your vulgar comment. "wow, that’s… sexy," he whispered, saying the word like it was a swear word he wasn't supposed to utter out loud. "tell me more, mama. i wanna know what i been missin' out on."

he moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. you scooted your back up against the headboard, pulling your knees up, while he remained on the side of the bed, gently rubbing your leg through your nightgown.

the rain kept beating steady against the glass, but inside the room, the air had turned thick and still. michael’s long fingers trailing light, feather-soft circles along the side of your leg. his big dark eyes didn't leave yours for a single second.

"so..." michael whispered, his voice dropping low, almost hesitant. "when you're layin' here by yourself... what actually goes through your head, mama? walk me through it."

michael let out a quiet breath, looking down at your joined hands before bringing one of them up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

"i just... i hate thinkin' about you layin' here alone, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, low husk that made your heart do a quiet flip. "i thought i was protectin' you, but the thought of another thing—some object—givin' you what i should be givin' you... it drives me crazy."

he shifted closer, on the edge of the mattress until his knee was pressed flush against yours. the vulnerability in his eyes slowly shifted into an intense, quiet curiosity that made the air in the bedroom feel instantly warmer.

you took a slow breath, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush up your neck. "it's... usually on nights after you drop me off. after our dates."

"after our dates?" michael echoed softly, tilting his head. a faint, curious brow raised above those wide doe eyes. "what about our dates makes you go open that drawer?"

"just you, michael," you admitted quietly, shifting your hips slightly against the sheets.

"i come home, and the apartment is so quiet, but my head is still spinning. i'm thinking about the way you looked at me across the table. the way your hand felt wrapped around mine while you were driving... or how your voice sounds when you lean in real close to whisper somethin' in my ear before you leave."

michael’s breath caught sharply in his throat. his thumb stilled on your leg for a split second, pressing a tiny bit firmer into your skin before continuing its slow, rhythmic stroke.

"you... you really lay here thinkin' about my voice?" he murmured, leaning a fraction of an inch closer, entirely captivated.

"mhm," you hummed, your breath growing a little shallow as the memory settled in your chest. "i lay right here in the dark, and i pull the covers up... and i think about what it would feel like if you didn't leave. if you stayed."

"and then what?" michael asked, his voice dropping another octave into a smooth, thick hush. he leaned in so close you could feel the soft warmth radiating off his face. "tell me every detail, mama. don't skip nothin'."

"i reach into the nightstand," you whispered, uncrossing your legs slowly, letting your knees fall open just a little wider as a sudden, restless ache began to pulse between your thighs. "i grab the toy... but when i touch myself with it, i don't think about silicone. i pretend it's your long fingers...or just you."

michael swallowed hard, the sound sharp in the quiet room. his eyes widened, a deep, dark intensity swirling in his pupils as he listened. "you pretend it's my hands on you?"

"yes, baby," you whined softly, your chest rising and falling fast now. "i close my eyes and I imagine your weight on top of me. i imagine you holdin' my wrists down against the pillow, pressing your mouth right against mine..."

"gosh..." michael whispered, his breath completely hitching as he stared at your parted lips. "i had no idea... i didn't know you wanted me like that."

"i want you all the time, michael," you breathed out, your voice trembling as your body subtly twitched, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips at the sheer thought of it. "i lay here and i slide it in real slow... and all i can do is moan your name into the dark. michael... oh, michael..."

michael’s eyes tracking the subtle flush spreading across your chest and down your neck. he saw the way your legs shifted nervously, the way your breath hitched every time you spoke his name, your body visibly growing warm and needy right in front of him.

he shifted his weight, moving his hand from your knee up to the warm, soft skin of your inner thigh, his long fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there.

"looks like you want it right now," he spoke softly, the words sliding out smooth, deliberate, and undeniably bold.

you were surprised at his sudden words. "michael… baby…"

"shhh," he hushed you softly.

leaning forward, he caught your lips in a warm kiss, whispering against your mouth. "i hate that i can’t please you the way you need."

you just kissed him deeper in response, hands resting on his chest, before mumbling, "s’okay baby. i understand. i’ll wait for you."

michael’s hands began to ride up your legs gently, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath your nightgown as he continued to kiss you, trailing his lips to your jaw.

"i hate how bad i wanna be inside you, but just can’t," he murmured against your skin.

you breathed deeply as michael whispered in your ear, his long fingers rubbing your thighs, turning you on so fast your head was spinning.

"you teasin’ me baby…don’t do that," you whispered against his lips while gently holding his face.

michael pulled away slightly, looking you right in the eye with a fierce, quiet intensity. "maybe i can do somethin’ bout it this time."

eyeing your expression for any doubt, he shifted his body and leaned over back into the drawer, pulling out the dildo. you gasped at how naughty he was being, having never seen this side of him before.

"baby, what are you doin—" you tried to speak, but michael just cut you off with a deep, heavy kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth and stealing your breath away. you whimper against him, pulling his warm body closer by the shoulders.

"you said you think about me kissin’ you, huh?" his lips left yours, trailing down to gently peck along your throat. "all down here?"

you moaned out desperately, clenching his white t-shirt, balling the fabric into your fist needily. "mhm... yes..."

"you think about me touching you all over? like this, mama?" he questioned, pulling back to hold eye contact intensely.

his hands were now roaming your body, reaching up under your nightgown to gently stroke your tummy before moving up to caress your breasts. you bit your lip at this sudden burst of sexual intensity. his long fingers tugged at the strap of your nightgown, pulling it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

"you imagine me kissing you right here baby?" he wondered softly.

his long, slender fingers grasped the plump roundness of your breasts, lifting you gently before his lips met the thick hardness of your nipples.

you moaned out, your head falling back against the headboard, hips bucking up begging for something… just something. the lingering thought of his religious stance lingered in the back of your mind as he licked and sucked softly.

"i get those feelings too," he whimpered against your breasts, his breath hot against your skin. "that need to feel you, to hold you close and feel that warmth… and wetness."

your hands tangled in his afro gently as you felt his warm tongue working over your sensitive skin. "i just know it’s so unholy for me," he whispered, almost to himself. "it feels so forbidden mama."

"then baby, why you feelin’ on me so good like this?" you whined, desperate for any kind of pleasure, knowing actual sex was unlikely.

he pulled back from the kiss, his lips hovering right over yours teasingly. "cause you deserve it… mama. y’been holdin’ back for so long. just for me."

you gently rubbed his cheekbone with your thumb, pulling back with a softened expression. "i’d never wanna rush you baby."

michael leaned back in for another kiss before mumbling, "i know sweetheart, and that’s why you deserve it most."

before you could even react, you felt something hard pressed up against your clothed warmth. you gasped, feeling the firm pressure against your clit. half of you wished it wasn’t the toy, and the other half wished it was really michael.

looking down, you saw michael gently moving the dildo up and down your core over your panties, grinding it slowly. before you could speak, his free hand took you by the chin, pulling you to meet his eyes.

"no baby. look at me. feel me," he directed softly, pressing the toy down harder in a slower, torturous grind. he leaned forward, kissing your neck and whispering sweet, filthy promises into your skin.

you begged him not to tease, writhing under his touch. seeing your desperation, michael reached down and pulled your panties down your legs, throwing them aside, completely in love with the sight of you bare and wet for him.

resting the warm, smooth tip right against your wet opening, he paused just to meet your gaze. then, with a slow and deliberate tilt of his wrist, he slid the dildo all the way into you, letting out a soft breath as he set a steady, intoxicating pace.

"look at me," he murmured, keeping his eyes locked onto yours as he established a steady rhythm. with every deep glide of the toy, he talked you through it, his voice low and heavy as he described precisely how he’d take you if it were his own body. his grip stayed firm, anchoring you to the mattress with each smooth stroke.

slowing down, he whispered right into your ear, "this is how slow i’d go when holding you close..." while he kissed down your neck.

and then speeding up, his wrist moving faster, "and this is how fast i’d go, when you keep making noises like that for me."

"look at me, mama," he reminded you continuously, his voice commanding yet infinitely tender. "keep your eyes on me, not the toy. imagine it's me. tell me who's touching you."

"you... it's you, baby," you whimpered, completely lost in his dark eyes and the steady push of his hand.

michael leaned in close, his heavy gaze never leaving yours for even a second. his wrist kept a steady, torturous rhythm, sliding the smooth length deep into your warmth before drawing it back out to the sensitive entrance, only to push right back in.

"that's right, mama," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a quiet authority that made your core pulse tightly around the toy. "i want you to keep lookin' at me. don't look down, don't look away. keep your eyes right here."

"michael... oh god, it feels so good," you gasped, your fingers digging into the cotton of his shirt, your hips rising up off the mattress to meet every deliberate thrust.

"i know it does," he murmured, his thumb moving to gently stroke your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat. "i hear the way you're breathin' for me. i feel how tight and wet you're wrapped around this... but you're not gonna rush it. not yet."

you whimpered, feeling the intense coil tightening dangerously fast in your stomach. "baby, please... i'm so close—"

"shhh, hold on for me," michael hushed softly. you were right on the very edge, your whole core coiling tight, ready to snap—when suddenly, michael pulled the toy clean out of you.

a loud, desperate gasp tore from your chest at the sudden emptiness. "michael! wait, no— baby, please!"

"shhh," michael hushed softly, his voice dark and smooth as velvet. he placed the smooth handle of the dildo right into your trembling palm, closing your long fingers tightly around it. "i wanna see you do it."

you looked up at him through heavy, blurred eyes, panting hard.

"what baby?” you questioned, clearly taken aback, as the pleasure lingered in your lower stomach.

"you heard me, mama," he whispered, shifting his body until he was hovering directly over you, his knees slotted firmly between your thighs, pressing his full weight down against you. "you do it for me every night when i'm not here, right? so show me. put it back in."

your hand was shaking so bad you could barely guide it, but with his heavy dark gaze locked onto yours, you slowly lined the tip back up and slid the smooth length back inside yourself. a long, shuddering moan escaped your lips.

"gosh, look at you," michael rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned down, taking your mouth in a deep, heavy kiss.

while your hand worked the toy inside yourself, michael completely took over the rest of your body. he shifted his hips, pressing his weight down right between your thighs, grinding down against your core so you could feel the massive, firm shape of him straining through his trousers. it felt so real—so heavy and solid—it was almost like he was actually inside you.

"mmph... michael," you sobbed into his mouth, your wrist trying to find a fast rhythm, but he reached down, his long fingers wrapping tightly over your hand on the toy, slowing your pace down to an agonizing, deep glide.

"not yet," he commanded against your lips, trailing his mouth down to your jaw, sucking a dark, wet mark into the soft skin of your throat. "go deep, mama. just like that... slide it all the way in."

his free hand roamed up your body, squeezing your breasts gently before his lips tracked down to take your nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking wet friction into your skin while your hand kept moving under his steady guidance.

between the wet heat of his mouth on your chest, his heavy hips grinding against your thighs, and the silicone sliding deep inside you, your mind went completely blank.

you felt a sudden, intense wave of heat build deep in your core—so sharp and overwhelming that your whole body twitched, a sudden, wet gush spilling out around the toy and coating his long fingers.

you gasped out loud, thoroughly embarrassed. "oh god, michael— i'm sorry, i—"

"don't you dare apologize," michael growled softly into your skin, his eyes blowing out wide and dark as he felt the hot wetness soaking his hand.

it sent a visible shock straight through him, his chest heaving as he stared down at how completely undone you were for him. "that's so pretty... you're doing so damn good for me, mama."

he pressed his hips down harder, grinding against you with a slow, relentless tilt that made your head throw back against the headboard.

"now move your wrist faster," he instructed softly into your ear, his breath scorching hot. "don't stop. picture me right here, holding your wrists, taking everything you got."

"i can't— michael, i'm gonna—" you choke out, as you desperately trembled at every wave of pleasure surging throughout your body.

"i know you are," he whispered, his voice dripping with quiet authority as he captured your lips in one final, deep kiss, his hand speeding your wrist up until the movement was a frantic, blurring friction. "let go for me, mama. do it right now. let go. don't hold nothin' back. let me see how good it feels when you're thinkin' about me."

that last, deliberate push pushed you completely over the edge.

a high, helpless cry tore from your throat as your entire core clamped down tight around the toy. wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure crashed through your body, making your back arch off the bed and your legs tremble uncontrollably against his sides.

"yes, mama... just like that," michael whispered softly, his own breath hitching as he watched your face undo completely. he slowed his hand to a long, gentle glide, encouraging your wrist to continue plunging the toy deep inside you to ride out every last pulse of your release. "i got you. i got you, baby..."

you sobbed out his name, completely overwhelmed, hiding your flushed face in the crook of his neck as the sweet, lingering waves finally started to settle.

the intense, heavy mood in the room snapped the second your breathing finally slowed down.

michael carefully pulled the toy free, setting it aside on the nightstand with the absolute extreme caution of someone handling live dynamite. he immediately pulled you into his arms, tugging the heavy blanket all the way up to your shoulders.

for a long moment, you both just lay there in the quiet. your head was resting against his chest, listening to his heart beating a mile a minute.

then, a quiet, muffled giggle escaped his throat.

you raised your head slightly, looking up at him. michael was staring straight up at the ceiling, his cheeks flushed bright red, a massive, goofy grin spread across his face.

"what?" you murmured, a tiny smile tugging at your own lips.

"nothin'," michael said quickly, his voice cracking just a little bit before he let out a full, breathy laugh. he covered his face with one long hand, shaking his head against the pillow. "gosh... i can't believe i just did that."

"you were pretty smooth, mr. jackson," you

teased gently, poking his ribs through his white shirt. "where did all of that suddenly come from?"

michael wheezed, curling up slightly away from your poking finger. "stop! don't tease me, mama, i was tryin' real hard to be serious for you!"

"oh, you were serious," you chuckled, leaning up on one elbow to look down at his flustered face. "you were ordering me around! 'look at me, mama, keep your eyes on me.'"

"hey!" michael gasped, his big doe eyes widening as he pulled his hands away from his face to swat playfully at your arm. "i was being attentive! you said you wanted me to talk to you!"

"you sounded like a whole boss," you giggled, resting your chin on his chest. "i didn't know you had that in you."

"well... i gotta make sure i'm doin' a good job," he mumbled, a proud little smirk replacing his bashful look. he reached up, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. "did i? do a good job?"

"you did amazing, baby," you soft-smiled, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to the tip of his nose. "ten out of ten."

"good," michael hummed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you back down against his chest. "cause i am not losing to a piece of silicone in that drawer ever again."

you wiggled a bit, getting ready to sit up and tug him by the hand. "alright, mister. come on, let’s go back to the bathroom and finish those face masks before they dry into cement on our faces."

you made a move to toss the blanket off, but michael’s hand darted out, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a sudden, surprisingly firm tug that pulled you right back down onto the mattress.

"woah, hold on," he said quickly, his voice pitching up an octave.

"what?" you laughed, turning back to face him. "what's the hold up?"

that’s when you noticed his cheeks were burning a bright, dusty crimson, all the way to the tips of his ears. he was holding his lower half completely stiff, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

your gaze naturally dropped down past his hands, and your eyes went wide. straining hard against the front of his trousers was a massive, unmistakable bulge—one that was noticeably thicker and longer than the toy sitting on the nightstand.

michael gasped softly when he caught you looking. in a sudden flash of panic, he snatched the big floral throw pillow off the bed and slammed it right over his lap, hugging it against himself like a shield.

"don't—don't look down there!" he squeaked out, hiding his face behind the edge of the pillow.

you couldn't help it; a loud, breathless laugh burst right out of you. "michael!"

"i'm fine!" he mumbled quickly from behind the cushion, his voice muffled and thoroughly mortified. "i'm totally fine, mama, really! it's... it just does that sometimes! it's a natural reaction!"

"baby, that pillow isn't hiding anything," you giggled, leaning over and trying to tug the corner of the cushion. "you look like you're carrying a whole extra package in your pants!"

"stop it!" michael groaned, wheezing with laughter while desperately holding onto the pillow for dear life. "leave me alone! i was tryin' to be a gentleman and now you're making fun of me!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you laughed, resting your chin on his chest, looking up at his dark, timid eyes peeking over the top of the floral cushion. "i'm actually pretty impressed."

michael flushed an even deeper shade of red, a shy, proud little grin tugging at the corners of his lips despite his utter embarrassment. "yeah? well... don't get used to it. i'm staying right here under this blanket until next week."

"fair enough," you smiled, feeling a huge wave of warmth and affection wash over your chest.

you stopped teasing him, leaning up to press a soft, sweet kiss right onto his warm cheek. instead of pulling him up to the bathroom, you just slid back down beside him under the heavy duvet, wrapping your arms securely around his waist and resting your head over his heart.

"we can do the masks tomorrow," you whispered softly into his shirt.

michael let out a long, relieved breath, letting the pillow drop as his arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you in close.

"good," he mumbled, resting his chin on top of your head with a sweet, sleepy chuckle. "cause i wasn't plannin' on standing up anytime soon anyway."

[crowdedimagines]

You Got Shot

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary: you get shot (in your vest) and your boss falls a part for a second.

word count: 5.1K

aaron hotchner masterlist

-

Derek spins around in his chair, glancing up to find you’re still standing in the doorway of Hotch’s office. You’re nodding along to whatever he’s saying, he can’t see your face but he can tell you’re smiling. He can however see the small smile that Aaron gave out rarely while at work. 

“This is painful.” Derek sighs dramatically. 

“What?” Emily looks up at him from her paperwork. He nods his head in the direction of the office and she quickly catches what he was referring to. 

“They’ve been making eyes at each other for twelve months.” 

“They don’t make eyes.” Reid corrects without looking up, “They make… extended mutual gazes with elevated dopamine responses.” 

Morgan looks at him and blinks a few times. 

“Kid, that’s making eyes.” 

Everyone now turns to look back at the office. Hotch has fully set down his pen and is turned to where you’re leaning in the doorway. 

“I give it six more cases before one of them slips up.” Morgan bets. 

“Try five.” Emily throws down. 

“Make it three.” Rossi steps out of his office. 

Aaron’s phone rings and your spine automatically straightens. He answers it with a simple ‘Hotchner’ and says very few words before hanging up. The second he does he looks back up at you. 

“We’ve got a case.” 

He gets up from his desk and you step out of his way. 

“Conference room.” He calls, walking directly to the room. Everyone gets up and follows, a minute later Garcia enters with a tablet in hand. Everyone else has filled in the remaining chairs.

Hotch clicks on the monitor and three pictures pop up on the screen. A uniformed cop shot execution style. Another, shot through the windshield of the police cruiser. A third, off the shoulder of the highway with his car abandoned.

“Three officers in five days.” 

The light atmosphere from the morning was long gone now. 

“The unsub is also taking their service weapon after each murder.” Garcia adds. 

Rossi nods, “Power.”

“Or souvenirs.” Reid adds. 

Garcia pulls more information onto the screen, “All three victims were patrol officers, two different precincts. So far they’ve come up clean, no major cases.”

Morgan frowns, “No personal connection?”

“Exactly.” You nod, all eyes falling on you, “He’s targeting the badge, the officers are interchangeable.” 

Hotch nods for you to continue. 

“If this was revenge against specific officers we’d expect complaints, lawsuits, and arrests from them.” You look at each victim's picture, “None of them have disciplinary records.” 

“So, why them?” JJ questions. 

“They’re accessible, it isn’t personal.” You look up, meeting Aaron’s gaze, “It’s symbolic.” 

He likes watching you talk, you start to talk with your hands when you get invested in something. It’s another thing he noticed but would never admit. 

“He isn’t killing officers.” His brows furrow.

You nod, “He’s killing what they represent.” 

Rossi smiles into his coffee cup, looking between the two of you. 

“That distinction changes the profile.” Reid comments. 

“It does.” Aaron agrees, “He wants the public to see that officers aren’t untouchable.” 

“Exactly.”

-

An hour later, the team was up in the sky. The jet is headed to Cleveland, everyone has settled into their usual seats. Hotch sits across from you, a file in his hand. You’ve already kicked off your shoes and have one leg tucked under yourself. 

Most of the team is resting now, knowing how this will go. Cop cases were hard, the local law enforcement always takes cases like this personally making it harder for them to do their jobs. You and Aaron are the only ones with the window shade up and files open. 

“Public panic is going to get out of hand once the news of the third officer hits the news cycle.” You comment, Aaron nods instantly. 

“I’m having Garcia look into social media posts to see if anyone in recent weeks has had a problem with the police or believed wrongful action.”

After landing, the local police station was buzzing with tension. It was clear that no one was sleeping, exhaustion was evident on everyone’s face. The sheriff met the team at the entrance.

“You’re the profilers?”

Hotch nods and offers his hand, “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner.” 

He introduces the team one by one, landing on you last. The conference room becomes the command center for the team. Crime scene photos cover one wall, Reid manages a city map with various pins in it. 

“Confirmed, no overlap in arrests,” Garcia sighs on speaker, “No lawsuits, no complaints, no disciplinary records, no common calls for service. This guy is cleaner than my browser history.” 

Morgan looks up, “That’s not saying much.” 

You snort into your coffee. 

“I’ve checked family connections, nothing.” JJ shakes her head. 

Reid paces in front of the board, a legal pad in hand. 

“If we assume he’s selecting officers randomly-” 

“He isn’t.” You interrupt and tap the photo in front of you with your pen, “He wants us to think he is.”

Rossi leans back in his chair, “Explain.” 

“He isn’t picking the officers, he’s picking symbols.” You get up and walk toward the map, “Symbols still have patterns. All of these officers were killed in highly visible locations.” 

“Public places.” Emily agrees. 

“So the message is more than the victim.” Hotch finishes. 

You nod, “He wants witnesses.” 

The room falls quiet. Aaron watches you for a second before calling the sheriff into the room. 

“When does the second shift end?”

The sheriff looks down at his watch, “In about forty-five minutes.” 

“I want every available officer briefed before they leave.” 

The sheriff shifts in place, adjusting his hands to rest on his hips. His cliche mustache doesn’t even hide his frown. 

“We’re already short.” 

“And you’re going to be even more short if this unsub keeps finding exhausted officers alone.” 

The room falls silent, Hotch steps closer to where you stand by the map. He points to the same three spots you had minutes ago. 

“He’s hunting opportunity, let's not give him any more.” 

Officers crowd into the station, the other local precincts call in. 

“Fatigue creates opportunity.” 

One lieutenant crossed his arms, “We can’t stop policing.” 

“No,” Hotch frowns, “no, you can’t.”

He looks around the room. 

“I’m not asking you to,” He continues calmly, “I’m asking you to be smart.” 

Hotch began issuing instructions for everyone, calm confidence and a stern look leveling the room. It settles the few grumbles and pushbacks from angry men already looking for revenge.

“No one goes home alone. Double units only. If your shift ends, another officer escorts you to your front door.” 

He looks around the room once more. 

“You’ve been running on adrenaline for five days. Tired officers make mistakes, go home and stay vigilant.” 

The room slowly emptied, you watch Aaron for a moment while the rest of the team returns to the conference room. 

“You know,” You take a step closer, “You’re good at that.” 

“At what?”

“Making people listen.”

He bites back a rare smirk, “I’ve never had much luck with you.” 

“Well, I never said you were perfect.” You smile, breezing past him to follow the rest of the team. 

By eleven thirty that night, the precinct was abandoned. The lights had been dimmed and the cleaning staff made a pass through, but the team was still situated in the conference room. Garcia is still on screen, but her eyes are starting to glaze over. 

“I have officially entered the part of the evening where every license plate looks like alphabet soup.” 

“You passed that hours ago.” Emily sighs. 

Morgan stretches in his spot, “My back hurts.”

“My brain hurts.” JJ echos. 

“Everything hurts.” Rossi tops. 

Reid hadn’t sat down in nearly an hour, pacing keeping him awake. 

“Maybe he identifies with law enforcement but simultaneously resents authority.” 

“No.” 

Everyone looks over at you and you don’t even lift up your head. Your head is resting in your hand, which is resting on the table. 

“He doesn’t identify with them… He envies them.” You rub a tired eyes and a long yawn escapes, “If he identified with them, he’d want acceptance.” 

Rossi nods, “He wants control.” 

“Good distinction.” 

Hotch writes it on the board, “Envy.”

“If he wanted revenge, he’d escalate emotionally.” Another yawn escapes, your elbow slides down the table, “He’s…”

“Y/n?” Emily looks up. 

Morgan looks over, “Did she just?”

“She fell asleep.” JJ smiles. 

You’re still sitting mostly upright, completely asleep. 

Reid looks genuinely impressed, “I didn’t know people could actually fall asleep that quickly.” 

Hotch looks over from the board, a soft expression crosses his face immediately. It was subtle, and most people would miss it. His shoulders relaxed and the hard line between his brows disappeared. He looked fond. You were the only person in the room to miss it. 

Nobody said anything or tried to wake you. For twenty minutes the team worked around you, speaking softer without realizing it. Eventually Garcia yawns loudly over the speaker. 

“Okay my crime fighting ducklings, I officially vote bedtime.” 

Rossi checks his watch, “I second.” 

Hotch reaches into his pocket for his phone and checks for any new messages from the sheriff. 

“We’ll resume at six.” 

Everyone slowly packed up and grabbed their things. Everyone except for you. You were still asleep and undisturbed. 

“Who’s gonna wake her?” Reid whispers, nodding in your direction to Morgan. 

“Just wait.” 

As if on cue, Hotch leaves the board and stops beside your chair for a moment. Morgan deliberately busies himself with collecting files. JJ slowly organizes the crime scene photos. Rossi takes twice as long to put on his jacket. 

When Aaron looks down at you, something warm fills his chest. You look softer when you sleep, the sarcasm and sharp edges tucked away for the time being. A loose strand of hair has fallen across your face.

He should hesitate, but his want overpowers him for a few seconds. He carefully brushes it back, stopping it from tickling your nose. 

Behind him, Emily’s brows shoot up toward the ceiling and Morgan’s smile nearly splits his face. JJ looks over at Rossi who has a simple knowing smirk. 

Aaron crouches slightly beside you, his voice drops a full octave. 

“Y/n.”

Nothing. 

A tiny smile tugs at his lips. 

“Y/n.” 

This time you stir slightly, “Hm?”

You don’t even have the energy to open your eyes. 

“We’re heading to the hotel.” 

You sit up, blinking slowly as you try to orient yourself. 

“Did I fall asleep?” You look up at him. 

“A little.” 

You look around the conference room and see everyone’s eyes on you. The team is clearly packing up and moving toward the door. 

“That’s embarrassing.” You mumble, standing up and stretching, clearly not too embarrassed. 

“Not really.” Hotch looks down. 

“You all just let me?” You point at the team and Derek makes a face that clearly said absolutely. 

You groan dramatically, “I’m transferring.” 

Emily laughs, “Too late.” 

You shift in your spot, the tiredness still seeping into your bones. 

“C’mon Sleepy Girl.” Morgan chuckles. 

“Shut up,” You slowly roll your eyes, “Some of us didn’t sleep on the flight, some of us worked.” 

“What, you and Hotch?” He raises brows that show you walked right into that one. 

“Shut up.” 

Everyone makes their way back to the SUVs. No one utters a word when Hotch opens your door for you. 

-

The hotel lobby was almost empty at five thirty in the morning. A sleepy desk agent noticed Aaron’s sharp suit and straight tie for the early hour as he makes his way over to the coffee station. He makes one black and the other doctored to your liking. 

Five minutes later a knock echoes in your hotel room. You groan into your pillow, your alarm still has two more minutes. 

“If it’s Morgan…” 

Another knock. 

“I’m armed!” 

Aaron's voice comes through, close to the door. 

“It’s Hotch.” 

Your head quickly snaps up from the pillow, suddenly sleep is the last thing on your mind. You toss off the covers to make your way over to the door. You crack the door open and squint at the bright light it lets in. 

Aaron looks down at you, barely awake. Your hair is a mess and you have a big FBI hoodie hanging off one shoulder. 

“Are we being called in already?” 

“No.” He holds out one of the coffees, “I thought you might need this before heading over.” 

You look down at the coffee, then back at him, then back to the coffee. 

“You’re voluntarily bringing me caffeine?” You raise a brow. 

The corners of his mouth curl slightly, “I’d like you awake for the morning briefing.”

You finally accept the cup, your fingers brushing his as you take it. 

“I think you just like seeing me suffer.” You tease, “My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.” 

Now he openly smirks, “We’re supposed to leave for the station in ten minutes.” 

“Don’t doubt me.” You shake your head and take a long sip of coffee. You aren’t surprised it’s exactly to your liking.

He hides his smile now, “You have five minutes.” 

He turns and leaves your doorway and heads in the direction of the elevator. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He almost reaches it, but you step out into the hall with your hand still holding your door open. 

“Hotch?”

He turns, taking in your bare legs as you’re just standing out in the hall. Your free hand braces the door behind you so you don’t lock yourself out.

“Thank you.” 

He nods and the elevator doors open and you go back inside your room. Taking your coffee with you. A second later the room across the hall from you opens, Morgan steps out and looks both ways in the hall. JJ walks out of her room just down the hall in time to see the elevator doors close with Aaron inside. 

“He just brought her coffee.” Derek shakes his head and gestures between the elevator and your room. 

“Coffee…” JJ nods. 

Rossi steps out next, adjusting his watch on his wrist. 

“Good morning.” 

“Hotch is getting awfully domestic.” 

Rossi smiles, “I noticed.” 

You're the last one to join them in the lobby, coffee still in hand. You take one last sip before throwing out the cup by the door. By six o clock, the team is back at the precinct. The atmosphere felt different. Heavier. 

The sheriff meets everyone halfway to the conference room. His face said everything before he even had to speak. Hotch noticed it instantly. 

“What happened?”

The sheriff swallowed. 

“We lost two more.” 

The room froze. 

“They were together.” 

Silence. 

Emily’s shoulders drop, “They followed protocol?”

“They did everything they were supposed to.” 

The sheriff rubbed tired eyes. 

“They were parked outside a closed convenience store waiting on another unit.” 

Morgan frowns, “How?”

The sheriff passes Hotch a folder, “Explosion.”

Everyone loops up. 

“There was an IED placed on the cruiser.” 

Reid’s expression darkens, “”Remote detonated?”

“We think so.”

“He adapted.” You speak up. 

Everyone turns toward you and you continue to stare at the crime scene photos. 

“He expected us to pair officers.” 

Hotch nods once, “So he changed tactics.” 

Rossi sighs, “Which means he’s watching.” 

Derek folds his arms across his chest, “He knew our response procedures.” 

-

Half an hour later the team is standing outside of what’s left of the police cruiser. The blast tore through the driver’s side, metal warped in horrifying directions. Bomb technicians were still searching the area. 

Morgan crouches near the crater “He knew exactly where to place it.”

“He needed line of sight.” Reid looks around the intersection. 

Your head turns on a swivel, “So he was nearby?”

Aaron scans the surrounding businesses, “Watching.” 

His phone rings loudly and he answers it, putting Garcia on speaker. 

“I’ve got surveillance cameras from the liquor store across the street.” 

Back at the sheriff’s station everyone crowded around the laptop with the file Penelope sent over. The time stamp read 2:13 AM, a patrol car pulls into frame. The footage is grainy and nothing happens for the first four minutes. Then, a figure walks calmly on the sidewalk. Hands shoved into a hoodie pocket, he doesn’t even look in the direction of the officers. 

“He isn’t looking at the cruiser.” Morgan observes. 

“He doesn’t have to,” You reply, “He already knew exactly where it was.” 

Garcia works on enhancing the footage. Enough to see dark work boots and a baseball cap. One shoulder sits noticeably lower than the other. Reid notices it instantly. 

“He’s not carrying his weight regularly.” 

“Domintant right side.” You agree. 

“Construction?” JJ guesses. 

You shake your head and trace the angle of his arm, “He’s carried something heavy on one side for years.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” You admit. 

Hotch hasn’t taken his eyes off the screen, “Play it back.” 

The footage backs up, he leaves the frame, before starting over again. This time it’s slower and focused on his walk rather than the explosion. 

“He never looked back.” You swallow.

“He’s done this before.” Aaron continues, eyes darting to yours. 

The words settle over the room with weight. Your eyes stay locked on his as you continue to think, finally placing what you thought you saw before. 

“Someone who spent years carrying a rifle.” You point to the suspect’s gait. 

JJ nods before adding, “He scans reflections instead of turning his head. Store windows, car mirrors.” 

Rossi looks towards Hotch, “Military.” 

Aaron nods, already looking down at his phone. 

“Garcia, look into anyone who recently applied to the police academy with a military background.” 

Her typing became audible with rapid speed. 

“Former Staff Sergeant Daniel Mercer. Three deployments, honorably discharged four years ago.” 

Garcia puts his photo onto the screen, “He was diagnosed with severe PTSD after his last tour. He applied to three police departments” 

Three rejection letters appeared. 

“The psychological evaluations all came back the same.” Garcia’s voice softens, “Not fit for duty due to unresolved combat trauma.”

“That’s him.” You stand suddenly, grabbing your badge and gun. 

Rossi nods, “The military gave him purpose… Law enforcement was supposed to replace it.” 

“When they rejected him,” Morgan sighs, “They became the enemy.” 

Garcia sent the coordinates for Daniel’s hunting cabin to everyone’s phones. 

Hotch reaches for a vest, “Let’s move.”

The cabin sat deep in the woods. It was too quiet, the team studies the layout before moving in. 

“One front entrance.” Morgan points. 

“No movement.” Emily confirms. 

You adjust your point tail tighter, “He knows we’re coming.” 

Aaron looks over, “We need to assume he has every inch trapped.” 

You smirk, “You always know how to make a girl feel welcome.” 

He gives you the look. Even now. 

You smile, “There it is.” 

JJ shakes her head, “Seriously?”

Hotch continues to stare you down, “Focus.” 

“Breach on my count.” 

Three. Two. One.

The flashbang goes off and the front door explodes inward. The team floods into the cabin. 

Morgan and Emily go left. Rossi and JJ clear the kitchen. Reid heads upstairs. You and Hotch move deeper into the house. Empty rooms with lights off, Hotch leads through the halls. There’s a closed door at the very end, he opens it and you march in. Hotch follows close behind, then the door slams behind the two of you. You both spin around to face him, Daniel Mercer standing there with a gun already raised.

“Drop it!” Hotch shouts. 

Daniel’s eyes weren’t on him, they were on you. He doesn’t negotiate for a second, his finger tightens on the trigger. Two deafening shots ring out, the impact slamming you backward. You crash to the ground and Aaron’s world stops. 

Mercer doesn’t get the chance to raise his weapon again, Hotch fires. Once. Twice. Three times. He drops before he can hit the ground. Aaron doesn’t even look, he’s on his knees next to you. Blood roars behind his ears and his heart thunders in his chest. 

His hands shake as he reaches for your shoulders, he can barely breathe. Somewhere behind him he hears the door open and he can see David, Morgan and Prentiss in his peripheral. 

“Y/n?” He whispers your name.

You suck in a painful breath and he freezes. Two hot pieces of metal sit against your vest, protecting you from actually being pierced. 

You wince, “...Ow.” 

He simply stares for a few seconds. 

“I think I have some broken ribs.” You mutter. 

He still looks unable to process, stuck in a state of panic. You reach out a hand slowly to his arm. His eyes dart down at the contact. 

“Hey.. you look,” You hesitate, “...really freaked out.” 

He lets out something between a laugh and a sob. 

“You got shot.”

“In the vest.” 

“You got shot.” He says it again, but this time you can hear the raw deep emotion in his voice. Fear. 

He pulls you into his arms, carefully. One arm behind your shoulders and the other behind your back supporting you. He’s holding onto you like if he lets go you’ll disappear. You hiss through the slight pain. He loosens his grip immediately. 

“Sorry.” 

Emily blinks looking down at the two of you. Morgan couldn’t ignore it either. None of them said a word, not now. They hadn’t seen fear like that on Hotch in a long time. His composure was gone, breathing uneven. His hands still shake where they hold you. 

He pulls back and looks at you. Then, very faintly, “You scared me.” 

Your teasing smile softens, “I’m sorry.” 

The sincerity in those two words hit him harder than he cared to admit. You were rarely serious and normally would take every possible opportunity to tease him. Only after you give his hand a squeeze does it finally stop shaking. He lets Morgan help you up. 

Twenty minutes later you're sitting in the back of an ambulance. The EMT carefully examines your ribs, you wince every couple of seconds as the bandage braces you tighter. You’re sure to have a couple of ugly bruises as well. 

Aaron stands several feet away, his eyes still carefully trained on you. Rossi wanders over, no longer able to watch the man suffer alone. 

“You can breathe now.” 

Aaron doesn’t answer. 

“Aaron.” 

Still nothing. Rossi looks toward the ambulance. You’re laughing despite the pain as JJ fusses over you. 

“You almost lost her.” 

Aaron's jaw tightens. It’s the first sign he’s shown that he’s actually listening. 

“I know.”

“No,” Rossi looks directly at him, “I don’t think you do.” 

Aaron finally looks over. 

“I’ve seen you worried about this team. I’ve seen you angry. I’ve seen you blame yourself.” Rossi nods in your direction, “I’ve only seen you fall apart like that once.” 

Haley. 

Aaron looks away. 

“I thought she was dead.” 

“I could tell.” 

Another long silence. Finally Rossi smiles. 

“So…”

Aaron already knew where this was going. 

“No.” 

“You need to do something about that.” 

“I don’t know what-”

Rossi doesn’t even let him finish, “You emptied half your magazine into a man because he shot the woman you’re in love with.” 

Aaron sights, “I’m not-”

Rossi holds up a hand, “Save it.” 

-

The ride from the station to the airport was unusually quiet. Everyone was tired and you were wincing every time the SUV hit a bump. You tried to hide it, but failed miserably considering the audience. 

Emily commented on it first, “You okay?”

“I’m great,” Another pothole, “I hate Ohio roads.” 

Aaron looks over from the driver’s seat, “You got shot.” 

“In the vest.” You sigh dramatically, “We’ve been over this.” 

JJ smiles in the backseat, “We’re worried about you.” 

You twist painfully to look at her in the back, “This is excessive.” 

By the time you reach the tarmac, so does the rest of the team. Morgan insisted on carrying your go bag. You try to take it back but he slings it over his shoulder and walks ahead. 

Emily reaches the stairs first, “Easy.” 

“I’ve climbed stairs before.” You roll your eyes. 

“Not with bruised ribs.” Aaron calls from behind you. 

JJ hands you a water as soon as you settle into your chair, “You haven’t been drinking enough.” 

Reid frowns thoughtfully, “Actually, hydration helps with tissue recovery.” 

“Alright, alright.” 

It was clear that without having to discuss it, the team had all decided you wouldn’t be lifting a finger tonight. The jet lifted into the darkness within a half an hour. The cabin lights were dimmed to a minimum. Reid fell asleep with a book on his chest. Morgan was stretched across the couch. Emily and JJ took two seats near the back. Rossi quietly sipped coffee in the way back. The engines settled into their familiar hum that signaled it was time to go home. 

You shift in your seat and regret it instantly. 

“Ow.” 

Aaron looks over, “You alright?”

“I’m discovering muscles I didn’t know existed.” You sigh, trying to stretch out and keep your ribs straight. 

“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.” 

Your eyes snap open to look at him. He openly stares back and you smile faintly. 

“I know.” 

He hesitates for a few seconds, looking at the empty chair to your right. He quietly moves into the seat beside you and you look at him with an amused smile. He adjusts the armrest between the seats so you can lean against him, not having to support yourself while still being able to stretch out across to the seat he had just been occupying.

“You’ve never sat here.” You sound surprised, “You don’t have assigned seating?”

“I don’t.” 

“So this is voluntary?” You raise a teasing brow. 

“Yes.” 

You smile, “I’ll try not to let the power go to my head.” 

For a minute, the two of you just sit there. You enjoy the feeling of his warm chest under you, his arm protectively keeping you there. Eventually Aaron breaks the silence. 

“I’ve replayed it.” 

You look up at him. 

“Back at the cabin,” his jaw tightens, “if I had entered first.” 

He huffs and you start to frown. 

“If I’d seen him sooner, if I’d-”

“Aaron.” 

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” His voice is barely above a whisper. 

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought you were dead.” 

You watch him carefully. He isn’t looking at you, he’s staring at his hands. 

“I’ve lost agents before.” He continues quietly, “I’ve attended funerals. I know what this job costs.” 

Another pause. 

“But today,” His voice cracks just enough for you to hear, “Today rattled me more than it should have.” 

You already knew what he meant, he finally looks back at you. 

“It shouldn’t affect me like that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m your unit chief.” 

You hold his gaze, “Aaron.” 

He waits. Hanging on your every word. He would wait for the rest of the flight if you made him. 

“You don’t look at me like you’re my unit chief.” 

He doesn’t deny it and you give him a small smile. 

“You haven’t for a long time.” You tilt your head, “You look at everyone else like you’re responsible for them. You look at me like I’m precious.”

His breath catches, “I tried.” 

“I know.” 

He sighs, “I told myself a hundred times that I needed to keep things professional.” 

You nod, “I know.” 

“I convinced myself that what I felt would eventually…” He searches for the word, “fade.”

“It didn’t.” You look all over his face. 

“No,” a humorless laugh escapes him, “it only got worse.” 

Your ribs want to protest, but you reach your hand out to his. He looks down at it, tightening his grip before looking back at you. 

“Today, I was terrified. When you went down, I was terrified. I wasn’t thinking like your supervisor, or a profiler. I wasn’t even thinking like an FBI agent.” 

His thumb brushes against your fingers. 

“I was thinking like a man who was about to lose the woman he…” 

He stops and you give him an encouraging smile. 

“Go on.” You bite your lip to stop the grin from spreading. 

He laughs softly, “I profile serial killers for a living.” 

“And yet this is somehow harder?” You bite. 

“It is.” 

You squeeze his hand, “I know.” 

He looks at you for a long moment. 

Then, with all the certainty he brings to every single profile, “I love you.” 

The words hang in the quiet cabin. 

“I’ve been trying not to, burying it under paperwork and professionalism.” He smiles weakly, “It didn’t work.” 

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve been denying that I’m in love with my boss.” 

His eyes widen and you squeeze his hands again. 

“I love you too.” 

Every worry he’d been carrying since the cabin vanished. Every ounce of fear seemed to disappear all at once. Neither of you speak, you simply look at each other. He lifts his hand and you lean into the touch when he cups your cheek. 

“I almost lost you.” His voice is impossibly soft. He takes your hand up to his lips, kissing the back of it. 

“I know, but I'm here.” You remind, “Because of you.” 

You lean forward enough to rest your forehead against his. 

“I’m here.” 

Your words are warm on his face, he smiles. 

“You are.” 

He leans down, closing the short distance between the two of you. His lips are careful on yours, clearly not trying to shift you around and hurt you. You don’t let that stop you, chasing his lips to deepen the kiss. 

A few rows behind the two of you, Rossi smiles into his coffee cup. 

JJ looks up from her book, “I can see forehead touching.” 

Emily looks over, thanks to being nudged by JJ a dozen times. 

“Told you!” 

Morgan stretches at just the right time, “Confession time!” 

Rossi shakes his head, “And it only took one of them getting shot.” 

“Wait, so who won the bet?”

Back at the front of the cabin you smile, finally pulling away from him. 

“Should we tell them?” You nod back toward the team filling the rows behind the two of you. 

Aaron straightens for a second, looking over the top of the chair and catching several eyes immediately. Everyone looks elsewhere too suddenly. Emily inspects the ceiling. Morgan suddenly reaches for the safety card. JJ’s book is now somehow upside down. Reid is still asleep. Rossi simply raises his coffee in acknowledgment. 

He sighs, settling back into his seat and pulling you back against him. 

“I think they already know.” 

You laugh, “They’ve known longer than we have.” 

“Should that make me proud?”

-

an// aweee cute! that was fun, plz let me know what you thought of it!

[barbiedollybabe]

hardheaded

𖤝 post-botdf/pre-invincible! michael x brat! reader

𖤝 summary - of course you have an attitude. now hes gotta put you in your place.

𖤝 warnings - p-in-v, oral (m! receiving), dom! mike(?), slightly toxic reader & relationship, cussing, js very messy

technically it hasn't been long since the separation(6 hours). taken account of the arguments (you screaming) and the slammed doors (you), and those long stretches of silence (also you), made it feel like years. god knows you tried. you could truly could turn a molehill into a mountain and then stand on top explaining exactly why you were right. but it was time to call the quits. you'd be the first to admit you had mouth on you.

when you were mad, you were mad. it was no "lets talk this out" or "lets calm down". hell no. he needed to hear you loud and clear. and when the smoke finally cleared, every conversation led back to those same unresolved issues. maybe you were petty, hell you were petty, very petty. something deep down in you loved to argue, you loved to be right, and you loved that look on his face when you bitched at him for every little thing.

he would stand there, looking all pretty and doe eyed. just takin it, talking in his same soft voice.

"baby." this sent you through the roof.

"dont 'baby' me! answer the damn question, michael!" stuck your manicured finger into in chest. he made you crazy. you werent like this in beginning, just as sweet as pie. until you realized what you could get away with.

not saying that michael didnt try, i mean in his own way...sorta. one thing about him he loved the chase. you really gave him a run for his money.

he hated arguing. he knew you loved it. and he loved anything you loved, so thats why he stood there and let you. i mean at the end of the day you would still end up right in his arms.

his solution would be to write you a sweet little love letter, buy you a huge bouquet of flowers, or mid bitch wrap his arms around your waist like he hadn't pissed you clean off.

'michael." your irritated tone slowly leaving.

"no." he would say simply

"but-"

"i'd rather just hold you."" he muttered in the nape of your neck.

"sound to me you'd rather getch' cho' ass beat." as you relaxed in his arms. causing him to shake his head, sott grin plastered on his face. he knew you were a sucker for that romantic shit.

when you really pissed him off he would disappear.

the day you decided you two needed to be separated, you hadnt seen or talked michael in a week. in that week you realized that this wasn't working. it wasn't fair to michael to go all raging bitch on him every week. you felt so shitty, you gave your poor, sweet, angelfaced husband hell. now it was your turn to disappear. grabbing your big suitcase and packing whatever you thought you needed, then quickly try writing a note to him never specifying where you going and left.

you fled to you west hollywood penthouse, the only place you could go to. so it wasn't that surprising when you heard the door unlock and michael step in.

"you cant just decide this on your own y'know." michael voice an octave louder an usual. there you stood on the balcony outlooking the cityscape. the big sliding glass doors wide open letting in the warm night breeze, your short robe with long bell sleeves flowing with the breeze. you look over your shoulder and smirk. swirling a glass of wine in your hand.

"and why cant, i? i ain' never said anything when you do." you scoffed whipping your head back. your hair freshly pressed out. feeling that ugly attitude build in your gut.

"because i come back everytime, dont i?" his tone condensing. he stood at the threshold of balcony and the living room. you knew he was right, you couldn't let him know that.

now fully facing him,you opened your mouth about to answer then quickly shutting it before saying "y'know what michael, your full shit and you know it."

his face in that unreadable expression. "you dont get to act like that, not this time." his voice stern.

"oh great, so now you can come in my house and stand there acting like im the damn villain." your head shaking at each word

his brows furrowed "i never said you were."

"you sure as hell implied it!" your voice increasingly louder. "its the same shit with you! listen, if you something to say, then say it with your fuckin chest!" you inched towards him.

" i am." hes trying his best not to entertain you and whatever you had going on.

"no, you aint." wine glass now set on the outdoor table, you crossed your arms.

" i am"

"you still whisperin!"

"m'not gonna yell at you, baby."

"then, maybe i cant hear you."

"i know you can"

"oh! now you finally can hear somethin." you threw your arms up in annoyance.

"you hear everything except yourself, you sound out of your mind." you went silent. pulse quickening. your eyes narrowed. "fuck you, michael." you tired to walk past him, but he roughly gripped you by your forearm. pulling you closer. now face to face.

"say it again." now hes taunting you. you felt it in your cunt. maybe you wanted him to take control, but not without a fight.

"fuck. you. michael." you annunciated every word. trying to set yourself free from his iron grip. you begin to protest, but michael smashed his lips against yours.

"you really don't know when to shut that pretty mouth of yours, hmm?" you tried to give your snarky rebuttal but interrupted by michael. "nope, you dont get to talk. you lost those privileges, sweet thing. now you do as i say." one hand now on the back of your neck holding you in place and the other running your clothed stomach down to your wet cunt. causing you gasp out before you could answer. he roughly kisses you, simultaneously his other hand toyed with cunt. slipping his fingers into your soaked entrance. the drag of his thick fingers in you make you whine out. "michael, baby"

maybe he was finally on his mean streak. he pumped his fingers faster, before abruptly pulling them out. leaving your knees trembling and hands gripping his shirt. in one swift movement, your bent over the armrest of the couch. those same fingers played with your entry. his cock stood tall and erect, so ready to have it inside you. as he entered you in once quick motion with his thick fingers in your mouth, he began speaking.

"you left because you were scared, i know." he fucks into you. you snap your head back at him, mewling around his fingers. he pounds harder into you before you could respond. "you were scared i'd stop chasin you, you wanted me t'come after you." his voice laced in false sympathy. now his cock kissing your cervix at each thrust.

"wan' know how i know?" hips rolling precisely hitting your spot. fingers slightly out your mouth to let you reply. "fuck, you!" your mouth wide open. your whole body trembling. michael, choosing to ignore you."you left the spare key on the counter and your favorite blanket was still on our bed."

"coincidence!" you moaned out. michael scoffed "you always got a response dont you?"

"do you understand that i hate guessing which wife i'd get for the day, or if the apology lasted more than 24-hours?" now at a brutal pace and rubbing swollen clit.

"fuck you!" you cried out, tears from the stimulation and from what he saying. michael having enough, pulls out leaving you trembling.

"baby...wh-" you whined. he yanks you down onto your knees, right in front of his slick and erect cock. he rips his shirt up over his head.

"you dont ever know when shut up, do you?" he taunts. stuffing his cock down your throat, fucking it roughly. big fat tears spill from from your eyes as you choke harder on him.

"what d'ya gotta t’say now, sweet thing?" pulling his cock out, tapping it on your tongue. that fucked out face quickly turned into a scowl, your mouth getting ready to say another fuck you. unfortunately for you, his cock was already back down your throat before you could even make a sound.

"just a spoiled brat, you know exactly what i want to hear." your hands gripping his thighs. "all i want is one measly apology and you cant even do that..." your cries increased although muffled, your lower face now cover in spit. that guilty feeling pulsing all throughout your body. you pulled head back off his cock and push his thighs back. looking up him before letting out a gut wrenching sob.

"mikey.. m'sorry, so sorry." he pulls you up on your feet, hands on your still clothed waist.

"no.. no half-assed apologize." michael tsked patting your cheek. your breath hitched feeling his hand graze your neglected cunt.

"m'sorry for making everything an argument." your voice cracked feeling another wave tears coming at the same time feeling the pleasure of his heavy hands on you.

"m'sorry for always needing to win.." your hands gripped his forearm, his hands teasing you. "i knew what was doin... i'd pick at you, push your buttons, and say the meanest things... and you stayed." you gasped out, hips rolling against his hands. "you always stayed." your lips wobbled as cried out, feeling your orgasm coming. he pulled his fingers off you, leaving you whining in his bare chest.

"i do, dont i." michael snickered. who would have thought it could be this easy to tame you. he peeled off your robe, dropping it to the ground. taking your arms and putting them around his neck.

"jump." for once he didnt have to tell you twice. he carried into the master suite, the warm glow of the house guiding though the halls.

he places you right in the middle of the california king bed. you sigh getting comfortable in the pillows.

"baby.." you whined out. your body now yearning for release, his touch.

"i know.. i know, sweetness." he admired your bare body in all its glory. "so beautiful y’know, but so spoiled because of me."rubbing his cock in the wetness of your pussy. "now i gotta fix it." he starts pumping his cock slowly, leaving you breathless, gripping his back.

"move.. faster." your so dizzy from being edged for so long. at this point your hair looking closer and closer to a birds nest. eyes swelling from the constant crying, completely blissed out. michael's forehead glistening with sweat, his eyes glazed over.

"what the magic word?." he grazed your ears, pulling back to look at you.

you face slowly turned into a scowl, quickly stopping "please..my love" your voice so needy.

no more words needed to be said. he pounded into you, finally chasing his release. your loud staccato moans signaling your so close. the heat that pooled deep in lower belly rises at each thrust.

"you takin me so good, shes just leakin f'me, listening t'me so good. if only you'd listen like that." he mused. pace quickening, now you both at the peak. your head thrown back, arms flailing as your orgasm come barreling through your whole body. michael in the crook of your neck letting out desperate gasps as he comes deep in your womb.

michael lies next you, pulling the plush comforter up to your shoulders. you on your side facing him, slowly lolling off to sleep. michael caresses your face.

"in the morning your packing stuff and were going back home." it wasnt a question but he looks at you expecting a smart remark. you contemplated, closing your eyes and replying.

"m'kay mikey." you cuddled closer into him.

your soft agreement was all he needed. holding you close, michael closed his eyes, hoping tomorrow you wont be a raging bitch..

this was heavily inspried by toni & todd also maya from gfs. def a step outta my comfort zone but hopefully you all enjoyed!

[dismalflo]

hi flo!! thinking about calling up hotch on a night out, just all drunk and sweet wanting to talk to him. i think he’d be up and out of bed before you even finish the first sentence

agreed!! Aaron Hotchner x reader ✩ 809 words

Aaron isn’t a good sleeper, he never has been. Years of unpredictable work hours, crossing the country at a moment's notice, always needing to be ready when the phone rings, he’s always half awake even when he should be resting. Then there's the most ordinary reason of all; raising his sweet boy. When he’s home, Aaron finds himself on high alert for Jack’s needs.

Little noises tend to wake him up. Sometimes it’s a creak in the house or rain against the windows. Sometimes, when you’re sharing his bed, all it takes is you rolling over to stir him.

It's rare for Aaron to take himself off to bed early but when you traded your weekly date night for a night out with old college friends, he decided to make the most of an empty evening. An early dinner, followed by some tv then heading upstairs long before he usually would.

Truthfully, there had been an ugly little spark of jealousy when you told him you’d need to rearrange. It was unfair, really. The number of times he’s had to cancel plans because work dragged him away with little more than a rushed apology was impossible to count.

But he misses you, feeling like he's been trudging through this week, his body yearning for yours. A hug, a kiss, anything, desperate to fill in all the gaps phone calls and texts leave. 

Aaron’s shrill ringtone wakes him, jolting upright and reaching for where his phone sits on the nightstand.

“Hotchner.” He answers before checking the called ID. A bad habit, admittedly, but at two in the morning he can hardly be blamed. Calls at this hour are usually work.

“Aaron!” you giggle down the line. “Hi, handsome!” 

The fact it's you on the other end, with obvious joy ringing through your voice, makes him relax again, slouching down into the bed with a soft grin growing on his face.

“Hi, honey,” He sighs, “everything okay?”

“Everything is great! I just wanted to talk to you.”

The smile grows.

“Yeah?” Aaron swings his legs over the side of his bed and stands, making his way out into the hallway. “You all done for the night?”

You don't reply straight away, there's some shuffling on your end and he hears a faint whoa before something slams. Aaron would be lying if he said it didn't speed up his heart. 

“Honey?”

“Ah sorry!” you call, your voice returning to his ear. “Just got in a taxi.” 

“I could’ve come to pick you up.” 

“No, you couldn’t.” you protest. “It’s the middle of the night, woulda needed to get Jack up too and he shouldn’t…” you trail off, realising something in your pause. “Oh no! Did I wake you up? I'm sorry.”

What a sweet thing you are. You have no idea, Aaron thinks, that he’s more than happy – in fact he’s thrilled – that he gets to be the man you call just to talk to even if it is in the middle of the night. 

“It’s more than fine, you know you can call me whenever you want I–”

“ You just might not be able to answer, I know.”

“ – and I could’ve picked you up,” he continues. “Jack’s at a sleepover.”

“He is?” you ask sounding sadder than before. “Now I feel worse about cancelling date night, you've spent the night alone?”

“I’ve been fine, I promise, honey.”

Aaron wanders into the kitchen and leans against the counter. Cool granite presses against his hip as he listens to the muffled sounds filtering through your phone.

“You say that,” you murmur.

“I mean it.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I survived.”

“Barely.”

“Barely,” he agrees dryly.

Your laugh crackles through the line, warm and familiar enough that he can practically picture the expression on your face. Cheeks flushed from drinks and laughter, eyes bright. Beautiful.

“Where are you?”

“In a taxi.”

“Yes, thank you. I gathered that.”

You snort.

“I mean where are you going?”

“Oh.” More shuffling. “Home?”

Aaron glances toward the dark hallway leading to his bedroom. The house is quiet and his bed is empty, if he has the opportunity to have you with him, curled into his side, he’s going to take it.

“Come here instead.”

There's a beat of silence.

“Your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Aaron.” you exclaim, scandalised. He knows the exact teasing expression you must have on your face like the back of his hand.

“You can stay here.”

“Stay there.”

“Yes, please, honey.”

“I hear what you're saying and so polite too.”

His smile grows.

“Do you?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I think,” you say slowly, amusement dripping from every syllable, “that you’re trying to get me into your bed, Agent Hotchner.”

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh.

“Well,” he says, pushing away from the counter, “it wouldn't be the first time.”

[beaniesayshi]

asking Sukuna about the date he planned for tonight, except… he never planned one a/n: got such an amazing idea in an ask that i just had to write it

It’s a quiet Friday afternoon, and you’re both sitting in his gaming room. Sukuna’s at his desk, sprawled out in nothing but loose sweatpants, lazily scrolling through something on his PC while a stream hums low from his second monitor. Off to the side, you’re sunk deep into your oversized armchair, legs tucked up, twirling a strand of hair around your finger like you’re not plotting the most dangerous trap he’s ever walked into.

A soft, thoughtful hum slips from your lips as your gaze drifts over to his profile, lingering on the broad expanse of his bare torso, and for a moment, it’s genuinely difficult to remember you’re supposed to be scheming.

“Hey, when should I start getting ready?” you ask softly, sounding like it’s no big deal.

“For what?” he asks, barely glancing away from his screen.

“What do you mean, for what?” you shoot back, giving him your most innocent grin. “For the date you said you planned.”

Sukuna freezes, his hand pausing mid-click over the mouse. For a split second, his brain short-circuits so violently you can almost see the static. He swivels his chair to face you fully, crimson eyes locking onto yours, searching your face for any hint, any clue. His mind races through every conversation, every text, every random comment from the last few weeks, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck he supposedly promised.

Did she say something last week? Did I promise something while half asleep? Fuck, did I actually invite her for a date and forget?

“The... date,” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave as he does his best to sound completely unbothered and in control. “Yeah, yeah—get ready soon.”

"Mm... what are you wearing then?" you ask, resting your chin in your hand. "I don't know if we're matching the vibe or not."

A beat of silence drops over the room, thick and deafening. Sukuna’s jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath his ear, and his eyes drift back to the monitor, but it’s obvious he isn’t seeing a thing. Inside his head, gears grind together at a breakneck pace, panic threatening to short-circuit every rational thought.

Matching the vibe? What fucking vibe?

He’s fifty percent convinced he blacked out an entire conversation, fifty percent convinced he’s losing his mind, and one hundred percent determined to never, ever let you see him sweat.

"Well," Sukuna starts, slowly turning his head to look at you once again. He tries for a calm, confident smirk, though tension flickers around his eyes as he searches your face for a single crumb of a clue. "I mean, that depends on what you wanna wear, doesn't it?"

"Kuna, come on, don't do that," you giggle softly, shaking your head. "You picked the place, so you set the dress code. Are we doing fancy, or should I just throw on something cute and simple?"

The trap snaps shut. Sukuna's mind spirals into absolute chaos, running at a million miles an hour. Say it’s fancy, and he’s doomed if he picked somewhere casual. Say it’s casual, and you show up underdressed for some high-end place he apparently reserved weeks ago, and he’s a dead man. Honestly, he’s a dead man either way if he really did promise you something special, because he can’t remember making a single reservation at all.

If there’s not a bead of sweat rolling down his neck, there should be. For a split second, his composure cracks, his brow furrowing in silent distress, before he clears his throat and reaches across the gap with his large hand, grabbing your ankles and tugging your legs off the cushion, draping them over his thick thighs.

"You look good in anything, angel," he purrs, leaning forward to rest his hand on your knee, thumb rubbing lazy circles—anything to distract you and buy himself five more seconds. He flashes a crooked grin. "Just pick something you like, and I'll match."

"Mmm, okay," you hum, sinking back into the plush cushions and tapping your chin in mock-deep thought. "I just hope we don't end up waiting as long as last time. The food was worth it, but that line almost killed me."

Sukuna freezes entirely, his breath slipping out in a slow, silent exhale that feels almost painful to watch.

We've been there before, great food, long line... What fucking place had a line we actually waited in?

His mind frantically scrolls through every date night from the last two years: sushi bars, steak houses, taco trucks, upscale Italian, late-night ramen, trying to pin down which one he supposedly promised you just days ago. His massive shoulders tense as he sits up straighter, the effort so intense you can almost feel the heat radiating off him.

I must’ve promised only a few days ago. How the fuck did I forget?

"Line won't be a problem tonight," he lies through his teeth, his voice dropping into a low rumble as his hand slides up to squeeze your thigh. "Took care of it."

"Oh, you made a reservation this time?" you ask, looking up at him from your seat with wide, bright eyes. "Didn't think they did those on weekends! How'd you pull that off?"

Sukuna freezes mid-motion, the smallest flicker of surprise widening his eyes before he clamps down on it, jaw going rigid.

No reservations on weekends? Great. Backed myself into a fucking corner now. What the fuck am I supposed to say after that?

This is it—the absolute limit of human endurance. Balanced on a conversational tightrope stretched over a pit of fire, he’s surrounded by conflicting clues, unable to commit to a single outfit or restaurant. There he sits, a giant, terrifying man held hostage by an imaginary date night, looking for all the world like he’s trying to solve advanced physics in his head.

He fixes you with a stare, maintaining that arrogant smirk through an absolutely heroic amount of concentration, determined to bluff his way straight into the grave if he has to.

"I’ve got my ways, brat," he rumbles, sliding his hand around your wrist and pulling you gently closer, leaning in at the same time and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead—one last desperate distraction.

"I'm just excited, you know? You're so sweet to plan this out of nowhere, Kuna," you chirp sweetly, holding back a laugh. You beam at him, swinging your feet like you can barely contain your glee, letting your voice turn all sing-song and syrupy just to watch him squirm.

Looking down at your smiling, innocent face, Sukuna's massive ego crumbles for a split second under the weight of the mystery.

"Wait—what time did you book it for?" you ask before he thinks of an answer to your praise, looking up at him expectantly as you pull back to lean against the cushions again. "I know it’s tonight, but you never said when—are you trying to make me late on purpose? How much time do I actually have to look cute?”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. For a horrifying half-second, he freezes—lips parted, eyes darting from the clock on his monitor to the floor, then back to your face. His mind is utterly, completely blank—not a single coherent thought.

Think. Dinner. Six? Seven? Eight? What time sounds normal?

"You don't remember?" you ask softly, tilting your head just a little as you look up at him with wide, innocent eyes, the tiniest smile threatening to betray you.

"I remember!" Sukuna snaps a little too fast, his voice cracking with a rare, desperate edge before he quickly clears his throat to cover it. He shifts in his gaming chair, his jaw working as his eyes widen in full-blown panic.

Pick a number. Any fucking number.

"Of course I remember, woman. It's... It's in my phone—set a reminder and everything. Who do you take me for? 7."

"Right," you say, trying not to laugh at the thought of Sukuna actually fussing with a calendar app.

"Now quit grilling me and go get ready before you start worrying we're gonna be late."

Looking up at his face, you catch the tiny, panicked tension around his eyes despite that confident smirk. Unable to resist, you decide to drag it out just a little longer, savoring every second of his internal panic.

You tilt your head, looking at him from your chair. "You're driving us, right? Or are we taking an uber?"

"I'm driving," Sukuna says instantly, the answer automatic as he clutches at the first scrap of control he can find before his own brain has a chance to second-guess it.

"You remember how to get there, right?"

"Yeah," he grumbles, rolling his shoulders as he shoots you a sharp, warning look. "Of course I do."

"Good," you chirp with an easy smile. "I completely forgot the street name. What was it again?"

Nothing. I have nothing... This is it. I'm dead.

Silence instantly smothers the room. Sukuna’s entire body goes rigid, every muscle locked, and the arrogant smirk vanishes. His eyes go wide, locked onto yours in pure, unfiltered, deer-in-the-headlights terror. Not a word escapes him—there’s no way in hell he could even guess a street. He just sits there, trapped in a corner of his own making, paralyzed by the sudden realization that he’s completely, thoroughly backed into a wall.

Letting it stretch for ten long, glorious seconds, you watch his brain fry in real time. Then, a sharp, hysterical giggle bursts out of you, shoulders shaking violently as you bury your face in both hands, wheezing for air.

"I know there's no reservation, Kuna," you manage through laughter, shaking your head. "I know there's no date."

Sukuna blinks once, then again. For a moment, it’s like his brain can’t quite process the words, and then relief crashes over him so hard it nearly knocks him flat. The tension drains from his massive frame all at once, leaving him slumped boneless against the back of his chair.

A long, heavy exhale escapes him as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away the real sweat of the last ten minutes. He sits there, utterly defeated, looking like he just barely survived a war zone. There's not even enough strength left in him to pretend to be angry; every bit of mental energy got burned up trying to solve an imaginary puzzle.

"Jesus christ," he mutters into his palm, his voice a rough, exhausted rumble.

His hand drops, and he glances over at you, taking in the way you’re sitting there, absolutely delighted with yourself. Shaking his head, he lets a slow, helpless grin tug at the corner of his mouth, exhaustion still written all over his face.

"Yeah, well," Sukuna rasps, his eyes softening as he gently shoves your ankles from his legs, then reaches out and wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling you up and into his lap. "We can still go on one."

You tilt your head, settling sideways across his thick thighs with a curious smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he sighs, arms locking around your waist as he buries his face in your hair, slumping back into his chair. "I'll take you for that pasta you love so much, you menace."

"Oh, you're down bad, Kuna," you tease, grinning as you tug him down for a kiss, your fingers threading into his hair at the back of his head.

"I was sitting here trying to remember if I'd booked a fucking table in my sleep, you know?" he rasps, his breath fanning across your cheek as his lips brush yours, the low rumble of a laugh vibrating through his chest.

"You really were trying so hard to play it cool," you murmur, nudging his cheek with your nose.

"I was cool the whole time," Sukuna protests, but the lopsided grin stretching across his face gives him away as he squeezes your waist.

You smile up at him, fingers tracing a slow, absentminded line along his jaw. "So what exactly was your plan, then?"

He blinks, looking genuinely lost for a second. "Huh?"

"If I'd actually gone to get dressed... then what?" you ask, tilting your head.

Sukuna just stares at you for a long moment, his brows drawing together in mock concentration before another helpless laugh escapes him as he shakes his head in defeat.

"No idea." He snorts, raking a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. "I figured I'd think of something in the car."

You burst out laughing again, swatting his shoulder as you double over, nearly collapsing into his chest. "You seriously think that would've worked?"

"I was very committed to making it work," he answers, trying to look serious, but his eyes are bright with laughter.

Before you can get another word in, he leans forward and peppers your cheeks and neck with a relentless barrage of rough kisses until you're laughing too hard to fight him off, your hands doing little more than getting in the way.

Finally, he sets you back on your feet, steadying you with a firm grip on your waist before pushing himself up out of the chair. "Now go get dressed, brat."

 

a/n: @i-luv-mangos thanks for the idea <3

domestic sukuna masterlist

[beaniesayshi]

this is Sukuna. Sukuna loves his personal space. this is you. you also love Sukuna's personal space—especially when he’s trying to nap. ⪼ Sukuna loves his personal space mini-series

Midday sun blazes against the living room windows, the blinds drawn tight, but still useless against the suffocating heat that seeps into every corner. The air hangs thick and unmoving, making every breath heavy with humidity, and the only sound is the low, muffled hum of a rock station drifting from the battered old radio on the side table. Sukuna's sprawled flat on his back across the couch, one massive arm thrown over his eyes to block out the harsh sunlight, dead asleep despite the heat. His broad, bare chest rises and falls slowly, every muscle slack with exhaustion as he tries to wring a scrap of rest from the oven-hot afternoon.

Sukuna loves his personal space when he's trying to nap. You, on the other hand, happen to love Sukuna's personal space more than your own.

Bare feet silent against the floorboards, you slip into the living room and pause at the edge of the couch, taking in the massive, inviting sprawl of Sukuna’s frame. The empty stretch by his feet and the soft armchair across the room don’t tempt you even for a second. Instead, you climb onto the middle cushions, sinking your knees in before crawling straight up his body until you’re stretched out on top of him. Your whole front presses flush against his bare chest, chin propped on folded hands right over his heart.

Dragging his arm away from his forehead, Sukuna cracks open heavy eyelids, blinking away the last remnants of sleep before his eyes find you and track your every movement, narrowing into a flat, unimpressed stare that lands squarely on your face. The sheer audacity of your intrusion leaves him looking irritated at first, but then, almost against his will, a reluctant warmth seeps into his features as the humidity clings to his skin.

"You're heavy," he lies, letting his voice drop into that low, sleepy rumble that always has your chest tightening with affection, shifting beneath you just a little to be dramatic.

"Light as a feather," you counter softly, wiggling until you're perfectly settled on his chest and grinning up at him.

"More like a sack of bricks," he grumbles, making absolutely no effort to throw you off him. "It’s too hot for this, and you're like a weighted blanket I never asked for. Why are you on me, huh?"

"Because you're comfy."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, incredulous scoff, his chest heaving beneath you. "The armchair's right there. It’s comfy too."

“Your skin’s nicer," you murmur.

"I'm not furniture, woman." He tries to sound stern, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement curling at the edge of his words.

"Aren’t you?" You arch an eyebrow, lips quirking in challenge.

"Unbelievable," he groans, rolling his eyes skyward as if he’s searching for patience. "My whole body’s aching after beating the hell out of each other with Toji at the gym, and you’re treating me like a mattress."

"You make a good mattress," you tease.

"I'm gonna throw you onto the floor," he threatens, but you both know he lost that battle the second you climbed onto him.

"You won't," you shoot back, poking a finger lightly into his side, right over his ribs. "You'd miss me too much."

"I'd sleep like a log," he fires back, his lips twitching as he tries to maintain his glare despite the dull ache in his muscles. "I'd have the whole couch to myself. No tiny parasites sucking the life out of me."

"Fine, I'll go," you sigh, making an exaggerated show of wiggling away with no intention of leaving.

You barely manage to shift before his massive hands leave the cushions, wrapping around your back and locking you tight against his body. His grip is unyielding, pinning you flat to him, while thick fingers slip under the hem of your loose shirt, tracing slow patterns along your spine with his blunt nails.

"Stay put," he grumbles, voice going all low and rough. "You already ruined my nap. You don't get to just walk away now." Even as he tries to sound threatening, his arms tighten around you, making it painfully obvious he has no intention of letting you go.

"Oh, so you do want me here?" you whisper, tilting your head up to give him a smug, victorious grin.

Sukuna lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, his head tilting until his cheek rests on the top of your head as his thick leg hooks over yours, sealing you in.

"Shut up and sleep, menace," he mutters into your hair, fingers drawing lazy circles between your shoulder blades. "You really don't believe in personal space, do you? Every damn nap turns into this.”

"You don't mind," you mumble, nuzzling your cheek into his chest, eyes drifting shut as his touch lulls you toward sleep.

His chest expands beneath you with a deep, contented sigh before he presses a slow, lingering kiss into your messy hair, his grip never loosening.

"No," he murmurs softly into the quiet of the room. "I absolutely don't."

It doesn’t take long before his breathing slows, the lazy circles against your back growing fainter until they stop as sleep finally claims him, too.

 

a/n: domestic sukuna masterlist