spencer misses you. you show up in a bikini, sit on him, and let him prove it with disastrous consequences for his composure and your tanline.
pairing: spencer reid x bimbo!reader
warnings: suggestive content, skimpy af bikini, handprint tanline (yes, it's plot relevant ok), established relationship, fem!reader
prompt: here!
wc: 0.5k
Spencer isn't particularly known for physical grace (you once told him he had the coordination of a baby deer on ice skates, and you were right), but now, his clumsiness has transcended cute and settled into cataclysmic, because here you come, gliding toward him with a confidence that melts the remaining ice under his metaphorical skates.
Before he can even begin to worry about sunscreen reapplication or make some half-baked joke about melanoma awareness, you're suddenly there, bare skin smelling like a bakery's idea of summer, and his book is wobbling precariously in his grip.
“Hi baby,” you chirp, throwing yourself into the hammock with the casual recklessness of someone who's never once considered their own mass in relation to another's object's tensile limit.
His book is halfway to the grass by the time your knee collides with his thigh.
“You’re going to flip us,” he warns, though his voice wavers top-heavy, mostly because your chest is now hovering just inches from his mouth, slick and glittering with what he assumes is SPF in some form.
“It’s fine, you’re strong,” you say dismissively, one arm draping over his chest as the other tugs your sunglasses down just far enough to squint at his mouth like it’s something you plan to study, or worse, touch. “Besides, if we flip, we flip.”
His palm settles where your bikini dips, and suddenly it's like his pulse is being conducted through you, blooming heat directly into your skin.
He doesn't mean to touch you like this, not exactly, but it's inevitable in the way lightning is, sparked, then burning before it even registers. His eyes fall shut, and his fingers press in, barely.
“Don’t go so long next time. Missed you.”
“Sure,” you say, shifting in a way that reminds you both that your bikini is one rogue breeze away from retirement. “You missed me. And not the view you’ve got right now that’s, you know, extremely convenient.”
“It is a good view,” he says, palm lightly swatting your ass and staying there. “But that’s not the point. You weaponized absence. And also… clothing.”
You just giggle and lean in, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw, then another just beneath his ear. “That’s what you get for giving me ammo.”
He hums in response, too content to do much else, nose brushing against your temple. “Having a good day?”
“Mhmm. Tired.”
“Perfect napping conditions,” he mumbles, trying not to sound completely deranged by how your body folds into his.
He tucks his chin above your head and lets his thumb move in slow, absent circles on your pliant skin, nothing particularly purposeful, just a quiet repetition of wanting.
You fall asleep before he finishes the second one. He’s not far behind.
—
“Spencer Reid, what the hell —”
Your voice hits him before consciousness does, and then he’s blinking awake, face smushed into your shoulder.
“What?” he croaks, still half-asleep, throat dry. “What happened?”
A full, open-palmed tan line. His hand. Stamped like a signature into your left cheek, a display of every inch he touched. Spencer makes a strangled noise and instinctively tries to cover it like a guilty dog hiding a chewed-up shoe. As if placing his hand back on it — yep, definitely the same size — is going to fix anything.
“You branded me.” You blink at him. “I’m going to have to explain this to people. To witnesses.”
“Or we could just reapply and do the other side, for symmetry.”
You stretch. “It’s fine, you already ruined one side. Might as well commit.”
“If we flip,” he says, lips brushing your shoulder now, “we flip.”
hotch discovers bright red scratches down his back and now you're scrambling to cover them (and yourself) befor the team sees your handiwork.
pairing: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader
warnings: mentions of sexual activity (implied/past), scratching/marking, lots of banter, hotch being manhandled by his hot girlfriend
prompt: here!
wc: 0.6k
“— so obviously, swimsuits are cute, but they’re also totally optional, just so we’re crystal clear,” you say. “If later on yours becomes unbearably restrictive, know that I’m deeply supportive of your comfort. Girlfriend-of-the-year-level supportive, in fact.”
The groan Aaron lets out in response is pure suffering wrapped in velvet bass, however it only seems to nourish your Cheshire-cat grin like sunlight coaxing a flower into bloom. Every tortured noise he produces just serves to encourage you to provoke another.
He’s smart enough to know this.
His hand reaches back to tighten around your thigh in a grip you recognize as meant to communicate something authoritative and all-things-Aaron-Hotchner, no fun whatsoever permitted.
But all your brain translates is the feeling on his large palm bleeding into bare skin. He’s an enabler on all sides whether intentional or not.
“Behave yourself.”
You press your pinky into the dimple that sits at the base of his neck.
“If I behave myself, you’d die of boredom within the hour. And I refuse to be responsible for that.”
There’s that groan again, muffled this time against his arms that are folded to prop his face on. Your own face is propped by his back, which now radiates warmth into your flesh, solid muscle serving as your personal, sun-heated towel. Beneath you, his shoulders stretch broad and dependable, as sturdy as if carved from marble or lifting government issued vehicles in his downtime.
Unlikely, sure, but it’s a wonderful visual. You think he shoulder consider it. And if he ever is in need of the adrenaline-spiking-damsel-in-distress-catalyst, well, you’ll gladly step in.
“You’re many things, honey, but boring definitely isn’t one of them. Exhausting, yes. Boring, never.”
You nip gently at his pulse point, releasing only when he starts to squirm.
“Just making sure you’re not dozing off,” you tease. “Wouldn’t want you falling asleep mid-conversation. Y'know, since I’m so exhausting and all.”
“Keep that up and you’re going to start something we can’t exactly finish out here.”
Lazy streaks of sunlight drape over your shoulders as your eyes drift across the lake, landing on Morgan, who’s currently putting on a muscle show that Garica is enthusiastically encouraging with splashes and laughter.
“Mm, true,” you concede, “but fortunately we’re adults, and adults can relocate.”
You plant an innocent kiss between his shoulder blades as punctuation then rise slowly, hands smoothing down his back until you’re upright straddling him.
You pause when your nails get caught on an imperfection.
Bright red scratches trace down his spine, your enthusiastic handiwork glaring back at you like a glitter-covered neon billboard.
Face heating to volcanic temperatures, you frantically flop back onto Aaron, plastering yourself across him with all the subtlety of a cat knocking things off a countertop.
Perhaps if you just… don’t move, they’ll spontaneously fade into obscurity. A girl can hope.
He releases a startled grunt beneath you, craning his neck awkwardly to look back. “Did you just… tackle me?”
“Maybe,” you mumble evasively, squeezing him tighter. “But it’s out of love, so you can’t be mad.”
He doesn’t waste breath as he maneuvers you onto his chest, but as his back connects with the ground, his features briefly crumple, eyes tightening with a small, involuntary wince.
He exhales sharply, the sound slipping through gritted teeth.
“...Did I pull something earlier?”
You pat his chest reassuringly, nodding. “Pretty sure you’re just getting old. Happens to the best of us.”
Aaron’s brows pinch together for a moment before understanding flashes across his face.
“Interesting. Because I distinctly recall someone clawing at my back earlier.”
“Nope, that’s definitely just your elderly imagination acting up.”
Aaron shifts suddenly from under you, and before you can manage even the tiniest squeak of protest, he’s surging upward, throwing you onto his back.
You burst into giggles, tightening your arms around his shoulders. “Wait, wait, where are we going?”
“Inside,” he replies. “You’re my human shield so the team doesn’t see your artwork.”
“Shouldn’t I at least get a thank you?”
“You’ll get more than a thank you,” he replies. “In fact, I plan on returning the favor. And judging by these very minimal swimsuits you’re fond of, everyone’s going to see my gratitude.”
join me at the lake for my 5k event!
day 1 extras
🎇 click here to check in -> confirm your room (and crush)
you were fully prepared to tease aaron mercilessly while he grills, but one small burn has him play caretaker. maybe injuries aren't so bad after all
pairing: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader
warnings: suggestive content, minor injury (burn), sexual tension, sudden marriage fantasies triggered by men with tongs
prompt: here!
wc: 0.7k
You nod at all the right times (or maybe the wrong times, you wouldn’t know), while Aaron says something about charcoal ratios or burner placement, details that seem very important to him, and impossible for your brain to retain when he’s looking like that. One hand rests near his mouth, thumb grazing his lower lip like he’s posing for the cover of Men Who Know Things and Also Ruin Your Panties. His shirt clings to his chest with a damp little wrinkle, and you’re hit with the overwhelming urge to drop to your knees and just… take a little detour. Chest to navel, navel to belt.
He drags his forearm across his brow, smearing a dark streak just above his temple — soot, grease, or possibly some chemical compound the government invented in a lab to make men full of pure, unfiltered sex appeal.
“Hold still,” you say quickly, already yanking your tank top up and blotting the edge of the mark with a careful hand. “Got a little something, handsome.”
He doesn’t respond, just stares, all squinty and broody and clearly seconds away from kissing you into next week, right here, in the presence of God and team members while the tongs dangle uselessly from his hand and your body leans just a little too close. Maybe you were meant to be a lake wife. Maybe you were born to wear flannel and make babies with a man who smells like hickory smoke and bourbon. Maybe you need to price out outdoor furniture. And double strollers.
“Sweetheart,” he says, one hand ghosting toward your waist. “Careful. The grill’s hot.”
You bat your lashes. “I’m fully aware of hot things in my immediate vicinity.”
“That’s not —”
“One burns food. One burns through thongs.”
He lets out the kind of breath that sounds like it’s been fighting to escape for an hour. “You want dinner, or do you want me to drop everything and bend you over the nearest surface?”
“...Both?”
He doesn’t justify that with a response, just catches your wrist, kisses it once then tugs you in front of him, slotting you between his arms.
“Okay,” he says against your ear, “burger watch. You look pretty. You keep me company. Talk to me about anything but your thong and warn me if I get too distracted and set something on fire.”
“Are you objectifying me right now, Agent Hotchner?”
“Constantly.”
“So obsessed with me. It’s cute.”
His tongs hover mid-air for a second too long before he clears his throat and shifts a patty to the cooler side of the grill. “You make it difficult to do anything else.”
You open your mouth to hit him with something dramatic, probably “well I make it hard for most men” because you are who you are and he deserves to suffer, but apparently, the universe thinks you’re getting a little too cocky.
Your hand, moving of its own volition like a traitorous limb, finds the grill's edge and suddenly your palm is sizzling like cheap diner bacon at three in the morning. It takes one Mississippi, two Mississippi for your brain to connect sizzling flesh to actual pain.
“Oh,” you squeak.
“Shit,” Aaron breathes, already grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward the kitchen.
The skin at the base of your palm is already turning pink, angry and glossy. You stare at it as Aaron moves. He flips on the faucet, cold water blasting as he angles your wrist under it, thumb pressing gently to the back of your hand to keep it steady.
“Surface burn. Small area. Base of the palm’s got padding, you’re lucky,” he says, almost to himself. “Not deep. Should heal clean.”
“So no amputation?”
“No amputation,” he confirms, half-laughing as he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Though you do seem committed to testing my blood pressure.”
And oh, isn’t that a delightful thought — you, single-handedly responsible for the downfall of Aaron Hotchner’s otherwise perfect cardiovascular health. You’d probably feel guilty i it didn’t thrill you just a bit.
“See? This is what happens when you distract me with your face. I get hurt. And then you get stressed. It’s a dangerous cycle, Aaron.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
You tilt your head toward him, lashes still damp from the steam, mouth pulled into a soft pout. “In the meantime, I think you should take responsibility and kiss me until I forget I was ever injured.”
He chuckles under his breath, already reaching for the burn cream. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what the CDC recommends.”
Yet, despite his skepticism, he’s already leaning in, breaking every known regulation in existence, just for you.
you desperately try to steal a kiss from spencer, but interruptions keep getting in your way.
pairing: spencer reid x translator!reader
warnings: fluff!, mild sexual suggestiveness nothing crazy, PDA (at least attempting), banter goes crazy between these freaks
prompt: here!
wc: 0.4k
“Please.”
You’ve resorted to begging. All that education, and yet, faced with one (admittedly beautiful) man, you’ve reduced yourself to a puddle of pathetic yearning.
A pathetic puddle of yearning liquified in sticky-sweet increments onto a wooden dock like gelato left out in July heat, all because his thumb finds the sensitive hollow beneath your kneecap.
His gaze does a quick reconnaissance — checking for teammates, wildlife, asteroids, any of the thousands of cosmic interferences fate might throw your way — before settling back on you with a look of poorly contained affection you adore, and frankly, deserve after all your suffering.
“Morgan will never let me hear the end of it.”
“Ah, yes. It must be terribly humiliating,” you sigh, rolling your eyes heavenward, “to have an irresistible, brilliant woman completely in love with you. However do you cope?”
His smile widens until you see teeth.
“With great difficulty. If you understood the sheer catastrophe your irresistible beauty causes my brain cells daily, you’d be impressed I still manage to remember my own name.”
He's burnt today, droplets of radiation dappling along his legs and arms, casualties of a last-minute, half-hearted spritz-and-pray approach to sunscreen. His face, however, is unblemished, cool to the touch, because of you and your patient hands and SPF 50.
“Hmm,” you muse, your foot sliding along his calf watching as red flesh turns white, “sounds serious. I’m sure I can think of some creative ways to refresh your memory later.”
He smiles at that.
“You know, repetition is the key to learning,” he counters, grabbing your ankle and pressing his forefinger into the freckle that sits there. “We might need a lot of practice before it sticks.”
“C’est prometteur,” you tease, tilting your head closer until your nose brushes his. “Mais avant les répétitions, un baiser serait un bon début, non?”
“I’ve been trying all day,” he sighs, fingers moving slowly up your leg to dance along the bikini string at your hip. “If Morgan or Hotch had even a shred of tact, I’d have already kissed you at least a hundred times. Possibly more, purely for reinforcement.”
“Maybe the hundred-and-eleventh time's the charm?”
Spencer laughs, the warmth of it skimming your lips and lighting a constellation of little fires under your skin. When he finally leans in, your entire being seems to sigh happily, embarrassingly eager and desperately grateful to be receiving the nourishment it’s been denied.
Your thoughts scatter into a kaleidoscope of languages, all variations of finally and please and thank you.
“Has anyone seen Spencer? Garica’s setting up trivia and I need him on my team.”
Fuck.
Spencer’s eyes shut momentarily, his reluctant smile pressing against your temple as you bury your face into his neck, releasing a muffled, heartbroken groan.
Apparently, the universe and asteroids and wildlife and your teammates have conspired to ensure you’ll never actually kiss your boyfriend again.
You know you have approximately three seconds, maybe less, before Emily discovers your not-so-secret hideaway.
Drawing back slightly, just enough to capture Spencer’s eyes with your own, you whisper decisively, “You owe me tonight, Dr. Reid. Big.”
“Believe me, angel, by morning you’ll consider the debt paid — with interest.”
you're not a fan of fireworks. luckily, spencer's not a fan of letting you suffer in silence, especially when he has obscure marine biology facts and lap space to spare.
pairing: spencer reid x shy!reader
warnings: fluff yipee, fireworks, some discussion of sensory overload, reader in spencer's lap (we up!), spencer is very in love, established relationship, kissing
prompt: here!
wc: 0.6k
“At night, the jellyfish showed an increase in the time to first pulse and the time to reach bottom compared to during the day. This increased latency in response to stimulus indicates that Cassiopea have reduced responsiveness to stimulus during the night.”
The article is still warm from its ill-fated stint on the radiator, a rushed drying technique he knew was a bad idea, but tried anyway.
He smooths a corner with one thumb, eyes scanning each line. He printed it after you mumbled something about fireworks being… well, not fun. You didn’t say you hated fireworks (you would never be so bold), but just gave him a thoughtful wrinkle of your nose, followed by, “I don’t think colors exploding overhead is my thing.”
Which, coming from you, translated almost perfectly to please don’t make me pretend I like loud things for your sake.
And If he were being honest, and he’s not, because you’re very pretty and he’s only human, he would admit that he studies you more attentively than he’s studied any dissertation subjects. A concerning thought for his sanity, less so for his ego.
Now you’re tucked against him on the couch, limbs tangled and deposited half-haphazardly across his lap. Your toes nudge his thigh once, then again.
“Out with it,” he says.
A sour look fortifies on your face as cock your head to one side. “What?”
“That face. The I-have-a-question-but-I-don’t-want-to-seem-annoying face. It’s very cute. Not very stealthy.”
He does not mention, of course, that it’s his favorite face. Or how, embarrassingly, he’s sort of banking on you never perfecting your stealth because then he might stop getting to decode all your thoughts in real-time. Which would be weird, obviously. So instead he bites the inside of his cheek.
“So they slow down when it’s dark, but you’re telling me that’s not sleep?”
“Well, what we define as sleep involves identifiable neural oscillations and circadian regulation. Jellyfish lack a centralized nervous system, so technically, they’re not sleeping. But they exhibit behavior that’s, functionally, sleep-adjacent.” He pauses, glancing at you. “You’re not convinced, are you.”
“Sleep-adjacent feels like a cop-out to me, but okay.” You’re moving mid-sentence, elbows and knees negotiating gravity as you clamber into his lap.
It’s entirely impossible for him to continue arguing with you, especially when a firework splits the sky behind you, washing your face in quicksilver blue glow.
Your eyes dart briefly toward it, reflection shimmering against your lashes, before returning to him. He sets the paper aside, letting it flutter to the floor as his hands come to cup the curve of your spine.
He feels your heartbeat beneath his fingertips, fluttering quicker with every sudden burst overhead.
“You’re going to make a terrible research assistant if you keep rejecting my terminology.” There’s a hint of smile tugging at his lips. “But I guess I could keep you around for… morale.”
You gasp. “I would be an excellent research assistant. You’re the one who brought reading material after promising to relax for once.”
“I did promise that, didn’t I?” He muses. “Relaxing is subjective.” One hand rises to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “And you make it easier. So technically, this is collaborative rest.”
“Is that in the paper, too?” you whisper, fingertips tracing the edge of his collar, the slow movement sending a flush of warmth straight through his bloodstream. “The part where jellyfish respond better to affection-based co-regulation?”
He exhales, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, gaze dipping involuntarily to where your red-painted nails press into his skin.
“That, uh…” he murmurs, “no, that wasn’t explicitly covered in the research.”
“Feels like a major oversight.” You tilt your head, bottom lip jutting out. “I’ll submit an addendum.”
A firework cracks sharply behind, and Spencer nearly jumps this time, though he catches himself just in time. You would never let him live that down.
“Add it to the record,” he mutters — and then he kisses you. Thoroughly.
while the team is exploring the town, you and spencer explore each other
pairing: spencer reid x translator!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, oral sex (f receiving), blasphemy used in sexual context, overstimulation, soft dom spencer reid, fem!reader, spencer being a smug shit, spencer butchering the pronunciation of yet another language, watermelon sugar mention
prompt: here!
wc: 0.7K
“You’re so good to me, Spencer.”
The words pour out thick as honey pulled fresh from the comb, each syllable crystallizing in the air between you. You feel gold and languid and saccharine and you wonder if he can taste the amber in every breath.
Coherence seems beyond your grasp, phrases reduced to breathing nothings, a blasphemous litany sent up to ears that might burn at such sacrilegious devotion. But if anyone were to ask where your faith lies, you’d point here: to Spencer and his heretic mouth, tongue pressed to places that pull colors in strobing bursts behind closed eyes.
Here is your religion, and loudly do you worship.
And so you thank the universe, the saints, the sheer miracle of timing that the team is off exploring souvenir shops, because Spencer seems to be more than content in exploring you.
His fingers find purchase in the pliant geography of your thighs, each point of contact inscribing some phantom manuscript across nerve endings that have become suddenly, acutely literate.
Your spine bows upward and Spencer’s right there, meeting you halfway like the self-satisfied bastard he is. You can practically feel the grin in his hands, how pleased he is that he's commandeering your hips into action.
“Yes, just like that — fuck,” you babble, words pouring out like a broken faucet. “No one — ever — never this good. Not like you. Never.”
Pleasure detonates inside you, a star collapsing inward with such cataclysmic force that any pretense of control gets vaporized into cosmic debris. And in turn, your body becomes pure reaction, hips snapping upward as a surprised bubble of laughter breaks into a moan.
The orgasm steamrolls through you, from head to toes, limbs twitching as Spencer guides you through the aftershocks.
He gathers you closer, lips creating perfect suction around your oversensitive clit while his tongue traces lazy patterns that seem designed to extract every remaining spark of sensation from your depleted nervous system.
The resulting current flows molten through your veins, dismantling whatever structural integrity you have left until you exist as nothing but breath and want, his name drifting from your mouth like an unconscious mantra into humid air.
Spencer works his way upward once he’s sure you can’t take any more, leaving lingering kisses dotted along your skin until he reaches your face.
His hands sweep aside the strands of hair plastered messily to your flushed cheeks.
When he speaks, his French emerges awkwardly formal, pronunciation slightly stilted as though he’s recalling from a mental flashcard. You’re sure he is.
“Il semble que certaines choses soient mieux dites en français.”
You giggle, cupping his face as you pull him down for a kiss that’s more heart than skill. The taste blooms across your palate — yourself mixed with traces of watermelon from the dock earlier, summer’s final love letter dissolving on your tongue.
Drawing back just enough to catch his eyes, you smile against the curve of his mouth.
“Didn’t even notice I switched languages.” Your thumb traces the swell of his bottom lip. “But I mean English feels disappointingly… pedestrian by comparison.”
His fingers locate your hip, delivering a pinch that has you squirming against him, friction blazing white-hot with your clit across his thigh.
His gorgeous face is smirking before you even finish gasping.
“I think you just like to show off,” he murmurs, thumb soothing over the spot he’s marked. “Just can’t resist being impressive, can you?”
“If I really wanted to show off…” You lean in, letting your teeth scrape against his earlobe before whispering, “Mi inginocchierei e ti mostrerei quanto sa essere tagliente la mia lingua.”
You bite down gently on the last word, just to make your point crystal clear.
“Talk like that makes me want to lock the door and keep you to myself all night,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “And frankly, I’m pretty sure no amount of shops could keep the team busy for as long as I’d need.”
You nudge his nose with yours. “Big words, Spencer. You sure you could handle me for that long?”
“You’d be surprised by my stamina when properly motiv —”
Buzz. Phone. Fucking phone.
Garcia: ETA ten minutes, cuties! wrap up whatever depravity you’re engaged in. (literally. safety first, you filthy animals.) 💋💋
You roll your eyes, shoving the phone toward Spencer.
He glances at the screen, then at you, with that predatory smile of his.
“Ten minutes is generous. I’ve done far more impressive things in half that.”
join me at the lake for my 5k event!
day 1 extras
🎇 click here to check in -> confirm your room (and crush)
a water mishap leaves you in hotch's pajamas and confronting some awkward, fluttery feelings.
pairing: aaron hotchner x neighbor!reader
warnings: age gap, fluffity fluff, mentions of hotch’s clothes being oversized, spencer being a shit, reader being overstimulated as hell by hotch (i get it girl)
prompt: here!
wc: 0.5k
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are.”
He was. Or maybe not in the auditory sense, but in the molecular sense. You could see it in the shimmering vibration beneath his words and the glimmer of copper-lit eyes you lately lose entire moments looking at, seconds bleeding into eternities.
One glance in the mirror, unfortunately, provides clarity as to his suppressed shit-eating grin. The proportions are laughable, almost abstract. His shirt hangs from your shoulders like it's trying to remember what structure is, and you... you look like a squid caught mid-metamorphosis, limbs lost somewhere under sleeves and pants designed for someone who probably has double your muscle mass. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a small person. You’re not. Aaron Hotchner just seems to take up space in every sense of the word.
“I have better manners than that,” he murmurs, and the subtle rasp in his voice skims across your nerve endings like sandpaper dragged gently across glass. Unexpected friction, oddly delicate.
“You know," you begin, "good manners are... kind of arbitrary. Historically speaking, etiquette was less about kindness or decency and more about control. Upper-class individuals engineering performative social rituals to differentiate themselves from, well, everyone else." You pause. "So... you know. Arbitrary."
Your hands make a vague gesture you hope reads as so there, but it probably just looks like mild jazz hands.
“Guess I’ll have to find new ways to assert my social superiority."
“I mean, you could always fall back on that whole commanding presence that makes people immediately defer to your authority thing you’ve got going.”
You make the executive decision to ignore the increasingly obvious fact that whatever neurological response his authority presence triggers — elevated heart rate, dermal sensitivity, slight auditory lag — is highly specific to you. Which is probably just some sort of... psychological imprinting effect. (Or a crush. Which you cannot examine too close.)
He fixes you with a look you’ve come to label as his patented active refusal to entertain nonsense, though you haven't shared that classification with him. You're ninety percent sure he uses it more on you than anyone else.
“How’s your bag?”
“Better now that it’s away from Spencer,” you say, rolling your eyes, “He got it in his head that he could prove a theory about water displacement using my travel shampoo and a bathtub. I think he tried to recreate Archimedes' moment but with my Pantene and a plastic mug."
He plucks at the T-shirt draped over you — his shirt, which you're still trying not to think about too much, because it smells like him and feels incredibly intimate in of itself.
“Tomorrow we can go into town and get you something less susceptible to Reid’s aquatic experiments. Unless you prefer permanently borrowing my clothes.”
“Tempting offer,” you joke, cheeks flushed with heat (vasodilation, your brain supplies, ever helpful in its commitment to observation). “But, um, if I keep borrowing your clothes, we'll have to start accounting for tensile decay. Cotton's only got so many wash cycles in it. Not that I've... calculated the exact threshold. Yet.”
He chuckles, the sound rolling pleasantly through your stomach.
“Good point,” he says, and then, because apparently, he hasn't done enough damage, adds, “But just so you know, I’m perfectly fine with a few compromised T-shirts if you are.”
Your heart flinches. Or flutters. Violently. Like a firework that went off two seconds too early.
“Well, technically I guess the degradation would depend on washing frequency and detergent alkalinity levels, because pH can break down cotton fibers over time, and if we factor in the mechanical action of the washer drum —”
“Hey.” There's patient amusement laced through his tone. “Do you need a second?”
You press your palms against your cheeks.
“Yeah. I — Yeah, I think that would be good. Thank you.”
He turns, pausing in the doorway.
"I'll tell the team not to jump to conclusions," he says. "But I doubt that'll help."
your beach day meltdown gets hotch out of his chair and throwing you over his shoulder
pairing: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader
warnings: fem!reader, bimbo!reader, jealous aaron, reader being just like me with the sand fr
prompt: here
wc: 0.4k
You’d been up and down the shoreline at least a dozen times. Maybe more. He’d stopped counting after the seventh dramatic spin-pivot back to the water, the kind where your hands flew up like the sand itself had personally offended you.
It was better than any book he brought, watching you march barefoot to the surf, rinse your feet, march back, sulk, repeat.
Objectively, it was ridiculous. Subjectively… well. He was a man.
A man with a very pretty, very dramatic girlfriend whose bikini was tied in bows and bounced with every exaggerated stomp.
So he was allowed to enjoy the show.
But the guys two towels over? They were not. Not with the way they were looking at you. Not with the way one of them elbowed the other.
Alright. That was enough of that.
He stood. Not in a hurry, necessarily, but with some purpose, setting down his book, his sunglasses, brushing the sand from his palms.
He didn’t look at the guys again. Didn’t need to. Let them watch him walk across the beach and take your hand, leading you straight back to the water.
You were already mid-rant by the time he reached you. Something about rogue particles and sabotage.
“Rinse them off again.” Dry as ever. Like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
“You know I already did that, like, multiple times,” you huffed, as if he hadn’t been watching the entire production. “It’s not even the dry sand I hate, it’s the wet sand. It’s like — squishy. And weird. And it gets between my toes —”
Hotch didn’t dignify it with a response. He just bent slightly, grabbed you around the waist, and walked you straight into the water.
You kicked your feet under the water. “— and it’s gross, and it dries under my nails, and I don’t even think this is normal sand, like maybe it’s defective —”
He gave you three seconds to finish rinsing. That felt generous.
Then, he grabbed you. No warning. Just one solid arm around your thighs, a little lift, and suddenly you were upside-down and shrieking.
“Aaron!”
“Feet are clean,” he said simply, turning back toward your chairs.
You smacked his back once. “You’re so lucky you’re hot.”
“I could say the same.”
He carried you like it was nothing. Like his back didn’t hurt half the time, and he wasn’t pushing fifty. It was a good thing he kept in shape — sheer necessity, really. Dating you required stamina, physical and emotional.
As he passed the guys from earlier, Hotch didn’t bother looking. He just slid his hand to the back of your thighs, fingers spreading ever so slightly to shield the curve of your ass from view.
Let them find something else to stare at.
join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!
day 3 extras
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