okay okay, hear me out, Aaron Hotchner (post Hailey’s death) with a male reader significant other who isn’t with the FBI.
Reader is super harmonic with Jack and they’re all very domestic together so when aaron is able to be on cases continuously and spontaneously without having to call anyone to look after Jack, the team gets suspicious cause, wdym hotch doesn’t call jessica or anyone else?!?
and then they’re all like, so who’s this mystery lady, and well… it isn’t a special lady
hope your holiday was nice :)
Just Some Guy (In Hotch’s Kitchen)
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader
Word Count: 1.5k+
DNI: Fem-aligned
Author's Note: When I tell you i ran to complete this request, I am not joking. This is hilarious. 🤤
I think I'm getting better at dialogue? Description has always been my strong suit, and I have a tendency to make character's a little ooc, but after *Whisper* binge watch the earlier seasons again.. I think i'm using more language that the character's themselves are using. 😋
As always, feedback is appreciated! Hope you enjoy :))
No one suspected anything at first. Which, frankly, was the embarrassing part. Wheels were up. But apparently, so was Hotch’s mood. Which was… not standard protocol.
He was still there at 7:30 sharp, still crisp in suit and tie, still handing out case files like clockwork. But the edges had changed. Subtly. The kind of change you only noticed when you knew what the old shape used to be. And the BAU had quite the bit of experience with it.
The first clue was the phone calls, or the lack of them.
“Wheels up in 30,” Hotch said, stepping out of his office one Thursday afternoon, file tucked under his arm.
Emily blinked. “Don’t you need to… call Jessica?”
Hotch paused a fraction too long. “No. It’s taken care of.”
And then he walked off. Like that was normal.
Except it wasn’t. Because since Haley’s death, every late-night or last-minute case came with a Hotchner-adjacent logistical flurry: scrambling for backup, adjusting for Jack. Jessica dropping everything. Garcia babysitting. Morgan teaching Jack how to throw a football in Quantico’s parking lot because nobody else was available.
But lately?
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
It kept happening. On Friday evenings. At 2 a.m. calls. Even once on a Saturday morning, which felt borderline blasphemous!!
Jack was always fine. Always “covered.” Always “already sorted.” And Hotch? He was weirdly relaxed about it. Not relaxed-relaxed, he was still Hotch, but in that quiet, steady way, like he was sleeping more than three hours a night. Like he wasn’t drowning anymore.
Naturally, the team spiraled.
It was Garcia who said it first.
She popped her head into the bullpen one morning, a pink thermos in one hand and her nails painted a dazzling electric blue. “Okay, question,” she said, “and this isn’t gossip, it’s concerned and loving observation, but… has anyone else noticed that our dear Unit Chief has stopped calling Jessica when we go wheels up?”
Reid looked up from his screen. “I have. It’s anomalous.”
“Exactly!” Garcia beamed, spinning in a slow, graceful circle like the drama demanded movement. “So I did some snooping—light snooping, just on the surface web, and Jessica hasn’t posted a photo of Jack in months. Which, I mean, okay, privacy, sure, but also.. why??”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
JJ chimed in, her voice quiet but curious. “He’s… seeing someone.”
“Oh my God.” Emily’s face lit up. “Hotch has a girlfriend.”
Reid frowned. “There’s no behavioral evidence to support that hypothesis. He hasn’t altered his routines, his scent is the same-”
“Scent?” Emily raised an eyebrow.
“I mean cologne. He hasn’t changed brands.”
“Thanks, Sherlock.”
“But it could still be someone,” JJ said thoughtfully. “He’s been… softer. Around the edges.”
“Softer,” Garcia repeated dreamily. “Like a stale marshmallow left out just long enough to get that perfect chew.”
Morgan grimaced. “Baby girl.. Why would you say that?”
You were elbow-deep in dinner prep when it happened; knife in one hand, sauce simmering low on the back burner, and Jack perched on a kitchen stool, legs swinging, rattling off planet facts between bites of sliced cucumber.
“The sun doesn’t count, right?” he asked, licking salt from his fingers.
You shook your head, amused. “Nope. Sun’s the center. Tell me again, what’s the biggest planet?”
“Jupiter!” he grinned. “Easy.”
“Starboy strikes again!”
The house smelled of garlic and sesame oil, warm light bleeding in through the kitchen window. You moved around the space with practiced ease—pan to counter, towel to hands, reaching above the sink for plates. It had been a long day, but the kind that settled into your bones without complaint. The kind that felt earned.
Then you heard the front door unlock.
You glanced at the time, Aaron said he’d be home early, and it tracked. You wiped your hands, already smiling, half-ready to tease him about forgetting the scallions.
But it wasn’t just one pair of footsteps.
The hallway creaked.
And then-
Six people stepped into your home like they were walking into a hostage situation.
Emily blinked first, frozen halfway into the room. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Um.”
Rossi stopped beside her, mouth half-open. Garcia’s glitter-coated eyes were huge. Reid hovered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if this counted as breaking and entering. JJ gave you a polite, deeply confused smile.
You, barefoot in Aaron’s hoodie, holding a wooden spoon, said the only thing you could think of.
“Uh, hi?”
“Oh my God,” Garcia whispered, visibly short-circuiting.
Morgan stepped forward cautiously, like he was worried you'd vanish. “Hey. Sorry—uh. Are.. you the babysitter?”
“Family?” JJ guessed, tilting her head. “Uncle? Cousin?”
You blinked. “Well, um, not exactly…”
Aaron walked in behind them then, adjusting his tie like this wasn’t a sitcom moment from hell. Jack darted straight to him.
“You brought them!” he chirped, latching onto his dad’s side.
“I didn’t mean to bring them,” Aaron said, sighing.
“Wait.” Emily’s voice cut the air. “Wait, wait, wait.”
Reid’s eyes darted to you. “Wait. If he lives here, and Jack knows him, and he’s wearing your hoodie—”
“Holy shit,” Emily whispered, eyes wide. “You’re his boyfriend.”
You blinked. “I mean… I’m not the boyfriend. I’m his—well, I guess I am the boyfriend. But also like… Jack’s stepdad? In spirit. Or, you know, ..macaroni art.”
Morgan dragged a hand down his face. “Man. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Rossi looked around—the kid art on the fridge, the socks in the hallway, the way Jack had started humming to himself at the table again. He smiled, small and sure. “Well. I’ll be damned.”
Aaron stepped beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your back. “Everyone, this is my boyfriend.”
You gave a half-wave. “Nice to meet you, officially ..There’s food, if you want it?”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Emily muttered, “I need to sit down.”
Jack popped his head out from behind Aaron’s hip. “Dad said they might find out.”
Hotch glanced at you. “He also said you’d panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” you said, calmly placing a wooden spoon into the sink. “I’m surprised. There’s a difference.”
Garcia squeaked. “You make dinner? Like, actual food? From scratch? With sauce and everything?”
You smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. I kind of… do most of the home stuff. Aaron works late, and I freelance from home, so it makes sense. And Jack—well, he’s easy to cook for. Kid likes sushi and peanut butter, so we’re golden.”
Morgan stepped in, still sizing you up like he was waiting for you to reveal your criminal record. “How long has this been going on?”
Aaron answered that one. “A little under a year since we met, we've been together for about.. 7 months, though. I didn’t want to introduce him too early—not until Jack was ready.”
“I was ready,” Jack said. “I told him to keep him.”
You reached over and ruffled his hair. “It’s true. I was basically adopted.”
Hotch let his hand rest lightly on your upper arm, casual and open in a way he rarely was around anyone else. “He’s the reason I’m still standing.”
That shut everyone up.
Later, after the team had accepted drinks and second helpings and Jack had shown each of them his solar system three times, you stood in the kitchen with Emily and Garcia as they washed dishes by hand.
Garcia dried a plate and gave you a side-eye. “So. Be honest. You cook, you clean, and you co-parent. But do you also bake?”
You laughed. “Sundays. Banana bread. Family tradition!”
Garcia made a strangled noise and collapsed into Emily’s side.
Emily just smirked. “You know you’ve ruined her, right?”
Across the room, Aaron stood with Morgan and Rossi, a glass of red wine in one hand and his other still resting lightly on Jack’s shoulder as the boy excitedly explained the rings of Saturn.
“He’s good with him,” Emily said, nodding at Jack.
You looked. Watched the way Aaron leaned in just enough to listen, the way his eyes crinkled when Jack said something silly.
“He’s better with him,” you said. “Not just good. Better than he was when he was alone.”
Garcia bumped your shoulder. “So are you gonna make it official or what? Rings? Vows? Doves?”
You grinned. “..Eventually. But for now? We’re good like this.”
The next morning at Quantico, Morgan stepped into Hotch’s office with a coffee and zero shame.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the chair across from the desk. “So. Mystery solved.”
Hotch raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to make this awkward, are you?”
Morgan grinned. “Absolutely I am.”
Hotch sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “What do you want to know?”
Morgan leaned forward. “You love him?”
Hotch didn’t even blink. “Yes.”
Morgan nodded, then held up the coffee like a toast.
When you're about to have sex with spencer reid but he starts crying because the last time someone saw him naked was when he was tied up on the flagpole when he was a kid, being viciously laughed at by his classmates, and now he feels so much love in your touch, and the experiences are so different. 🥹
His body was soft, warm, pliable, as you easily bent him this way and that, maneuvering him.. and he lets you.
You can’t keep your hands or mouth off of him, fingers wandering down his clothed chest and soft thighs. He turns his head, pleading for a kiss, and you oblige.
Spencer feels your mouth attach to his neck. Nnngh.. Good.. so good.
He feels your hands pull him closer, drifting down his lanky form. He compares himself to a baby deer for a moment, finding its legs for the first time, all wide brown eyes and limbs that never quite seem to know where they're supposed to go. It wouldn't take much for him to fold in on himself.
He freezes as your hands move to his belt, slowly undressing him bit by bit. The buckles rings metalically as it hits the floor. Then, up, over his arms goes his sweater, then his shirt. You gently rake a nail down the thin expanse of his torso, purring in his ear.
His mind drags him backward, to rough hands that weren't kind, to autumn air that bit at bare skin, to laughter that seemed to echo forever across an empty football field. He remembers the scratch of the rope against his wrists, the unbearable awareness of every inch of exposed skin, the humiliation settling so deep it felt like it had seeped into his bones. He remembers waiting, counting breaths, listening for footsteps, until he was sure everyone had gone before daring to free himself.
His mind is screaming, not again. He can't have this happen again.
His heart knows better now.
It knows the difference between being exposed, and being seen.
It knows this touch asks instead of takes. That these hands would stop the instant he asked. That home can feel like another person's quiet patience.
Tears prick at his eyes as the two memories collide. Once, he had been left trembling beneath a grey sky while strangers laughed.
You pull away to kiss the tears you feel with his face pressing against your own, and he bites your lips in retaliation.
Now, he stands wrapped in warmth, held with a tenderness he'd never imagined was possible.
idk domestic Hotch x reader (like the Just Some Guy (in hotch’s kitchen)) but this time Hotch is stressed more than usual because reader is sick or like had an operation, accident, something akin to that and Hotch just wants to go home to them and take care of them but cases keep getting in the way so when someone on the team corners Hotch on why he’s so stressed and on his phone all the time they end up sending him home to take care of poor reader?
maybe Jack trying to be helpful by reading to reader or telling Aaron not to worry because he can just cook and make tea or something?
A Body in the Bed, A Man at the Door
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader
Word Count: 2.1k+
DNI: All are Welcome!
Author's Note: This request is like thirty days late im so sooo sorryyy, this is such a good idea though, Jack is so adorable.
For this I've made it so reader has had a surgery of some kind to help deal with their chronic pain. I've never had to deal with it personally, so I apologise if any of the details are unrealistic :)) This mainly follows Hotch and his feelings about 'leaving you behind', though.
As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ＼(^o^)／
Suit crisp. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared like always.
But underneath—fractured. Thin. Stretching himself across too many battlefields. Who else could it be but Aaron Hotchner?
His phone vibrated. Again. Did it actually?
He barely glanced at it this time—just a quick flick of his thumb across the screen. Nothing urgent. No missed calls. No medical alerts. No frantic texts from Jack.
Still. He stared for one second too long. His reflection ghosted back at him in the black screen. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
They’re home. In pain. And I’m doing nothing.
It had been that way since the surgery. The one that was supposed to help. To relieve some of the agony. The nerve pain, the mobility issues, the exhausting battle you fought every day just to exist without screaming. Hotch had done the research, stayed up nights reading medical papers with a highlighter and a stiff drink in hand. He knew the risks. The long recovery. The odds that it might help—but never cure.
And now you were home, post-op, battered and nauseous and hurting in ways that made your eyes dull and your smile ghost-thin. Trying not to cry when you shifted in bed. Trying to act like it was okay that he couldn’t stay.
“You need to go,” you’d told him, hoarse, hours after you’d been discharged. “They need you.”
The same refrain. The one that used to comfort him.
Now it just felt like another nail.
He hadn’t responded—just kissed your forehead, tucked the blanket around your legs, and stood in the hallway longer than necessary, coat clenched in his fist.
Now he was here. Back in the bullpen. Working a case that wouldn’t crack. Watching minutes tick by like they were knives.
Garcia strolled in with her usual glittery confidence, heels clacking cheerfully against tile. “Okay, my crime-solving cupcakes, I’ve got a match on our weird-face man from the gas station. Not a squirrel, tragically, but definitely a nut. I’ll take what I can get.”
No one laughed.
Hotch barely looked up. “Garcia.”
Her name came out like a reprimand. Terse. Impatient. She froze mid-step, faltering just enough for Rossi to glance up from his file.
“…Okay then,” Garcia muttered, retreating toward her screens like a cat with its tail stepped on.
Spencer, trying to soften the air, offered a stat. “Given the spatial distribution of the crime scenes, we might be looking at a comfort zone model—if we overlay a standard deviation grid, we can triangulate—”
“Not now,” Hotch interrupted, snapping the folder shut with unnecessary force.
Reid blinked. His fingers stilled. He said nothing else.
I’m supposed to be calm. In control. The voice in the storm.
But they’re lying in bed right now, unable to even make tea without Jack’s help, and I’m thirty miles away trying to profile a sadist instead of being what they need.
Hotch sat down too hard in his chair. The sudden creak echoed.
Emily narrowed her eyes at him. Her hands stilled on the case file, watching him like she’d been waiting for this moment.
Garcia glanced at her, eyebrows raised. Reid glanced between them, sensing the tension but not quite sure how to name it.
Rossi leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. “You’re not yourself,” he said quietly.
Hotch didn’t answer. He rubbed a hand over his face, then down his jaw. He could feel the pressure building behind his temples—another headache on the horizon.
They’re home. Drugged up on post-op pain meds. Hurting. Alone. And I left them with a list of instructions and a kiss on the forehead like that made up for the fact that they can’t even get out of bed without wincing.
God.
His phone buzzed again. This time, real. A text from Jack.
Reader’s sleepy. I gave them the tea you made. Can I heat up the soup?
PS. I think I’m a nurse now. :)
Hotch’s eyes burned. He looked away.
“Aaron,” Rossi said, stepping close, lowering his voice, “Strauss asked for a signature on that personnel realignment thing. Some admin nonsense. Thought you’d want to handle it personally.”
Hotch barely looked up. “That thing from last month?”
“Apparently she wants a new copy for the records. You know Strauss—every paper trail’s a ten-mile hike.”
Hotch sighed like he had knives under his ribs and stood without another word. Paperwork, at least, he could deal with. Something concrete. Something that didn’t feel like failing.
He followed Rossi down the hall, ignoring how Prentiss glanced up from her desk with something almost like relief in her eyes.
The office door shut behind them with a soft click.
Rossi didn’t go for the file cabinet. Didn’t pull out anything from his briefcase.
Instead, he turned, took one long look at Hotch’s face—the creases deeper than usual, the skin under his eyes grey with exhaustion—and motioned toward the office couch.
“Sit down.”
Hotch’s brows knit. “What?”
“Sit,” Rossi repeated, this time gentler. Less commanding. Like he wasn’t asking as a colleague.
Like he was asking as a friend. As family.
Hotch hesitated. Then, slowly, he sat. The cushion dipped beneath him like it was waiting for this moment.
Rossi took the chair across from him, hands steepled, elbows on his knees.
“There’s no paperwork,” he said plainly. “Strauss doesn’t need anything.”
Hotch’s jaw flexed. A quiet beat passed.
“…You lied to get me in here.”
“I did.” Rossi leaned forward slightly, voice calm. “Because if I’d said this out there, in front of the others, you would’ve locked it down. Shut me out. And this conversation needs to happen.”
Hotch looked away, fingers curling against his knee.
Rossi didn’t push yet. Just watched. Waited. He’d known Aaron long enough to recognize when the armor was cracking, even if Aaron hadn’t yet.
“I’ve known them for, what—five years now?” Rossi started softly. “Since the wedding. Hell, even before that. You remember the dinner party? They were walking with a cane, barely out of a flare-up, and still insisted on helping clean the dishes afterward.”
Hotch’s lip twitched. A breath almost turned into a laugh. Didn’t make it.
“They’re strong,” Rossi said. “Too strong for their own good sometimes. Just like you.”
Silence.
Hotch rubbed a hand over his face, then down the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle like he could squeeze the tension out.
“They told me to go,” he muttered. “They always tell me to go.”
“Of course they do,” Rossi said. “Because they know how much this means to you. But come on, Aaron. You really think they want to be alone right now?”
Hotch didn’t answer.
Rossi went on. “They’re recovering from surgery. You said the pain’s been worse than expected. You’ve been checking your phone like you’re waiting for a call from God. You haven’t slept. You’re making mistakes.”
Hotch’s voice was tight when he finally spoke again. “I just… I hate not being able to fix it. I hate that I left them there like that.”
“And you think staying here, running yourself into the ground, is going to help?” Rossi’s voice was soft, but firm now. “You’re no use to this case like this. You’re not helping them. You’re not helping us. And you’re definitely not helping yourself.”
A long silence.
Hotch stared at the floor. Then the edge of his desk. Then the couch cushion beneath his hands.
Finally, he looked up. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Voice small.
“What if something happens while I’m gone?”
Rossi stood. Walked over. Placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Then you’ll be there,” he said. “Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Hotch didn’t move for a long time. But when he stood, it was quieter. Less brittle.
And when he left the office—coat in hand, phone already buzzing—he walked just a little faster.
The house was quiet when Hotch stepped inside. Not silent—there was a faint hum of something bubbling on the stove, and he could hear the soft murmur of a child’s voice drifting from the living room—but it was the kind of quiet that pressed on your ribs. Like the whole place was holding its breath.
He hung up his coat and dropped his keys onto the entryway table, already loosening his tie. His chest felt too tight, like he hadn’t taken a full breath in days. Maybe weeks.
The living room light was low—sun filtering in through slatted blinds, warm and gold across the floor. You were curled up on the couch in oversized sweats, two pillows under your knees, a blanket haphazardly wrapped around your shoulders like armor.
Pale. Tired. Eyes glassy with the dull sheen of leftover painkillers. But trying—God, you were trying—to look okay.
You even smiled when you saw him. Small. A little lopsided. But it hit him in the chest like a freight train.
“Hey,” you rasped, voice raw from sleep or pain or both. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early.”
“I wasn’t,” Hotch said softly, eyes already misting. “But I came anyway.”
Before you could answer, Jack’s voice came from the kitchen: “Wait! Don’t sit yet! The soup’s almost ready!”
Hotch blinked, startled, as Jack—armed with a wooden spoon and a very stained oven mitt—peeked out from around the corner.
“I made it myself,” Jack said proudly. “Well, kind of. I had to Google what bay leaves look like.”
Reader chuckled—then winced, hand ghosting toward your side. The movement was small, but Hotch saw it. And it shattered him.
He crossed the room in two long strides and knelt beside you. His hands found your face gently, cradling your cheeks as if he thought you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.
“I should’ve come home sooner,” he whispered.
You leaned into his palm, fingers resting lightly over his wrist. Your eyes fluttered half-closed.
“But you’re here now,” you murmured.
And that was enough.
Hotch pressed his forehead to yours, just breathing you in, grounding himself in the smell of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin.
“Soup’s ready!” Jack announced from the kitchen, carrying the bowl like a sacred object. He beamed. “It’s only a little crunchy.”
Hotch pulled back just enough to give him a small smile. “That sounds… perfect.”
Jack placed it on the coffee table beside the tea he’d already brewed—lukewarm, probably over-steeped, but lovingly prepared.
Hotch sat beside you, arm around your shoulders, tucking the blanket more securely around you as he helped guide the tea to your lips. He brushed your hair back behind your ear with the same hand, fingertips feather-light.
You leaned against him, finally letting your body relax.
“Jack’s been reading to me,” you mumbled sleepily.
Jack perked up. “Yeah! I picked your favorite. The one with the lighthouse.” He retrieved the book from the armrest and held it up proudly. “I think it helps.”
Hotch’s throat caught again. He nodded. “Why don’t you start from where you left off?”
Jack did. He perched at the end of the couch, reading aloud with a kind of deliberate concentration that made Hotch’s chest ache. You blinked slowly, slipping in and out of consciousness, your hand tucked into Hotch’s like it belonged there.
When your breathing evened out and the book slid gently from Jack’s hands to the cushion, Hotch pressed a soft kiss to your temple and whispered, “Rest. We’ve got you.”
You didn’t answer, but your hand tightened just a little in his.
Later, in the kitchen, Jack stood on a stool washing a pot that still had traces of scorched something clinging to its sides.
Hotch leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him.
“I told them not to worry,” Jack said quietly, without turning around. “I said we got this.”
Hotch swallowed. His voice was rough with emotion. “You did good, buddy.”
Jack turned, eyes uncertain but proud. “You’re not mad I tried to cook?”
Hotch stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, one hand cradling the back of Jack’s head. He held him there for a long moment.
“I’m not mad. You’re the best nurse anyone could ask for.”
Jack beamed into his chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They stood like that in the kitchen’s golden hush.
And when Hotch finally went back to the living room and sat down beside you again—blanket still warm, tea still unfinished—he let his hand rest over yours.
You stirred slightly. Eyes fluttered.
“Hey,” you whispered, voice like velvet through fog.
so i know you did some tech assistance reader before, and like (i’m rewatching rn) in season 6, or well, just after jj leaves, when Garcia does the liaison work and stuff, imagine
Hotch x reader, preferably male but gender neutral works for me as well :)
like, imagine Hotch is like “Garcia, we need you here” and everybody’s like “who’s going to get everything else taken care of, then?” and then Hotch, already calling reader, goes “i know a guy” and it’s his not so secret anymore boyfriend who works in cyber security with the FBI and has helped garcia before but only in the background and reader’s mostly the opposite of garcia on the outside, more like, dark academia vibes but really he’s just a silly nerdy guy whom Hotch met when running or something?
He Knows a Guy (..Ominous?)
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader
Word Count: 1.4k+
DNI: Fem-aligned
Author's Note: In my defence your honour, he's just a silly little guy. I do think I wrote that reader wears glasses in this, but you can imagine them as either seeing glasses or blue light glasses to protect your eyes from all the screens you use you little nerd. (T⌓T)
We will be ignoring the fact it took me about a month to write this.. ☝️As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧
The click-clack of Garcia’s manic typing was the loudest sound in the room, sharp and staccato, like a warning signal in Morse.
“I’m doing the work of five people,” Garcia snapped, her voice rising like a pressure valve under strain. She spun between keyboards and screens like a hacker caught in a hurricane—cheetah-print sleeves a blur. “And two of them don’t sleep!”
Reid lingered behind her, brow furrowed and lips parted like he wanted to help but hadn’t quite figured out how without accidentally breaking something. Morgan stood nearby, arms folded tight, weight shifting from one boot to the other like he was ready to jump into a fight—but had no idea who to punch.
Garcia let out a strangled sound—half sob, half war cry—and threw her hands up.
“Damn it!” she barked, chest heaving. “I miss JJ because I love her—but also because how did she do all this liaison work without catching fire?! I’ve got surveillance tags to scrub, and the facial recognition server is acting like a drunk Roomba with commitment issues!”
Reid opened his mouth, probably to explain that Roombas don’t get drunk. But before he could get a word out, Hotch’s voice cut through the room.
“Garcia.”
He stepped out of his office like the calm in the storm—dark suit sharp, expression unreadable. His tone was low and even, but it had that steel-threaded quality that snapped people to attention.
“We need you in the field.”
Garcia whirled in her chair, eyes wide like he’d just suggested she moonlight as a mime.
“In person?!” she gasped. “No. No! Aaron, sweet Hotchmallow, physically going places is your job. I am the Oracle of Quantico. I am remotely hot. You can’t just— send me places!”
She jabbed toward the screens as if they were her children. “Who’s gonna keep all this running? The comms, the satellite feeds, the report server that thinks it’s 2002? Who’s going to wrangle the murder-database when it tries to unionize?! Who’s going to get everything else taken care of, then?”
Hotch was already pulling his phone from his coat pocket, thumb poised to dial.
“I know a guy.”
A silence fell. Morgan blinked. Reid tilted his head.
Emily murmured, “That’s either very comforting or extremely ominous.”
A man stepped through the checkpoint, rain still drying on the shoulders of his long, charcoal coat. It clung to him in that cinematic way where you couldn’t tell if he belonged in a boardroom or a gothic thriller. He moved with a casual purpose, like someone who knew exactly where he was going—and had gotten there before.
The badge flashed smoothly from his inside pocket.
“Special Consultant,” the guard read. “Cyber Division. Clearance: Top Secret.”
The man's build was half-hidden beneath layers of dark greys and soft navy. His sweater was threadbare at the cuffs, blazer slightly rumpled like he’d pulled it from a desk chair on his way out. Wire-rimmed glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose, framing eyes still soft with sleep. His hair—unruly, and slightly damp—looked like it had lost a battle with the wind.
He smiled, wide and a little lopsided. “Thanks. I know the way.”
Garcia’s cave glowed in a soft rainbow hue—string lights, lava lamp, four screens angled like an altar. The clack of keys filled the space… until it didn’t.
She froze. Mid-type. Mid-breath. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard like she’d just spotted a ghost.
Her gaze lifted. Narrowed.
“You,” she said slowly, with the reverence and suspicion of someone confronting a mythical beast.
You gave her a lazy wave, already sliding into the chair beside hers like you’d been summoned from some secret federal batcave. Your voice was low and friendly, tinged with amusement.
“Hey, Penelope. Long time.”
She stabbed a manicured finger toward your chest.
“You’re him.”
You blinked innocently. “Probably.”
“The one who patched the DNS exploit from your phone while allegedly off-grid?”
“In my defense,” you said, crossing one leg over the other and pulling your laptop from your bag, “the market was boring. And I couldn’t find decent strawberries.”
Garcia leaned back slowly, horror and admiration wrestling for dominance. “You’re—digital Batman. I thought you were a myth. Like a ghost in the Wi-Fi. A cryptid sent to haunt corrupted logs with elegantly written syntax.”
You booted up your machine. Two keystrokes and your system synced seamlessly with hers. “I do try to stay off the grid. Also—” You pulled out a small bag and slid it over. “Gummy bears. And chocolate-covered espresso beans. I come in peace.”
She gasped, snatching the bag like it was sacred treasure. “You do understand me.”
Across the bullpen, the rest of the team stared like a meteor had landed on Garcia’s keyboard.
Hotch reappeared in the doorway, hands behind his back. “He’ll assist while you’re in the field.”
Morgan frowned. “You know him?”
Hotch didn’t even blink. “You’ve all worked with him before. You just didn’t know it.”
Rossi raised an eyebrow over the rim of his coffee. “You really know him, don’t you?”
Emily leaned in to Reid. “Ten bucks says they’re dating.”
Garcia’s eyes suddenly widened like she’d just connected the final line of red string on a murder board. “Oh my God. You’re the guy. The one he mentioned in Denver! The mysterious ‘consultant’ who ‘doesn’t like crowds’ but sends him Excel macros that make the after-action reports sort themselves!”
Hotch didn’t move. “He's okay,” he said, dry and unapologetic. “Because he’s efficient.”
You glanced up, grinning. “Efficient, house-trained, and I alphabetize the spice rack. He’s spoiled and he knows it.”
Garcia made an inhuman noise and chucked a plush octopus at Hotch’s chest. “You’re dating a federal cryptid!”
Reid was already edging closer, eyes alight. “Wait—did you rewrite the entire D.C. Municipal database backend last August?”
You perked up. “Yes! You actually read that?”
Reid looked thrilled. “That recursive structure—beautiful. It handled dynamic queries like—like it was alive.”
“Thank you!” you beamed. “It was supposed to be semi-intuitive. Like predictive logic, but cozy.”
By now, the team had fully swarmed. Emily dropped into the chair across from you like she was settling in for storytime. Reid had a notebook in his hands. Garcia was already pulling up server logs labeled things like “Mystery Wizard??” and “Possibly Supernatural???”
You caught Hotch’s gaze across the room. Amid all the chaos, his expression softened, barely—but it was there. The corner of his mouth lifted, the tiniest ghost of a smile just for you.
IM THE ANON WHO ASKED FOR THE LAST SPENCER REID FIC !!! IT WAS SO GOODDDD OMLLLLLLL I LOVE YOUR WRITITNG AAHSAGDADHH
im come back with new male reader ideas....because i love him sososoos much
reader fucking him HAAARRDDDD last night, even tho they have work the next day together. and like the next day at work hes limping but trying to cover it up but its REALLY obvious, just nobody has brought it up. Morgan notices...because of course he does and is like "lmao why is pretty boy limping" then sees reader walking past with a knowing smirk and spencer looks away with shame and morgan connects the dots like "oh....ohhhhhh...OHHHH"
😼😼😼😼
From Bedroom to Bullpen
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader
Word count: 1.5k+
DNI: Fem Aligned and Minors
Author's note: This is Part 2 of Freud Would Have a Field Day.
I'm genuinely loving this story so much, I'm so happy someone asked for a sequel, I'm so happy you enjoy the last one as well!! (,,> ᴗ <,,)
This is actually very similar to one of my older works, so here's the link to that if you want it! He wasn't beaten up I swear. (You can really tell how much my writing has changed (aka improved), lol.. ( ˇ෴ˇ ))
Still, as always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ( ˘ ³˘)♥
The alarm blared at 6:15, but Spencer barely registered the sound through the thick fog clouding his mind and body.
Moving felt like a monumental task; every muscle twinged with a dull ache that echoed the night before. As he shifted carefully beneath the sheets, his fingers brushed against faint, tender scratches trailing across his chest, and the lingering tenderness on his hips reminded him of how thoroughly he’d been claimed.
The sensations were as painful as they were intoxicating.
He turned slowly toward you, sunlight streaming in and gilding the sheets sliding down your chest. Your bright, infuriatingly cheerful smile made him glare weakly, unable to fathom how you could look so effortlessly put together when he felt as though a truck had run him over.
Why did I let him do that again?
The question danced uncomfortably in his mind, immediately followed by a shivering recall.
Oh, right. Because it felt amazing.
He groaned softly, burying his face deeper into the pillow just as you stretched and teased, “Rise and shine, genius.” Your voice was infuriatingly cheerful as you stretched, sunlight gilding the sheets sliding off your chest. The smug satisfaction on your face made his blush burn deeper.
Spencer rolled over, eyelids heavy, his expression wry. “I can’t move,” he croaked.
You couldn’t help the warm chuckle as you leaned in to kiss his swollen lips. “You moved plenty last night.”
Heat crept up Spencer’s neck. In his mind, your commands echoed—
"Take it, Reid. I want to ruin you."
He shivered, thighs instinctively clenching. His groan was swallowed by the pillow.
“We’ve got work,” you hummed, patting his hip before striding—far too energetically—out of bed.
Dragging himself upright felt like an Olympic feat. He gingerly shuffled to the bathroom, avoiding your gaze in the mirror, careful not to reveal his flushed cheeks or the sting between his legs—a secret souvenir of your fierce night together. Gripping the sink, he fumbled with his toothbrush, only to nearly drop it as another memory overtook him:
“Louder, Spencer. I want the whole damn neighborhood to know who’s making you cum.”
Toothpaste foamed down his chin at the thought. You noticed immediately, smiling as you rinsed your razor. “You’re blushing. What’re you thinking?”
Spencer’s mind spun and, true to form, clung desperately to trivia to process the overload. “Did you know—uh, brushing your teeth for two minutes removes about 100 million bacteria?” he blurted, scrubbing fiercely until his cheeks burned for an entirely different reason.
"And, um, actually, the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss—statistically speaking—uh, except for the risk of mono, but…”
You laugh, cutting him off with a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, and his face grows even redder.
In the kitchen, he sat at the table, back ramrod straight, trying to focus as you set a fresh coffee in front of him, your fingers brushing his. He tenses a little, face coloring.
"Statistically, regular physical affection lowers stress hormones," he rambles, too fast. "So you’re, uh, improving my health."
You nudge him, grinning. "Want to list more benefits or just want another kiss?"
You ruffle his already messy hair before laughing and padding around brewing a second cup. Spencer, pretending calm, risked a glance at your torso…and promptly recalled how your hand had pinned his wrists to the headboard.
“Good boy. Keep them there or I’ll tie them myself.”
He made a strangled sound into his mug.
You grinned slyly. “You good?”
“H-Hot,” he stammered. “…The coffee’s hot.” How.. unconvincing.
You pressed a kiss to his temple. “Sure it is, sweetheart.”
“Coffee is actually the second most traded commodity on earth, after oil—”
“Spencer, you’re adorable, but you still have toothpaste on your chin.”
Getting dressed became a Herculean feat. Every motion tugged at bruised hips, the ache a private badge of ownership. In the mirror, the faint marks littering his throat and that dazed, blissful look brought a dizzy wave of happiness, embarrassment, and longing all at once. He tugged his tie much too tight and coughed for air.
You stepped behind him, deftly loosening and straightening it. “You’re distracted,” you murmured, fingers brushing his nape. “Something on your mind?”
Spencer’s face heated. “Just…statistics. Did you know the average tie is tied incorrectly seven out of ten times?” he rushed out.
You only smiled, pressing a fluttering kiss to his cheek. “Sure, baby. Whatever you say.”
Spencer thought he’d hidden it well.
He really did.
Straightened posture, carefully measured steps, a hand ghosting at his hip like it was just the weight of his satchel, not the very real ache radiating through him. He even told himself if he didn’t think about how thoroughly you’d fucked him into the mattress last night, no one else would notice.
Unfortunately, Derek Morgan exists.
The bullpen hummed with morning chatter when Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as Spencer hobbled past with his coffee. “Uh-huh,” he drawled, smirk curling like a shark scenting blood, “Why’s Pretty Boy walking like he just rode a mechanical bull all weekend?”
Spencer nearly choked on his sip. Ears blazing red, he sputtered, “I—I’m not—there’s nothing wrong with the way I walk!” His voice cracked halfway through, making it painfully unconvincing.
Emily glanced up with a raised eyebrow, but went back to her files, while JJ pressed her lips together, clearly holding back laughter. The air was thick with restrained amusement.
Morgan smirked wider, but just as he opened his mouth for another jab, Spencer—a little desperate—launched nervously into a ramble, a classic Reid coping mechanism:
“Did you know that walking gait can reflect emotional state? Studies show people under stress tend to have shortened stride length and altered cadence, which can be mistaken for discomfort or injury—um, not that I’m injured or anything, just—statistically speaking—”
Morgan raised an amused brow. “Dude. Save it for the briefing.”
Spencer flushed deeper but managed a sheepish smile.
And then, just as if the universe was eager to embarrass him further, you appeared beside him. Without warning, your hand landed firmly on his ass with a sharp swat. Spencer stiffened, a jolt of surprise and heat racing through him as you laughed softly.
“Oh, that good, huh?” you teased, your voice low and confident. You didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, you kept walking forward, to his desk, reveling in every inch of Spencer’s flustered reaction.
Morgan’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight as he followed your gaze, then caught Spencer desperately trying to avoid looking at you. The pieces fell together in glorious, cinematic clarity.
“Oh,” Morgan breathed. Then louder: “Ohhhhhh.” His grin stretched wide as he slapped the desk. “OHHHHH. Our boy genius got wrecked!"
Spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t.”
“Oh no, kid, it’s too late.” Morgan’s laugh boomed across the bullpen. “Your secret’s out.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you as you passed by, flashing a knowing smirk that nearly made Spencer disappear through the floor.
“Derek,” Hotch’s sharp voice cut from his office doorway, steel lacing his tone.
Morgan straightened instantly, clearing his throat. “Just… noting that Pretty Boy needs a new desk chair. Ergonomics, you know?”
Hotch’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing, retreating into his office.
Morgan leaned back, smug as ever. “Don’t worry, Reid. Your secret’s safe with me.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Then, laughing, he gave Spencer a firm pat on the back. Spencer winced at the sudden pressure on his bruises. “Sorry, man,” Morgan said, still chuckling, “but you had that coming.” His grin softened as he added, “You and him have been pining for each other forever. About time, huh?”
Spencer groaned louder, muttering into his hands, “I hate all of you.”
You didn’t miss the chance to murmur low as you passed his desk, just for him: “Better get used to it, sweetheart. You’ll be walking like that more often.”
The choked noise Spencer made was pitifully unconvincing, and Morgan’s triumphant smirk was the last thing he saw before he plunged into another day of work, and inevitable teasing.
more dom! male reader x early seasons spencer reid my greedy demons scream!! MOREEEE
but being fr i love your work, and specifically your spencer reid fics, you're feeding the male spencer reid fans who wanna rail that man !!
Freud Would Have a Field Day
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader
Word count: 3.5k+
DNI: Minors and Fem Aligned
Author's Note: This is Part 1 to From Bedroom to Bullpen.
I, quite frankily, had no idea i could write this much, especially after being gone for like almost a month, but here I am!! It's either my work ethic or my insanity and somehow I think it's both.
I was low-key creaming in my pants writing this shhhhhh.. (￢_￢)
as always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ( ˘ ³˘)♥
You’ve always been rather confident, never second guessing your words or the way you fill a room. That’s why the little—well, maybe little isn’t accurate; the guy is all long legs and awkward angles—intern who always hovers in the corner instantly stood out to you.
He’s Spencer Reid, but you didn’t know that at first. What caught your attention was the way his gaze would flick reflexively toward you, then away, as though caught between curiosity and embarrassment. Every time your paths crossed, he’d fumble with his files or run a nervous hand through his hair, cheeks reddening as you met his eyes for the briefest of moments before he retreated into the safety of paperwork.
You let him watch for a while. It’s kind of endearing—the way he acts so shy when he thinks you aren’t looking. But you’re not the type to tiptoe around, so one afternoon you find the perfect opportunity: the break room, empty except for him, fussing with the coffee machine. You step in, cornering him gently, and watch as his fingers freeze mid-pour, wide hazel eyes locking with yours.
That’s how you come to know Spencer Reid: the tall, brilliant, impossibly awkward intern who can’t seem to look at you without blushing—and who, despite all his genius, is as easy to fluster as anyone you’ve ever met.
Years at the BAU have made you a master at picking up patterns, but even you’re surprised by how oblivious Spencer is to your nearly constant, pointed flirting. You’re known for being bold—a little too bold, maybe—but clearly, subtlety is lost on Reid. He smiles awkwardly at your compliments, goes bright red when you brush your hand against his, and stammers his way through every interaction with you. Yet, oddly enough, never pushes you away.
It goes on for years. You expect one day he’ll catch on, or at least stammer out a flustered question about your intentions, but each attempt at escalation is met with the same bashful confusion. Eventually, you snap.
Just like that first time years ago, you corner him in the break room. He’s reaching for coffee, utterly unprepared for the way you step into his space, crowding him until his back presses against the counter. Your arms cage him in, and his fingers freeze around the mug.
“Reid,” you say, voice low, “I don’t know if you’re just dense or if you genuinely think I flirt like this with everyone. But for years, I’ve been dropping every hint short of outright writing it on your forehead.”
He swallows, wide-eyed, breath hitching as your hand settles at his waist, thumb brushing the band of his slacks. “W-what do you mean?” he manages, voice barely above a whisper.
You lean in, lips right by his ear. “I mean,” you growl, frustration and desire bleeding through, “I’ve been wanting you for ages. I want to fuck you. And I’ve been waiting for you to give me a sign, or do I need to spell it out for you?"
You stare at him for a beat, then snort. “Jesus Christ, Spencer. Next time I’ll bring a PowerPoint. Bullet points. Pie chart. Maybe some Freud quotes in Comic Sans.”
His cheeks are flushed, mouth slightly parted in shock, and you can feel the tremor in his hands as he clutches the counter behind him. But there’s a spark in his eyes—a curious, nervous, desperate spark—that tells you maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop pretending he doesn’t notice you.
Spencer gulps, mind racing and heart pounding. In truth, it isn’t that he’s missed your flirting—he’s a profiler, after all, and he’s analyzed every look, every teasing remark, every lingering touch over the years. But the idea that someone like you—older, confident, put-together, ..sexy—could want him? His own self-doubt was always louder than the evidence.
“Oh.” The word slips out before he can stop it, awkward and faint. “Okay…” He pauses, eyes glued to the floor, face blazing red. Gathering his courage and voice, he mumbles, “Just… just not here, okay? Maybe somewhere more… private, and preferably not in our workplace…” he lets out a small awkward laugh. "Unless you want the entire BAU staff to witness—uh—what Freud might call a live enactment of repression theory.” He freezes. His mouth shuts. His eyes widen in horror.
He dares a glance your way, still trembling, but there’s determination in his voice, too—a quiet plea not to let this chance pass him by. Even as nerves tie him in knots, he’s finally giving you the answer you’ve waited so long to hear: yes, he wants you, too.
You growl lowly, your breath hitching as you press more insistently into his slight frame, making sure he can feel your arousal against him. Your voice drops to a teasing growl, sharp and commanding. "Tomorrow night, you're coming home with me after work. I think we both need to… destress a little, don't you?"
Your eyes lock onto his, dark and unblinking, leaving no room for argument. Your hand slides up his side, fingers ghosting just beneath his shirt, a promise of what’s to come. You sense the tension coil in him, the familiar mixture of nerves and anticipation sparking behind his flushed cheeks.
Spencer’s mind whirls, caught somewhere between sheer astonishment and yearning. For all his intelligence and analytical mind, this moment slips past his careful calculations, and he finds himself unable to find words, only a breathy nod.
"You don’t have to say anything," you whisper, a slow smirk curving your lips, "just be ready."
The weight of your presence, the promise in your voice—it's more than enough for him to understand. Tomorrow night, when the doors close behind you both, all the waiting, wondering, and pretending will finally come undone. And you’ll both finally give in to the tension that's been building for years
Spencer sags against the counter, his knees suddenly weak as he watches you exit the break room with a newfound spring in your step. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his racing heart and frazzled nerves. What just happened? Did that really happen? He's not sure whether to be terrified or thrilled at the prospect of tomorrow night. But one thing is for certain - he won't be able to focus on anything else until then.
The next day drags on endlessly for Spencer, his usual sharp mind crowded with restless thoughts and nervous anticipation. Every task feels twice as difficult as he wrestles with his swirling emotions. What will happen tonight? What exactly are you planning? The teasing growl earlier, your commanding hold in the break room, the electric charge of your closeness—his mind replays every detail, every word like a loop, making his heart race.
He wonders what it'll be like, what you intend to do with him behind closed doors, away from the watchful eyes of the BAU. Will you take control? Will it be overwhelming? The thought wraps around his nerves like a tight coil but also ignites a fragile, thrilling hope. He imagines your hands exploring him, your touch bold and sure, the promise of something he's never dared to ask for but desperately craves.
By the time the last case of the day ends, Spencer is on the edge, his usual cautious nature giving way to a jittery excitement. As you lead him to your car, he climbs in quietly, the silence between you not awkward but potent, filled with unspoken tension. His hands grip the door handle, knuckles pale, as his eyes flick to you briefly, searching for clues in your steady composure.
He keeps questioning himself silently: Have I prepared enough? Am I ready? But deep down, Spencer knows this night will change everything—because for once, he’s not just the brilliant, awkward profiler; he’s something more, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. And then, all he can do is wait for your car to pull away from the precinct, driving him into the unknown that feels strangely like home.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind you when you arrive home, you don’t give him a moment to breathe. With a decisive shove, you slam Spencer against the door, your body pressing hard against his. Your lips crash onto his in a heated storm—urgent, demanding, and completely unrelenting. You kiss him senseless, hands tangling in his hair as your mouths mold together with fierce passion.
you pull back just long enough to mutter against his swollen mouth, “Careful, genius. If you pass out, I’m not performing CPR in the middle of round one.”
His eyes flutter open, glassy with desire, but he still manages to mumble, “Technically… mouth-to-mouth resuscitation isn’t the preferred method anymore. Modern CPR guidelines emphasize—”
You cut him off with another kiss, smirking into it. “God, you’re lucky you’re pretty.”
The slow grind of your hips against his sends jolts of electricity through his body, his own arousal growing with each purposeful roll. He can feel the evidence of your desire pressing insistently against him, and it makes his head spin with want.
When your lips leave his jaw to focus on the column of his throat, Spencer tilts his head back instinctively, a low moan catching in his throat. His pulse races beneath your lips, the skin there growing hot and flushed as you mark him, claim him, make him yours. His fingers curl tighter, nails digging into your shoulders as he fights the urge to beg you for more.
Panting harshly, Spencer finally breaks the kiss, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. "I… I don't know if I can wait," he confesses, his voice strained with pent-up desire. "I want you. Now."
He sounds almost desperate, his usual shy hesitation replaced by a raw, aching need. It's clear that his body is screaming for your touch, craving more of the pleasure you've been teasing him with for so long.
His words send a thrill down your spine, spurring you on as your hands continue their bold exploration of his body. You tug impatiently at his shirt, practically ripping it open in your haste to feel more of his skin against yours. Buttons fly everywhere as you expose his lean chest, your palms skimming over the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch.
"Fuck, Spencer," you groan, ducking your head to press open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone and down to his pecs. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've dreamed of having you like this."
Spencer's fingers thread through your hair, holding you to him as he arches into your touch, a litany of breathless moans and whimpers falling from his lips. You can feel his heart pounding wildly against your mouth, his skin flushed and hot with desire. It's intoxicating, knowing that you've reduced this brilliant, put-together man to a trembling, needy mess.
With a growl, you hook your hands under his thighs and lift him up, encouraging him to wrap those long, toned legs around your waist. Spencer hesitates for only a moment before complying, his legs locking around you as you press him back against the door. The new angle allows you to grind harder against him, the thick ridge of your arousal nestling perfectly against his own straining erection.
You capture his mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing his cries of pleasure as your hips undulate against his, creating a delicious friction that has you both panting into the kiss. One hand slides down to palm him through his slacks, feeling the sizeable bulge that's been teasing you for months. You squeeze and stroke him through the fabric until he's writhing against you, his hips bucking desperately into your touch.
"Please," he gasps out, breaking the kiss to stare at you with hazy, lust-darkened eyes. "Please, I need… I need…"
He can't seem to finish the thought, too lost in sensation to put words to his desire. But you understand all the same, your own arousal throbbing almost painfully in your pants. With a grunt, you tear at the fastenings of his slacks, popping the button and shoving the fabric down his hips until his cock springs free, flushed and leaking and so fucking perfect.
"Fuck, look at you," you murmur, wrapping your fingers around his length and giving him a slow, teasing stroke from base to tip. "So fucking gorgeous, all because of me. Because of how badly you need my cock."
Spencer throws his head back against the door with a strangled moan, his hips jerking into your hand as he seeks more of that delicious friction. But you're not ready to give it to him, not yet. Instead, you lean down and take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head before taking him deep, all the way to the back of your throat.
You feel Spencer's body tense and then shudder as he comes, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as his release crashes over him. The salty taste of his climax floods your mouth, and you swallow every drop, relishing the way he pulses and throbs against your tongue. It's clear that he's new to this, his inexperience making his pleasure all the more intense and satisfying. "F-fuck.. I didn't mean to- so quickly..-"
Panting harshly, Spencer slumps back against the door, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You pull off him slowly, giving his softening cock a gentle kiss before straightening up to meet his gaze. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"But, wow," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the afterglow of his first real orgasm. "That was… wow. I can't believe I just did that. With you."
You chuckle softly, reaching up to cup his cheek and tilt his chin towards you. "And I can't believe I get to be the one to teach you all the things you've been missing out on," you reply with a wicked grin. "The fact that you're a virgin just makes this even hotter. I get to show you everything, explore every inch of this gorgeous body of yours until you're addicted to my touch."
Spencer blushes at your words, ducking his head shyly even as a spark of excitement lights up his eyes. "You… you don't mind? That I'm… that I haven't…"
He trails off, suddenly self-conscious, but you just laugh and capture his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, pouring your desire into it.
"Of course I don't mind," you assure him when you finally pull back. "It's incredible. And now, I'm going to fuck you so good, you'll never want anyone else but me."
With that promise, you reach down to unfasten your own pants, shoving them down just enough to pull out your hard, aching cock. Spencer's eyes widen as he takes in the size of you, a flicker of nervousness passing over his face before he nods jerkily, a silent permission.
You slick your fingers with spit and reach behind him, rubbing the pads of your fingers teasingly over his fluttering hole. Spencer gasps and shudders at the foreign sensation, instinctively clenching around the invading digits. You work a finger inside him, then two, stretching him gently as you prepare him for what's to come.
When you deem him ready, you line yourself up with his entrance and push forward, feeling his tight heat enveloping you inch by excruciating inch. Spencer's breath hitches, his back arching as he's filled and stretched in a way he's never been before. You give him a moment to adjust before starting to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, setting a deep, driving rhythm that has you both moaning and gasping.
You fuck him hard and fast against the door, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the apartment. Spencer meets each of your thrusts with a roll of his hips, his inexperience giving way to a natural, instinctive need to take you deeper, to feel you in every part of him.
"That's it, baby," you growl, your hand sliding around to stroke his cock in time with your thrusts. "Fuck, you feel so good around me. Gonna fill this tight little ass up so fucking good."
Spencer keens, his head falling back against the door as his second orgasm builds quickly at the base of his spine. You can feel your own release approaching, your thrusts growing erratic as you chase that ultimate pleasure. With a final, brutal slam of your hips, you bury yourself to the hilt in Spencer's ass and come, flooding his insides with your hot seed.
Spencer cries out, his own cock pulsing in your hand as he finds his second release, his body milking you for every last drop. You collapse against him, both of you panting and trembling in the aftermath, your releases slowly tapering off until you're left with the afterglow.
You press your forehead against his, smiling softly as you bask in the moment. "Welcome to the other side, baby," you murmur. "That was just the beginning. Wait until you see what else I can do to this sexy body of yours."
Spencer is still trembling against you, cheeks pink, lips kiss-bruised, when the words begin spilling out of him like a faucet he can’t shut off, eyes flicking away as his cheeks flush deeper. “Um, did you know—humans, uh, have about five million hairs on their bodies? Density varies, of course—scalp hair is the thickest—but, um, body hair is…” He swallows. “Also, some slugs are hermaphrodites, which makes their reproductive process—well, efficient. Not that I’m—” He winces. “Not that I’m comparing you to a slug."
You stare at him for a long second, chest still heaving from exertion. Then you laugh, a low rumble that makes his blush deepen. “Great. Now every time I look at you, I’m going to think of garden pests. Real mood-setter, Doc.”
It’s clear his brilliant mind is scrambling to find footing amidst the flood of unfamiliar feelings—intense intimacy has left him anxious and aroused, and he’s grasping at the only things familiar to him, those countless trivial details he clings to as a comfortable shield.
His hands twitch nervously in your hair. “I—I didn’t mean—”
You silence him with a slow, filthy kiss that leaves him dazed, murmuring against his lips, “Shut up, Reid. And keep talking like that and I’ll fuck you in the herb section of Home Depot just to commit to the theme.”
Your thumb grazes his swollen bottom lip, brushing it gently as a small, knowing smile tugs at your mouth’s corners.
“Spencer,” you murmur, voice low and rich with affection, “I define it. I still very much want to fuck you.” The bluntness of your words makes his pupils dilate, the heat blossoming anew across his cheeks. Beneath that flustered response, there’s something deeper—a spark of longing, a simmering desire just below the surface.
You study him closely, noticing the subtle signs—the quickening pulse at the base of his throat, the fleeting dart of his tongue to moisten those nervously bitten lips. “Don’t worry about the rambling,” you whisper with a teasing warmth. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss on his forehead, a tender promise. “You can tell me all about it once we’ve cleaned up, hm? As sexy as your body is, it’s your mind I fell in love with.”
His gaze flicks nervously to yours, still unsure how to process such blunt affection, but you don’t let him retreat. You grin, nipping lightly at his jaw. “Which is terrifying, by the way, because you can out-debate me on literally anything. I don’t usually date people smarter than me—it’s bad for my ego.”
Spencer lets out a startled laugh, cheeks heating again, though his shoulders relax into the bed. “You… you don’t really have to worry about that. I’m not very good at debating outside of statistics, probabilities, and… um… Doctor Who trivia.”
You laugh, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Perfect. I’ll take you down in Doctor Who debates just to keep things balanced.”
I have a request for early seasons Spencer in a relatively new relationship Sleeping over at readers place the first time. Spencer being nervous about cuddling and affection in general.
Just straight up the fluffiest fluff imaginable.
Thank you! I’ll be waiting
The First Time— Not Like That.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader
Word count: 1.4k+
DNI: All are welcome!
Author's note: This is such a cute idea, i just knew i had to get to it straight away! Honestly I'm writing this from experience, based on how I acted when i went to my fiance's house for the first time lol. Hope you enjoy!! :))
Idiot.
That's the one way Spencer would describe himself as of this current moment.
Sure, he has the vocabulary of the entire oxford dictionary stuck in his head, but right now? He's an idiot. An awkward idiot. An awkward idiot who's standing in your bedroom doorway as you make yourself comfortable, urging him to join.
And he’d nodded, murmured a quiet “okay,” and then proceeded to do absolutely nothing that resembled any form of movement towards you.
He’s been stiff all evening.
Like, noticeably stiff.
His satchel is still sitting by your front door, half-unzipped, like even his belongings aren’t sure if they’re allowed to stay. He’d perched on the edge of your couch like it was some sort of Victorian chaise reserved for royalty. You’d offered him tea—made it exactly how he liked, with three sugar packets already stirred in and the fourth one left on the saucer in case he wanted to make it obnoxiously sweet, the way you’d teased him about once before. And he’d smiled, almost shy, like the gesture meant more to him than he could put into words.
But the cup’s still full. Barely touched. Lukewarm now. He had just been holding it, fingers wrapped too tight around the ceramic, eyes flicking around your apartment like he was trying to memorize every detail while simultaneously calculating the fastest exit route in case he accidentally makes a fool of himself.
He didn't know where to put his shoes. You had to gently nudge him into taking them off when he stepped onto the carpet like he was entering hallowed ground. He apologised when he used your hand towel. He asked if he should sit somewhere else when you curled up next to him during the movie.
You’re not offended. Not even a little. You know this is new for him—being in someone else’s space like this. Being wanted, and welcomed, and safe. You know he’s used to chaos, to hotel rooms and BAU briefings, to walls that aren’t really his and spaces that don’t feel like home.
So this?
This quiet apartment.
This night off.
This soft bed with the creaky springs and the extra blanket you laid out just in case.
You’d kissed his cheek earlier—casual, sweet—and you felt the way he shivered. Not from discomfort. From something deeper. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.
This is probably the most foreign territory he’s had to navigate in a while.
Now, he’s standing in your bedroom doorway like crossing the threshold might set off some emotional tripwire, and you're here, inviting him to bed— WOAH. Not like that. At least.. he thinks so? No matter how fast he thinks, that's a little too fast for him right now.
But he wants to cuddle. Of course he does. He’s been thinking about it all evening, the way your arms would feel around him, the weight of your hand between his shoulder blades, your heartbeat steady under his ear. And now you’re right here, just a breath away, and he’s… frozen.
He can't. He just can't. What if he starts sweating really badly? Like, from his hands. Or worse, his pits. And then you’ll wrinkle your nose and shift away, and then you’ll think he’s gross and never invite him over again. And what if—God—what if he drools in his sleep?
Woah. He paused. That was a spiral. He needs to take a deep breath, like you taught him. You'd never do something like that.
..Right?
He inhales.
Then exhales.
Then does it again, slower this time—like you’d coached him through after a particularly stressful case, sitting knee-to-knee in the briefing room with his hands in yours, teaching him how to ground himself. You’d said it so gently. "In through the nose, Spence. Hold it. Out through the mouth. Good."
He should do that now. He really should. Because you're not even looking at him like he's weird. You're just… waiting. Lying there on your side, propped up on one elbow, watching him with the softest little smile. You even patted the space next to you, like some sort of romantic invitation he’s terrified to accept.
Spencer wrings his hands, then stops when he realizes that might just activate the dreaded palm sweat. He drops them to his sides instead and shuffles a little closer, still hovering awkwardly by the bed like a stray cat that doesn’t quite trust the food bowl isn’t a trap.
“You okay?” you ask, voice light and full of affection. Not mocking. Never mocking.
“Y-yeah,” he croaks, which is exactly what someone not okay would say. “Just—uh. Processing.”
Your brows lift, amused but patient. “Processing whether or not you’ll survive cuddling me?”
“Exactly,” he says, pointing at you like you’ve just solved a riddle. “That. Yes.”
You laugh, and god, it’s the prettiest sound. You hold your arms open toward him like a promise. “Come here, you dramatic little beanpole. I won’t bite.”
He flushes immediately. Beanpole? He’s going to think about that for the rest of his life. But he moves, slowly, carefully, like he's approaching some sacred relic. He climbs into bed next to you with all the grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk, knees knocking into yours, elbow accidentally jabbing your pillow, and—
Then your hand finds his.
Soft. Sure.
He shuts his eyes and takes a breath, like you taught him to. In for four. Out for four.
"Spence?" Your voice cuts gently through the quiet. He feels it before he hears it—low and close, humming through the mattress. "You okay?"
He turns his head slightly, cheeks already pink. “Yeah. I just… don’t really know what to do with myself.”
There’s a pause. Then: “Do you wanna lie here?” You tap your chest lightly with a crooked smile. “Just for a bit.”
He blinks. Looks at you. Then nods, tiny and quick, like a secret.
He shifts slowly, like you’re a museum piece he doesn’t want to break. When he finally settles on your chest, it's with an exhale he didn’t realise he was holding. His ear rests just over your heart, and your arm curls instinctively around his back, hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades.
You’re warm. And steady. He can feel the way your chest rises beneath him, the slow rhythm of your breathing, the soft pressure of your palm.
And Spencer?
Spencer dies.
Or at least it feels like it. His heart is racing, and his lungs might have just stopped functioning, and he has no idea what to do with his free hand because oh, God, it’s touching your waist, and you’re warm and your hair smells so good and he’s probably holding his breath again but—
You sigh against him, content and safe, like you want to be here.
And suddenly it’s not so terrifying anymore. His muscles begin to loosen. He dares to stop holding his cheek up, like he's scared that his brain a made of a million sand bags and will crush your heart if he dares to allow himself to relax. You push his head down onto you completely, and hum in approval.
“Is this okay?” you ask.
He nods against you. “It’s… really nice, actually.”
You hum, thumb brushing slow circles into his spine. “Good. 'Cause I was worried you’d combust from overthinking.”
Spencer huffs a laugh into your shirt, eyes fluttering shut. “I almost did.”
There’s a study—somewhere in his head—about how 20 seconds of hugging can significantly reduce stress levels. He remembers reading it on his computer once, the details etched into his eidetic memory. But more than that, he remembers the day vividly because you had brought him a croissant from the bakery across the street!
The study involved nearly 200 participants who were subjected to a stressful task. Those who received a 20-second hug from their partner beforehand exhibited lower cortisol levels, the hormone associated with stress.
Now, lying here with his ear pressed against your chest, he counts the seconds. Not because he wants to leave, but because, for once, the math feels kind. He recalls that oxytocin, the "love hormone," is released during physical touch, promoting feelings of trust and bonding. This hormone can reduce cortisol levels, the body's primary stress hormone.
He thinks about how this simple act of cuddling, something so foreign to him, is now providing a tangible sense of calm. The tension in his muscles eases, and he feels a sense of peace wash over him. It's as if the scientific principles he's studied for years are now manifesting in real-time.
Spencer smiles softly, his eyes closed, and thinks, "So this is what all the research was about."
okay okay, but imagine Tech analyst reader who frequently helps out or takes over for Garcia. The team technically knows they do that but sometimes they forget so imagine Derek calling the tech cave and reader answering just hearing “What’s up baby girl?” and reader just being like “Excuse me?!” because he’s definitely not at that level of comfortable with Derek and also not exactly a girl
also, congrats on getting married!
404: Garcia Not Found..
Pairing: Derek Morgan x Male! Reader
Word count: 1.3k+
DNI: Fem-aligned
Author's note: Arghhh this is a really nice idea, and i'm always looking to write more stuff for Morgan but I'm absolutely hopeless at coming up with ideas for him.
Thanks so much for the congrats! Everything went perfectly, except for the fact someone brought their kid despite being specifically told not to. As always, all feedback is appreciated. Hope you enjoy!! (´ε｀ )
By noon, the heat had evolved sentience and declared itself sheriff. The Nevada heat clung to everything like regret—sticky, unrelenting, and just a little personal.
Two murders in three days. Both victims were hitchhikers, both picked up near the I-80, both found stripped of ID, with matching bruises around their wrists and necks—suggesting a clear dominant/submissive dynamic between the killers.
The locals were out of their depth. Hotch was in an interview. JJ and Rossi were talking to truck stop staff. And Morgan?
Morgan needed tech backup. Now.
He stabbed the call button on the secure laptop connection, barely watching the screen flicker as the signal went through to Quantico.
Ring. Ring. Click.
“What’s up, baby girl?” Morgan said automatically, leaning one hip on the desk. His voice was smooth, familiar—pure muscle memory. “We’re out here baking in the sun with two vics in the morgue, and I need you to work your magic. See if you can pull anything from highway cams near the last truck stop they were seen at—mile marker 178. Also, if there's any pattern to the direction the victims were headed, maybe someone’s choosing their targets based on where they’re trying to go. Could mean the unsubs are mobile. I’m thinking truckers, maybe a couple? Something about the crime scenes says shared space. The bindings were too clean. It’s coordinated. Might be a dominant-submissive thing. Maybe sexual, maybe just control—either way, it’s intimate and practiced.”
He paused just long enough to breathe.
“You still with me, baby girl?”
A beat.
The voice on the other end was not high-pitched, not glittery, and absolutely not Penelope Garcia.
Then—
“…Excuse me?”
It was deep. Masculine. Smooth in that ‘voice actor for luxury car commercials’ kind of way, and currently laced with dry confusion and more than a little judgment.
Morgan blinked. “Wait—what?”
“It’s me. Not Garcia,” you said flatly, already typing away like this happened more often than it should. “You know—the other tech analyst? The one who’s been covering for her while she’s off presenting at that FBI coding retreat in Maryland? The guy who’s been patching your signals and processing your half-sent field requests all week?”
Morgan sat up straighter, suddenly aware of how much talking he’d done. “Oh. Oh, damn.”
“Yeah. That’s the correct response,” you said, amusement starting to creep into your voice. “You just called a grown-ass man ‘baby girl,’ listed four crimes, and didn’t even pause for breath. Honestly, I’m flattered. But also—deeply concerned.”
Morgan rubbed his forehead, suddenly feeling every degree of the desert heat. “I didn’t check the name—I just hit the line. It’s usually Garcia.”
“Yeah, well, today it’s me,” you said, matter-of-fact, fingers flying over your keys. “And for future reference? Maybe wait for the voice to talk before you start handing out nicknames like candy.”
Across the makeshift office, Reid coughed pointedly into his elbow, and Prentiss didn’t even pretend she wasn’t listening.
Morgan groaned, quietly and with soul. “She’s gonna hear about this, isn’t she?”
“Oh,” you said with a smirk he could feel through the phone. “She’s gonna make a slideshow.”
Two days after wrapping the Nevada case, you were elbows-deep in corrupted metadata, muttering darkly at your monitor like it had personally insulted your family line.
Your desk looked like a warzone: a battlefield of empty energy drink cans, half-eaten protein bars, and one worn notebook full of scribbled access codes and passive-aggressive post-its to yourself.
The door creaked open.
You didn’t look up.
"..You’re not Garcia," you grunted. "So unless you’ve got a sandwich, an apology, or the exact GPS coordinates of an unsub’s burner phone, I’m not interested."
There was a pause—then a familiar throat-clear.
"...Actually, I’ve got two outta three."
You looked up.
Derek Morgan stood in the doorway like a man approaching a trap he helped build. In his hands, a cardboard tray of two iced coffees—the sides slick with condensation—and a paper bag radiating "guilt muffin" energy.
One cup had your exact order written neatly across the lid.
The other just said: BRIBE.
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but entertained. "This your version of groveling?"
"It’s a start," he said, stepping inside like the floor might reject him. "Also brought a blueberry muffin. I hear your kind can be appeased with carbs."
"...Garcia?"
"She may or may not have emailed me a PowerPoint titled ‘How to Apologize to the Other Hot Nerd.’"
You squinted. "Other hot nerd?"
"She wrote it. Not me."
You leaned back and crossed your arms. "So let me get this straight. You call a grown man ‘baby girl’ in the middle of a double homicide case, ignore three emails about the tech rotation, and now you think caffeine and a muffin are gonna fix it?"
"...Yes?"
A beat.
You reached for the coffee and inspected the lid.
"I will accept this tribute," you said, taking a long sip. "Only because you spelled my name right. That’s rare."
Morgan exhaled. "Good. I was afraid I’d have to beg."
"Oh, don’t worry," you said, licking some foam from your lip. "I haven’t decided not to make you change your ringtone to ‘Oops I Did It Again.’"
He blinked. "As in... Britney?"
"You called me baby girl, Morgan. We’re past embarrassment. We’re in consequences now."
You turned back to your monitors. Morgan hovered nearby, unsure whether to sit or evaporate.
Then, with the faintest grin, he said, "For the record... your voice threw me off. I expected Garcia’s sparkle and jazz hands, and I got Morgan Freeman after two Red Bulls and a week without sleep."
You smirked. "Damn right. Now sit down if you wanna watch me reroute a VPN signal through six countries in under ten seconds."
He did.
Somehow, between the quiet clicks of the keyboard and the occasional slurp of coffee, the awkward began to smooth into something easier. Familiar. Not quite friendship, not quite anything else—but a start.
Almost.
Until you muttered, "Also... I am keeping the BRIBE cup. For legal leverage."
"Noted."
Just then, the sliding glass door to the tech office cracked open with the softest of squeaks.
Garcia peeked in—just her head at first, curls bobbing, glasses slightly askew. Her eyes scanned the room like a hawk on a sugar rush, pupils dilating the second they landed on the scene.
Morgan, sitting casually at the edge of your desk, coffee in hand, looking far too pleased with himself.
You, leaned back with his cup labeled “BRIBE,” one leg hooked under the other, sipping coolly mid-keystroke like this was just another Tuesday.
She froze.
Her eyes widened—comic book style, full saucers. Her mouth parted slightly, as if to gasp, but no sound came out.
She squealed—silently, violently, like her entire body had been possessed by the spirit of a thousand fangirls trying to behave in a museum. Shoulders shaking, hands clenched in excitement, every cell of her being vibrating at a frequency only dolphins could hear.
And then—
She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the room.
Just full cartoon physics. Gone.
You didn’t even blink. “She’s gonna turn this into a PowerPoint, isn’t she?”
Morgan sighed into his coffee. “She already has one.”
