all smut works will be flagged as such, pls read trigger warnings!
masterlist:
spencer reid x reader:
big shoes to fill | part two | part three (single!mom!reader) - spencer finally introduces his girlfriend and her son to his team, before popping up the question (and getting even bigger one in return)
thank you for noticing (bau!reader) - Spencer Reid spends six months flirting. You spend six months not realizing he's flirting. The BAU spends six months losing money in Rossi's betting pool.
I thought I lost you (fem!reader) - no one knew Spencer had a girlfriend, until she was taken hostage. And the team saw him loosing it.
mon chéri (fem!reader, french!reader) - The one where the team thinks Spencer and Y/N have a quiet, innocent romance, until they accidentally crash date night and realize Spencer learned a few very different things after prison.
aaron hotchner x reader:
keep you warm (bau!reader) - catching the unsub in cold nevada doesnt goes as planned, happily hotch is there to help you out with the cold.
high tide came (and brought you in) (bau!reader) - when your apartment became a swimming pool, aaron decided it's his problem. the resolution became permanent.
unsteady (bau!reader) - you were in a secret relationship with aaron for two months. over the time he fell absolutely in love. and then he had you bleeding out in his arms.
hot(ch) fake date (bau!reader) - One weekend. One ex who won’t let go. And one man who finally stops pretending he doesn’t love you.
interrogation game (fem!reader) - aaron confirms his relationship during a game of interrogation. the team had no idea.
aaron hotchner x spencer reid:
one single thread of gold - one day aaron hotchner and spencer reid enter the bullpen with wedding bands. the investigation begins. rossi is entertained.
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(5 times people wrongly assume that Spencer and his best friend are a couple, and the 1 time they actually are)
spencer reid x f!reader ft jemily if u squint
(she/her pronouns used for reader-insert)
5+1 best friends to lovers - fluff
wc: 900
my ao3 // my mastertag
1. When Spencer first started at the BAU, he didn’t bring any decor for his work desk. He claimed that it’s not necessary for his job performance and that it would only be a distraction. Eventually, he brought a few figurines and a singular framed photo. Derek pointed at the picture, one of Spencer grinning at a woman with her tongue stuck out, and asked him about his girlfriend.
Spencer furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
2. Rossi hosts a birthday party for Aaron and encourages the team to bring anyone and everyone. So I can send more people home with leftovers, he’d said.
Spencer brought his best friend, and it’s the first time he’s introducing her to the team. As is every event that Rossi throws, the dress code is formal, so she’s wearing a dress and heels. Spencer has a suit on, with a tie that matches the color of her dress. She holds onto his arm as they ascend the front stairs to the house.
Emily and JJ are in the foyer, helping each other remove their coats, as she and Spencer enter. He introduces her to them, and she shakes their hands while keeping one on his forearm.
Emily asks, “How long have you guys been dating?” and they laugh like she’s told a joke.
She looks over at JJ with perplexity. The blonde woman just shakes her head.
3. At the FBI/Secret Service softball game, she comes to cheer them on wearing a shirt that says Go FBI! on the front and Reid on the back. She shouts and claps for everyone, but she’s especially loud for Spencer. After his first attempt at bat results in him striking out, she shouts, “It’s okay! You’ll get ‘em next time!”
Spencer’s cheekbones are flushed, certainly just from being out in the sun, as he sheepishly waves at her from the dugout.
A woman next to her in a Secret Service T-shirt leans over and asks her what it’s like to be married to an FBI agent, and she laughs and shakes her head, “Oh, we’re not together.”
She misses the bewildered gaze the woman gives her. She’s too busy wordlessly asking Spencer if he needs more water.
4. They’re sitting on a quilted blanket in the park, pulling sandwiches and cubed fruit out of a picnic basket. It’s a beautiful Spring day, one of the rare ones where the frigid Winter cold has worn off and the deep heat of Summer hasn’t set in yet. They both brought books to read, but they’ve been abandoned next to them as they talk and laugh around bites of their lunch.
An elderly couple approaches them and tells them how sweet they look, and the man shares that this park is where he took his wife on their first date fifty years ago.
They smile politely and inform the couple that, no, we’re not dating, and they chuckle and shake their heads at them.
The man looks pointedly at Spencer, “Don’t waste any more time, son.”
Spencer stutters, “Y-yes, sir.”
5. Spencer is away on a case, somewhere. He can’t remember where. The last thing he can recall is trailing behind Derek as they entered an abandoned house. There was a loud noise, possibly a gunshot, before Spencer collapsed and everything went dark.
When he opens his eyes, everything is blurry. He’s surrounded by EMTs, being wheeled on a gurney, and the bright flashing lights of the ambulance are hurting his eyes. Around the oxygen mask, he starts mumbling unintelligibly.
A woman near his head tries to stop him from pulling the mask off and hears a woman’s name coming from his mouth just before she reorients it.
“You’re okay – someone will call your girl at the hospital.”
He’s so out of it that he doesn’t think to try to correct her – he just nods and sighs in relief.
*** She steps off the elevator at FBI Headquarters and looks around for Spencer. A smile rises on her face once she spots him, and he hurriedly packs his satchel before rushing out of the glass doors to greet her. Bending down to kiss her cheek, he takes her hand in his before leading her back into the sliding silver doors, talking animatedly about the new spot he wants to try for lunch.
The team watches the scene unfold, and Penelope is exasperated as she throws her hands up and asks, “Are we all seeing this?”
When they return from the new sushi restaurant, they don’t notice that JJ and Emily have just pulled into the parking lot, as well. Their eyes track Spencer as he leads her back to her car with a hand on her lower back, murmuring things in her ear that have her giggling.
The two women climb out of JJ’s SUV, and they can’t tear their eyes away as Spencer softly closes her door and leans his forearms in her open window. Emily gasps as he juts forward to press his lips to hers, and JJ grabs her arm when they hear him say, “I love you. Drive safely.”
They stand a few spots away, frozen in place, as she pulls out of the lot and Spencer waves goodbye. With his hands in his pockets and his head tilted downward, he doesn’t notice his coworkers staring at him until he’s a few feet away. His eyes squint at their incredulous expressions, and he shrugs, “What?”
Emily points to where her car just was, dully saying, “Best friends don’t act like that.”
He laughs and informs them they’re not just best friends anymore. Well, we’ll always be best friends, but she’s my girlfriend now, too.
(5 times people wrongly assume that Spencer and his best friend are a couple, and the 1 time they actually are)
spencer reid x f!reader ft jemily if u squint
(she/her pronouns used for reader-insert)
5+1 best friends to lovers - fluff
wc: 900
my ao3 // my mastertag
1. When Spencer first started at the BAU, he didn’t bring any decor for his work desk. He claimed that it’s not necessary for his job performance and that it would only be a distraction. Eventually, he brought a few figurines and a singular framed photo. Derek pointed at the picture, one of Spencer grinning at a woman with her tongue stuck out, and asked him about his girlfriend.
Spencer furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
2. Rossi hosts a birthday party for Aaron and encourages the team to bring anyone and everyone. So I can send more people home with leftovers, he’d said.
Spencer brought his best friend, and it’s the first time he’s introducing her to the team. As is every event that Rossi throws, the dress code is formal, so she’s wearing a dress and heels. Spencer has a suit on, with a tie that matches the color of her dress. She holds onto his arm as they ascend the front stairs to the house.
Emily and JJ are in the foyer, helping each other remove their coats, as she and Spencer enter. He introduces her to them, and she shakes their hands while keeping one on his forearm.
Emily asks, “How long have you guys been dating?” and they laugh like she’s told a joke.
She looks over at JJ with perplexity. The blonde woman just shakes her head.
3. At the FBI/Secret Service softball game, she comes to cheer them on wearing a shirt that says Go FBI! on the front and Reid on the back. She shouts and claps for everyone, but she’s especially loud for Spencer. After his first attempt at bat results in him striking out, she shouts, “It’s okay! You’ll get ‘em next time!”
Spencer’s cheekbones are flushed, certainly just from being out in the sun, as he sheepishly waves at her from the dugout.
A woman next to her in a Secret Service T-shirt leans over and asks her what it’s like to be married to an FBI agent, and she laughs and shakes her head, “Oh, we’re not together.”
She misses the bewildered gaze the woman gives her. She’s too busy wordlessly asking Spencer if he needs more water.
4. They’re sitting on a quilted blanket in the park, pulling sandwiches and cubed fruit out of a picnic basket. It’s a beautiful Spring day, one of the rare ones where the frigid Winter cold has worn off and the deep heat of Summer hasn’t set in yet. They both brought books to read, but they’ve been abandoned next to them as they talk and laugh around bites of their lunch.
An elderly couple approaches them and tells them how sweet they look, and the man shares that this park is where he took his wife on their first date fifty years ago.
They smile politely and inform the couple that, no, we’re not dating, and they chuckle and shake their heads at them.
The man looks pointedly at Spencer, “Don’t waste any more time, son.”
Spencer stutters, “Y-yes, sir.”
5. Spencer is away on a case, somewhere. He can’t remember where. The last thing he can recall is trailing behind Derek as they entered an abandoned house. There was a loud noise, possibly a gunshot, before Spencer collapsed and everything went dark.
When he opens his eyes, everything is blurry. He’s surrounded by EMTs, being wheeled on a gurney, and the bright flashing lights of the ambulance are hurting his eyes. Around the oxygen mask, he starts mumbling unintelligibly.
A woman near his head tries to stop him from pulling the mask off and hears a woman’s name coming from his mouth just before she reorients it.
“You’re okay – someone will call your girl at the hospital.”
He’s so out of it that he doesn’t think to try to correct her – he just nods and sighs in relief.
*** She steps off the elevator at FBI Headquarters and looks around for Spencer. A smile rises on her face once she spots him, and he hurriedly packs his satchel before rushing out of the glass doors to greet her. Bending down to kiss her cheek, he takes her hand in his before leading her back into the sliding silver doors, talking animatedly about the new spot he wants to try for lunch.
The team watches the scene unfold, and Penelope is exasperated as she throws her hands up and asks, “Are we all seeing this?”
When they return from the new sushi restaurant, they don’t notice that JJ and Emily have just pulled into the parking lot, as well. Their eyes track Spencer as he leads her back to her car with a hand on her lower back, murmuring things in her ear that have her giggling.
The two women climb out of JJ’s SUV, and they can’t tear their eyes away as Spencer softly closes her door and leans his forearms in her open window. Emily gasps as he juts forward to press his lips to hers, and JJ grabs her arm when they hear him say, “I love you. Drive safely.”
They stand a few spots away, frozen in place, as she pulls out of the lot and Spencer waves goodbye. With his hands in his pockets and his head tilted downward, he doesn’t notice his coworkers staring at him until he’s a few feet away. His eyes squint at their incredulous expressions, and he shrugs, “What?”
Emily points to where her car just was, dully saying, “Best friends don’t act like that.”
He laughs and informs them they’re not just best friends anymore. Well, we’ll always be best friends, but she’s my girlfriend now, too.
pairing: spencer reid x french!reader (mentioned, used of french)
summary: The one where the team thinks Spencer and Y/N have a quiet, innocent romance, until they accidentally crash date night and realize Spencer learned a few very different things after prison.
tw: mdni, insinuation of smut, spencer is surprisingly hot & confident, team is unsurprisingly noisy
word count: 875 words.
masterlist
~♡~
The team had pinned you down perfectly—or so they thought. To the BAU, you were the epitome of effortless European grace. A French teacher who had packed up her life after high school to attend university in USA and ended up staying for most of her adult life. You carried yourself with a casual elegance that couldn’t be taught. Your accent was a soft, melodic lilt that clung to your words, perfectly adapted to English but still distinctly, beautifully french.
They adored you. But more than anyone, Spencer worshipped the ground you walked on.
You had met him not long after he got out of prison, during a time when his world was fractured and heavy.
Somehow, your quiet, eloquent presence became his anchor. Since then, the two of you had been practically inseparable. Because you were always so modest, poised, and soft-spoken, the team naturally assumed your relationship with Spencer was a sweet, intellectual, almost library-quiet romance.
They were hilariously wrong.
It’s a Friday night, and Penelope has successfully dragged Luke and JJ out to L'Atoll, the new, highly anticipated tropical-themed restaurant downtown. The atmosphere is vibrant—dim, warm lighting, lush indoor palm trees, and the low thrum of steel drums and bossa nova playing over the speakers.
"I'm telling you, the passionfruit mojitos here are supposed to be life-changing," Garcia beams, scanning the crowded room as the hostess leads them toward a booth.
But midway through the dining room, Garcia freezes. Her jaw drops.
"No way," JJ mutters, blinking rapidly.
Luke just lets out a low whistle, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
A few tables away, tucked into a semi-private booth draped in faux hibiscus vines, sit Spencer and you. But this isn't the Spencer and y/n they know.
Spencer is wearing a crisp, dark linen shirt—but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and the top three buttons are completely undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his chest. He looks relaxed, leaning back, a look of pure, smoldering confidence on his face that the team has never seen outside of a high-stakes interrogation room.
And you?
You are breathtaking.
Gone is the oversized knit sweater and the modest midi-skirt you usually wear to team dinners. Tonight, you’re in a slinky, emerald-green silk slip dress with a plunging back. Your hair is effortlessly pinned up, leaving your neck bare, and your lips are painted a bold, dangerous crimson.
"Should we go say hi?" Garcia whispers, clutching her purse, torn between respect for privacy and sheer, unadulterated shock. "I mean, look at them! They look like a movie poster!"
"Hold on," Luke says, gently catching Garcia’s arm and nodding subtly toward the underside of your table. "Look closer. I don't think we should interrupt."
JJ and Garcia squint through the foliage.
Your bare leg is extended, your foot wrapped in gold high heeled sandal slowly, deliberately tracing its way up and down Spencer’s calf, past his knee, and disappearing under the hem of his trousers. Spencer doesn't even flinch. Instead, his gaze darkens, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his lips as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes locked dead on yours. He reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around your ankle to steady your leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin before his hand begins to slide upward. He doesn't stop at your calf. His hand ventures higher, slipping past the hem of your emerald dress, his palm warm and possessive against the bare skin of your thigh. He squeezes, a silent command that has your breath hitching, forcing your leg higher into his lap.
"Oh my god," Garcia squeaks, turning around. "Okay, we are third-wheeling a vibe that is way too hot for us. Abort mission."
"We're not aborting," Luke chuckles, steering the girls to a table a few spots away, perfectly positioned to watch the drama unfold. "We're sitting right here. I need to see how smooth Reid actually is."
You catch the movement out of the corner of your eye. A flash of Garcia’s bright blonde hair, JJ’s shocked expression, and Luke’s amused smirk. You don't miss a beat. Leaning across the table, the silk of your dress shifting provocatively, you let out a low, amused hum.
"Mon chéri" you purr, your French accent thickening just a bit, a playful glint in your eyes. "Don't look now, but we have an audience. Your friends are three tables to your left."
Spencer doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look over. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. The prison walls had hardened him in ways the team rarely saw, but tonight, combined with your teasing, it manifests as pure, unadulterated confidence.
"Is that so?" Spencer asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and rasping.
"Oui" you murmur, leaning in closer, your fingers reaching out to trace the open collar of his shirt, your nails lightly grazing his collarbone. "They are trying very hard to pretend they are not staring. Should we acknowledge them?"
"Absolutely not," Spencer murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with sudden, intense heat. "Let's pretend they don't exist. In fact, let's give them a reason to look away."
With absolute, cool composure, Spencer slides over, bridging the gap between you until his chest is pressed against your shoulder. His hand leaves your thigh to grip the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the stray hairs at your hairline. He doesn't just kiss you; he claims you. It’s a slow, deep, filthy kiss that tastes of rum and desire, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that feels intensely private yet wildly bold.
You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, and Spencer takes advantage of the sound, pulling back just enough to trail his lips down your jawline. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath anchoring you to the spot as he bites gently at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, sucking softly until you let out a breathless moan. His hand on your thigh returns, sliding dangerously high, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip under the silk dress. It is blatant, heavy foreplay, right in the middle of the restaurant.
When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, your lips are flushed, and you let out a breathless laugh. He keeps his back squarely to the team, his universe entirely shrunk down to just you, leaving them staring in absolute, stunned silence.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen the next Monday is thick with unvented gossip. Garcia is practically vibrating at her desk in her office, while JJ and Luke are hovering near the coffee machine, waiting.
Right on cue, Spencer walks through the glass doors. He looks entirely too refreshed for a Monday morning. His stride is relaxed, his posture easy, and there's a certain, undeniable contentment in the way he carries himself.
Luke waits until Spencer pours himself a mug of black coffee before leaning against the counter, a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"Morning, Reid," Luke says, his tone dripping with mock casualness. "Had a good weekend? Got up to anything... interesting?"
Spencer takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. He doesn't look startled. He doesn't blush. He just turns his head, looking Luke dead in the eye with a cool, unbothered expression.
"I did, actually" Spencer replies, his voice steady and completely devoid of his usual academic rambling.
He sets his mug down, leaning back against the counter, mimicking Luke's posture with a smug, cocky grin.
"And judging by how much time you, JJ, and Garcia spent staring at my girlfriend's legs friday night, I'd say you already know exactly how good it was."
Luke’s smirk falters, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
Spencer gives him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Don't worry, Alvez. Maybe if you play your cards right, one day you'll get some, too."
With a sharp, victorious nod, Spencer picks up his coffee and strolls right past a stunned Luke, heading up the stairs to the round table room without looking back.
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summary: aaron confirms his relationship during a game of interrogation. the team had no idea.
tw: mentions of abusive/toxic relationships, Jack being absolute sweetheart.
word count: 1.9k
authors note: coming back to you as a married woman now! I have one spencer reid story planned for this week. Please let me know how you like this one.
tag: @wormznrocks
masterlist
~♡~
The soft scratching of a charcoal pencil against heavy textured paper is usually the only sound that fills your sunlit living room on a Friday afternoon. Today, it’s soundtracked by the rhythmic, heavy thud of a docked tail wagging against the hardwood floor, and the bright, breathless laughter of a seven-year-old boy.
You look up from your sketchbook, a fond smile immediately tugging at your lips. Jack is currently on his hands and knees, completely buried beneath the massive, sleek frame of Buster, your ninety-pound doberman. Buster, whose usual demeanor is that of an imposing, razor-sharp guardian, has completely melted into a puddle of compliance. He is currently letting Jack drape a red superhero cape around his neck, his dark brown eyes tracking the little boy with nothing short of absolute adoration.
"Look, Y/N! He’s Super-Buster now!" Jack crows, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. He looks so much like his father in that exact moment that it catches in your chest.
"He looks magnificent, sweetie" you laugh, setting your sketchbook on the coffee table. "But I think Super-Buster is requesting a tactical deployment of belly rubs."
As if understanding the cue, Buster flops onto his side with a dramatic grunt, his massive paws curling into the air. Jack squeals with delight and immediately obliges, burying his small hands into the dog's sleek fur.
Watching them, a profound sense of peace settles over you—a feeling that, up until a year ago, you weren't sure you’d ever experience again.
Your past is a shadow you’ve had to run from for a long time.
Your ex-boyfriend hadn't just handled your breakup poorly. He had turned into a terrifying, relentless specter in your life. The stalking had escalated from flooded inboxes and unexpected appearances at your art studio to broken windows, slashed tires, and the suffocating feeling that you were constantly being watched. It had stripped away your sense of safety, leaving you hyper-vigilant and constantly looking over your shoulder.
Buster had been your saving grace. Trained rigorously for personal protection, the doberman became your living, breathing shield. He was the only reason you could sleep at night, a fierce deterrent of teeth and muscle that kept the nightmare at bay until the law finally caught up with your ex.
Now, that man was behind bars, serving a lengthy sentence, but the emotional scars didn't just vanish with a prison verdict.
Then, Aaron Hotchner walked into your life.
You had met him entirely by chance at a local community art gallery where some of your students' work was being displayed. He had been standing in front of a messy, vibrant watercolor painted by a six-year-old, looking at it with the kind of intense, quiet gravity he usually reserved for federal cases. You had approached him, amused, and a conversation about the raw honesty of children's art had sparked something neither of you expected.
Despite the six-year age gap, and despite the heavy armor you both wore—him from the horrors of his job and the grief of his past, you from the trauma of your stalking—you clicked. Aaron didn't push. He was patient, a steady and immovable rock in a world that had always felt like shifting sand to you. When he finally met Buster, he hadn't been intimidated or put off by the dog’s intense guarding instincts. Instead, Aaron had looked at the massive animal, then at you, and you had seen a visible wave of relief wash over his usually stoic features.
“Knowing he’s here with you when I’m on the road” Aaron had murmured one night, his large hand buried in Buster’s fur after the dog had finally deemed him trustworthy “it’s the first time in years I haven't worried myself sick leaving for a case.”
Three months ago, you took the leap and moved into Aaron’s house. It had been a seamless transition. Jack absolutely adored you, and perhaps more importantly, Jack and Buster had become an inseparable duo. Aaron jokes that Buster has officially traded his guard-dog credentials to become a glorified toddler-enabler, but you all know the truth: Buster loves Jack just as fiercely as he loves you.
"Y/N?" Jack's voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He has abandoned the belly rubs and is now leaning his elbows on the edge of the coffee table, looking at you with big, earnest eyes. "When is Daddy coming home?"
You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s just past four in the afternoon. "He should be home in a few hours, bud. He said they had a lighter day at the office today—mostly paperwork and training."
"Do you think he'll play catch with us? Me and Super-Buster?"
"I think if you ask him nicely, he won't be able to say no," you smile, reaching out to ruffle Jack’s hair.
Jack beams, then hesitates, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. He fidgets with the edge of his sleeve, looking down at his sneakers before looking back up at you. "Um... Y/N?"
"Yeah, sweetie? What's up?"
"Can I... can I ask you something big?"
Your heart softens, and you shift so you're facing him fully. "Of course you can. You can ask me anything."
Jack swallows, his small shoulders rising and falling. "My friend Maya at school... she has a mom and a dad. And she calls her mom 'mama'. I know my mommy Haley is in heaven..." He looks up, his eyes swimming with a mixture of vulnerability and hope that completely melts your heart. "But since you live with us now, and you take care of me, and you're my favorite person... is it okay if I call you mama Y/N? Or just... mama?"
For a second, the breath catches in your throat. A warmth so fierce and consuming floods your chest that tears prick the corners of your eyes. You know how much Haley meant to this family, and you have never, ever tried to replace her. To hear Jack offer this up entirely on his own is the most profound gift you've ever received.
You slide off the couch onto the floor, pulling Jack into a tight, warm hug. Buster immediately shuffles over, whining softly and nudging his wet nose against your tangled arms, wanting to be included.
"Oh, Jack," you whisper into his hair, blinking back tears of pure happiness. "I would love nothing more in the whole world than for you to call me mama. It would be the biggest honor."
Jack squeezes your neck tightly, his small body relaxing completely against yours. "Good. Because Buster and I already talked about it, and he agrees."
You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. "Oh, he agrees, does he? Well, far be it from us to argue with Super-Buster."
As you hold Jack, you can't help but wish Aaron were here to see this. You know how much this would mean to him—to know that the home you've built together is whole, happy, and brimming with love.
What you don't know, however, is that at that exact moment, across town in the glass-walled offices of the BAU, your stoic, fiercely private boyfriend is currently being subjected to a completely different kind of interrogation.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen is deceptively relaxed, a rare occurrence that usually only happens when a string of brutal cases finally snaps shut, leaving a graveyard of paperwork in its wake. But today, the quiet afternoon has been weaponized for a different purpose.
In one of the glass-walled conference rooms, the entire team is gathered. Derek Morgan is leaning back in his chair with a smirk, his arms crossed over his chest. Emily Prentiss is twirling a pen between her fingers, an amused glint in her eyes. Spencer Reid is nervously adjusting his satchel, though his eyes are sharp with analytical curiosity, and Penelope Garcia is practically vibrating with excitement, hovering near the doorway.
At the head of the table sits Aaron Hotchner. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and his expression is a terrifying, blank slate of absolute stoicism.
Opposite him sits David Rossi, looking like a man who is thoroughly enjoying his retirement years, even while on active duty. Next to Rossi is the catalyst for this entire exercise: Agent Jordan Todd, the newest addition to the team, who is currently sweating through her blazer.
The past few weeks had revealed a glaring vulnerability in Jordan's skillset. While she was brilliant at media relations and assessing public threats, her face-to-face interrogations with hardened suspects had been lacking. She struggled to maintain control of the room, often letting suspects deflect or read her emotions.
To remedy this, Hotch had suggested a hands-on training exercise. A "game," though anyone who knew Aaron Hotchner knew he didn't actually play games. The premise was simple: Hotch would play the role of a highly uncooperative, highly intelligent suspect. The team’s objective was to use various interrogation tactics to extract as much concrete, verifiable personal data from him as possible within a one-hour time limit.
"Alright, Jordan," Rossi says softly, leaning back. "The floor is yours. You’ve been trying the direct approach for fifteen minutes, and he hasn't given you a single inch. Change your angle. Find the pressure point."
Jordan swallows, looking at Hotch. Hotch doesn't blink. He looks like a statue carved out of marble and bureaucratic authority.
"Okay," Jordan says, leaning forward, trying to project confidence. "Suspects like you... you think you’re completely self-sufficient. You think you don't need anyone. But everyone has a anchor. A point of vulnerability. Let's talk about your personal life."
Hotch tilts his head by a fraction of a millimeter. "My personal life is not relevant to the charges."
"It's relevant to your psychology," Jordan counters, gaining a bit of footing. "You work long hours. You’re cold, distant. I bet you go home to an empty house every night, don't you? No one is waiting for you. No one cares when you walk through that door."
Morgan hides a smirk behind his hand. Prentiss bites the inside of her cheek. They all know Hotch’s life—or at least, they think they do. They know about the tragic loss of Haley, they know about Jack, and they know Hotch lives a solitary, dedicated life split entirely between the Bureau and his son.
Hotch lets a long, agonizing silence stretch through the room. Then, very slowly, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touches the corner of his lips. It’s gone so fast Jordan almost misses it.
"An empty house," Hotch repeats, his voice a low, steady baritone. "That’s an interesting assumption."
"It's an accurate one," Jordan pushes, thinking she’s found a crack. "Men in your position don't have time for relationships. You're married to the job. You don't have anyone."
Hotch leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks directly into Jordan's eyes, his expression a masterclass in controlled manipulation. "If I told you I did have someone, what would your profile say then?"
The room shifts. It’s subtle, but the collective energy of the BAU team suddenly sharpens.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up. Prentiss stops twirling her pen. Even Reid looks up from his notes, his head tilting like a confused puppy.
"I'd say you're bluffing," Jordan says, though she falters slightly under his intense gaze. "You're trying to project a sense of normalcy to throw me off. It’s a classic deflection tactic."
"Is it?" Hotch asks smoothly. He doesn't look at the rest of the team, keeping his focus entirely on Jordan, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s teaching her how a suspect can use truth as a weapon to disorient an interrogator. "What if I told you that not only do I have someone, but we’ve been together for over a year. And what if I told you we recently moved in together?"
A collective, silent gasp seems to echo through the glass walls.
Garcia, standing by the door, lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. Morgan instantly sits upright, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute" Derek interjects, completely breaking the protocol of the exercise. "Hold on. Hotch, are we still playing the character, or are we... because that sounded oddly specific."
Hotch doesn't break eye contact with Jordan. "Rule number one of interrogation, Agent Todd: never let outside interference break your focus. Continue."
Jordan looks bewildered, glancing at Morgan, then back to Hotch. "Uh... okay. If you're not bluffing, prove it. Give me a detail. Suspects who lie stumble on them. Give me a detail about this... imaginary partner."
Hotch relaxes back into his chair. He crosses his legs, the picture of absolute composure. But there is a softness in his eyes now, a tiny glint of something incredibly warm and fiercely protective that none of them have ever seen on a case.
"She’s younger than me," Hotch says, his voice dropping into a tone that is entirely too genuine to be acted. "Six years, to be exact. She’s an artist. An art teacher, specifically. She spends her days teaching children how to express themselves through color, because she believes the world is too bleak without it."
Prentiss’s jaw literally drops. She exchanges a wild, wide-eyed look with Rossi.
Rossi, for his part, has a massive, knowing grin spreading across his face. He leans forward, thoroughly invested now. "Go on, suspect. Describe her routine. Prove she lives there."
Hotch’s eyes flick to Rossi, a silent acknowledgement of the shift in the room. The exercise has officially devolved into a full-blown interrogation of Aaron Hotchner's secret life, and Hotch, surprisingly, is letting it happen.
"Her routine," Hotch murmurs, a genuine fond smile finally breaking through his stoic facade. "She wakes up earlier than I do but she stays in bed because she knows I like the quiet moments before the day starts. She smells like sandalwood and vanilla. There is currently a smudge of blue acrylic paint on the molding of my living room baseboard because she got a bit too enthusiastic while helping redesign the space. And if you walk into my kitchen right now, you’ll find a mug with a chipped handle that she refuses to throw away because she says it has 'character'."
"Oh my god," Garcia whispers, clutching her chest. "It’s not a drill. This is not a drill! Papa Bear has a honey!"
"Hotch," Morgan says, his voice a mix of utter disbelief and profound offense. "Are you serious right now? A whole year? You’ve been seeing someone for a year and you didn't say a damn word to us?"
"You never asked," Hotch replies smoothly, the quintessential corporate answer.
"We didn't ask because we thought you were married to the paperwork!" Prentiss exclaims, leaning over the table. "An art teacher? Six years younger? Hotch, how did you even meet an art teacher? You don't leave this building unless someone is dead!"
"At a gallery," Hotch says simply.
Jordan, realizing she has completely lost control of the room but completely fascinated by the unfolding drama, decides to play along with the team’s dynamic. "If this relationship is as serious as you say... how does your son feel about it? A man like you wouldn't bring a stranger into his child's life."
The mention of Jack makes Hotch’s entire demeanor soften completely. The rigid, formidable Unit Chief melts away, replaced entirely by a proud, fiercely loving father.
"Jack adores her," Hotch says, and there is a thick, emotional weight to his voice that commands the room's absolute silence. "They are... inseparable. He looks at her like she hung the stars. In fact, just this morning before I left for work, Jack told me in secret that he was planning on asking her if he could start calling her 'mama'."
Reid’s eyes widen, a soft, incredibly sweet smile spreading across his face. "That’s... that’s a huge psychological step for a child who experienced that kind of maternal trauma, Hotch. It means he feels entirely safe with her. Secure."
"He does," Hotch nods softly. "We both do."
"Hold up," Morgan says, narrowing his eyes as he processes the information. "You moved her into the house? With Jack? And there hasn't been a single security breach? No weird vibes? Hotch, you’re the most paranoid man I know. You background check the mailman."
"I did a background check on her," Hotch admits without an ounce of shame. "And her past is... complicated. She had a severe stalking incident with an ex-boyfriend before we met. The man is currently in maximum security, but the trauma of it doesn't just leave. Because of that, she doesn't travel alone."
"What do you mean?" Prentiss asks, her profiler mind immediately clicking into gear. "Does she have a security detail?"
"In a way," Hotch smiles. "She has a ninety-pound, professionally trained personal protection Doberman Pinscher named Buster."
Garcia lets out another gasp. "A Doberman! Oh, a big, scary, beautiful puppy!"
"He’s not a puppy," Hotch corrects, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "When I first met him, he wouldn't let me within five feet of her. It took three hours of patient integration before he allowed me to sit on the same couch. He is fiercely protective of her. But now?" Hotch chuckles, a low, rich sound that the team rarely hears. "Now, he’s Jack’s best friend. Jack dresses him up in superhero capes. Buster follows him around like a oversized shadow. Knowing that dog is at the house, knowing his teeth and his instincts are guarding my family when I am halfway across the country on a case... it’s the only reason I can sleep at night, Morgan."
The room falls into a warm, stunned silence. The image of the terrifying, unapproachable Aaron Hotchner going home to an art teacher, a laughing son, and a cape-wearing Doberman is almost too much for them to process.
Rossi leans forward, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Well, Agent Todd, I’d say you successfully cracked the suspect. Look at him. He’s spilling his guts."
Jordan laughs, raising her hands in surrender. "I think the team did most of the heavy lifting on this one, sir."
Morgan slaps his hand down on the table, a wide, challenging grin on his face. "Alright, Hotch. You let the cat out of the bag. You can't just drop a bomb like this and expect us to just go back to writing files. We need proof. We need to meet this saint of a woman who managed to tame the Unit Chief and a doberman."
"Yeah, Hotch," Prentiss chimes in, her eyes sparkling. "Dinner. This weekend. Or better yet, a barbecue at Rossi's. You owe us. One year of secrecy deserves at least a formal introduction."
Hotch looks around at his team—his family. He sees the genuine, deep-seated happiness in their eyes for him. They have seen him at his absolute lowest, through tragedy and grief, and he knows that their demanding nature right now comes from a place of pure, unadulterated love.
He glances at his watch. 4:30 PM.
"Alright," Hotch says, standing up and reaching for his suit jacket. "I'll tell you what. I'm heading home now. I will talk to her tonight. If she’s comfortable with it, we will arrange something for next weekend."
"Yes!" Garcia cheers, pumping her fist in the air.
"She better say yes, Hotch" Morgan warns playfully, walking with him toward the door. "Because otherwise, I'm going to start showing up at art galleries looking for a woman with a giant dog."
Hotch just shakes his head, a lingering smile on his face as he grabs his briefcase. "Goodnight, everyone. And Jordan? Good job today. You found the pressure point."
With a final, parting nod, Hotch exits the bullpen, his stride lighter than it has been in a very long time.
The drive home is a blur of anticipation. By the time Hotch pulls his sedan into the driveway of his suburban home, the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden-orange shadows across the lawn.
As soon as he cuts the engine, he can see the warm glow of the living room lights through the front window. He steps out of the car, gripping his briefcase, and walks up the front porch. Before he can even get his key into the lock, the heavy, muffled sound of barking echoes from inside—not an aggressive bark, but the sharp, excited alerts of Buster recognizing his car.
The door swings open before he can turn the key.
There you stand. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few stray tendrils framing your face. You’re wearing an oversized flannel shirt that actually belongs to him, paired with leggings, and there is a faint smudge of yellow pastel on your cheek. Behind you, Buster is vibrating with excitement, his docked tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters are shaking.
"Hey," you say softly, a brilliant, warm smile lighting up your face.
"Hey," Aaron breathes. Every ounce of residual stress from the Bureau, the weight of the dark cases, the exhaustion of the week—it all evaporates the moment he looks at you.
He steps across the threshold, dropping his briefcase on the entryway table, and immediately pulls you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp evening air. Aaron squeezes you tightly, his large hand cupping the back of your head, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into your hair.
Buster whines loudly, nudging his massive head right between your hips, demanding his share of the greeting.
Aaron laughs against your hair, finally pulling back just enough to look down at you. "Missed you too, buddy," he murmurs, reaching down with one hand to vigorously scratch Buster behind his floppy ears. The Doberman leans heavily into Aaron’s leg, eyes half-closed in bliss.
"Daddy!"
A small streak of lightning comes hurtling down the hallway. Jack skids to a halt on the hardwood floor, a massive grin on his face. Aaron immediately drops to one knee, catching his son in a tight embrace, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Hey, buddy," Aaron says, his voice thick with affection. "Have you been good for Y/N?"
"The best," Jack proudly declares as Aaron sets him down. "We played superheroes! Buster was Super-Buster. And, Daddy? Guess what?"
Aaron looks up at you, his eyes twinkling with a soft, knowing warmth, before looking back at his son. "What's that, Jack?"
Jack looks at you, then back to his dad, his chest puffing out with pride. "I asked her, and she said yes. I get to call her Mama now!"
Aaron freezes for a fraction of a second. His eyes instantly flick up to yours. You offer him a soft, slightly watery smile, nodding gently.
Aaron’s chest heaves with a deep, emotional breath. He looks back down at Jack, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, his thumb stroking through his fabric. "She did? That... that is the best news I’ve ever heard, Jack. You are a very lucky boy."
"I know!" Jack beams. "Come on, Buster, let's go get the cape!" Jack takes off toward the kitchen, Buster bounding happily right at his heels, his heavy paws clicking against the floor.
Aaron stands up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He steps closer, reaching out to gently cup your face with both hands. His thumbs gently brush over your cheekbones, wiping away the small smudge of yellow pastel.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice raw and deeply emotional. "For everything. For loving him. For being here."
"Aaron," you murmur, placing your hands over his wrists. "There is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. I love him. And I love you."
He kisses you then—a deep, slow, fiercely possessive kiss that speaks of promises, safety, and a future he never thought he’d get to have again. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his breathing steadying.
"So," he says, a sudden, amused hitch in his voice. "I have a bit of a confession to make."
You eyebrow arches, a playful smile touching your lips. "Oh really? Should I be worried? Did you bring home more paperwork?"
"Not paperwork" Aaron chuckles, leading you by the hand toward the living room couch. You both sit down, settling close against one another. "Today at the office, we did an interrogation training exercise with the new agent. I was playing the suspect."
"Okay..." you say, thoroughly intrigued. "How did it go?"
"Well," Aaron rubs the back of his neck, looking incredibly amused. "They tried to profile me. They suggested I went home to an empty house and that I had no one. So... I used a tactic. I told them the truth."
Your eyes widen slightly. "The truth? As in... about us?"
"About us" Aaron nods, his smile widening. "I might have mentioned that I’ve been seeing an incredibly talented, beautiful art teacher for a year. And that we moved in together. And that she has a ninety-pound Doberman protector who keeps her safe when I'm away."
You let out a startled, delighted laugh, burying your face in his chest. "Aaron! You didn't! You are notoriously the most private person on the planet! Your team must have experienced collective whiplash."
"Morgan almost fell out of his chair," Aaron admits, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Prentiss stopped breathing for a second, and Garcia screamed. They completely abandoned the training exercise and turned it into a full-scale interrogation about my personal life."
You look up at him, your heart swelling with an intense, overwhelming warmth. The fact that he was willing to share you—to proudly proclaim your existence to the people who mattered most to him—was the ultimate testament to how safe and secure he felt in this relationship.
"So" you smile, tracing the collar of his shirt. "What happens now? Are they going to put a tail on me?"
"Worse" Aaron smiles, kissing the top of your head. "They demanded a dinner. They want to meet you. Next weekend, if you're up for it. Rossi offered to host a barbecue at his place. It’ll be loud, Morgan will probably try to grill you for embarrassing stories about me, Garcia will try to hug you a dozen times, and Reid will likely list off thirty different facts about art history. But... they are my family, honey. And they are dying to meet the woman who brought me back to life."
You lean into him, looking out toward the kitchen where Jack's laughter echoes, accompanied by the happy thud of Buster's tail. The fear that used to define your life feels like a distant, faded memory, replaced entirely by the solid, unbreakable reality of the man holding you.
"I think" you say softly, looking up into Aaron's beautiful, dark eyes "that Super-Buster and I would absolutely love to go to a barbecue."
pairing: spencer reid x french!reader (mentioned, used of french)
summary: The one where the team thinks Spencer and Y/N have a quiet, innocent romance, until they accidentally crash date night and realize Spencer learned a few very different things after prison.
tw: mdni, insinuation of smut, spencer is surprisingly hot & confident, team is unsurprisingly noisy
word count: 875 words.
masterlist
~♡~
The team had pinned you down perfectly—or so they thought. To the BAU, you were the epitome of effortless European grace. A French teacher who had packed up her life after high school to attend university in USA and ended up staying for most of her adult life. You carried yourself with a casual elegance that couldn’t be taught. Your accent was a soft, melodic lilt that clung to your words, perfectly adapted to English but still distinctly, beautifully french.
They adored you. But more than anyone, Spencer worshipped the ground you walked on.
You had met him not long after he got out of prison, during a time when his world was fractured and heavy.
Somehow, your quiet, eloquent presence became his anchor. Since then, the two of you had been practically inseparable. Because you were always so modest, poised, and soft-spoken, the team naturally assumed your relationship with Spencer was a sweet, intellectual, almost library-quiet romance.
They were hilariously wrong.
It’s a Friday night, and Penelope has successfully dragged Luke and JJ out to L'Atoll, the new, highly anticipated tropical-themed restaurant downtown. The atmosphere is vibrant—dim, warm lighting, lush indoor palm trees, and the low thrum of steel drums and bossa nova playing over the speakers.
"I'm telling you, the passionfruit mojitos here are supposed to be life-changing," Garcia beams, scanning the crowded room as the hostess leads them toward a booth.
But midway through the dining room, Garcia freezes. Her jaw drops.
"No way," JJ mutters, blinking rapidly.
Luke just lets out a low whistle, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
A few tables away, tucked into a semi-private booth draped in faux hibiscus vines, sit Spencer and you. But this isn't the Spencer and y/n they know.
Spencer is wearing a crisp, dark linen shirt—but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and the top three buttons are completely undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his chest. He looks relaxed, leaning back, a look of pure, smoldering confidence on his face that the team has never seen outside of a high-stakes interrogation room.
And you?
You are breathtaking.
Gone is the oversized knit sweater and the modest midi-skirt you usually wear to team dinners. Tonight, you’re in a slinky, emerald-green silk slip dress with a plunging back. Your hair is effortlessly pinned up, leaving your neck bare, and your lips are painted a bold, dangerous crimson.
"Should we go say hi?" Garcia whispers, clutching her purse, torn between respect for privacy and sheer, unadulterated shock. "I mean, look at them! They look like a movie poster!"
"Hold on," Luke says, gently catching Garcia’s arm and nodding subtly toward the underside of your table. "Look closer. I don't think we should interrupt."
JJ and Garcia squint through the foliage.
Your bare leg is extended, your foot wrapped in gold high heeled sandal slowly, deliberately tracing its way up and down Spencer’s calf, past his knee, and disappearing under the hem of his trousers. Spencer doesn't even flinch. Instead, his gaze darkens, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his lips as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes locked dead on yours. He reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around your ankle to steady your leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin before his hand begins to slide upward. He doesn't stop at your calf. His hand ventures higher, slipping past the hem of your emerald dress, his palm warm and possessive against the bare skin of your thigh. He squeezes, a silent command that has your breath hitching, forcing your leg higher into his lap.
"Oh my god," Garcia squeaks, turning around. "Okay, we are third-wheeling a vibe that is way too hot for us. Abort mission."
"We're not aborting," Luke chuckles, steering the girls to a table a few spots away, perfectly positioned to watch the drama unfold. "We're sitting right here. I need to see how smooth Reid actually is."
You catch the movement out of the corner of your eye. A flash of Garcia’s bright blonde hair, JJ’s shocked expression, and Luke’s amused smirk. You don't miss a beat. Leaning across the table, the silk of your dress shifting provocatively, you let out a low, amused hum.
"Mon chéri" you purr, your French accent thickening just a bit, a playful glint in your eyes. "Don't look now, but we have an audience. Your friends are three tables to your left."
Spencer doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look over. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. The prison walls had hardened him in ways the team rarely saw, but tonight, combined with your teasing, it manifests as pure, unadulterated confidence.
"Is that so?" Spencer asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and rasping.
"Oui" you murmur, leaning in closer, your fingers reaching out to trace the open collar of his shirt, your nails lightly grazing his collarbone. "They are trying very hard to pretend they are not staring. Should we acknowledge them?"
"Absolutely not," Spencer murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with sudden, intense heat. "Let's pretend they don't exist. In fact, let's give them a reason to look away."
With absolute, cool composure, Spencer slides over, bridging the gap between you until his chest is pressed against your shoulder. His hand leaves your thigh to grip the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the stray hairs at your hairline. He doesn't just kiss you; he claims you. It’s a slow, deep, filthy kiss that tastes of rum and desire, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that feels intensely private yet wildly bold.
You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, and Spencer takes advantage of the sound, pulling back just enough to trail his lips down your jawline. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath anchoring you to the spot as he bites gently at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, sucking softly until you let out a breathless moan. His hand on your thigh returns, sliding dangerously high, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip under the silk dress. It is blatant, heavy foreplay, right in the middle of the restaurant.
When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, your lips are flushed, and you let out a breathless laugh. He keeps his back squarely to the team, his universe entirely shrunk down to just you, leaving them staring in absolute, stunned silence.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen the next Monday is thick with unvented gossip. Garcia is practically vibrating at her desk in her office, while JJ and Luke are hovering near the coffee machine, waiting.
Right on cue, Spencer walks through the glass doors. He looks entirely too refreshed for a Monday morning. His stride is relaxed, his posture easy, and there's a certain, undeniable contentment in the way he carries himself.
Luke waits until Spencer pours himself a mug of black coffee before leaning against the counter, a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"Morning, Reid," Luke says, his tone dripping with mock casualness. "Had a good weekend? Got up to anything... interesting?"
Spencer takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. He doesn't look startled. He doesn't blush. He just turns his head, looking Luke dead in the eye with a cool, unbothered expression.
"I did, actually" Spencer replies, his voice steady and completely devoid of his usual academic rambling.
He sets his mug down, leaning back against the counter, mimicking Luke's posture with a smug, cocky grin.
"And judging by how much time you, JJ, and Garcia spent staring at my girlfriend's legs friday night, I'd say you already know exactly how good it was."
Luke’s smirk falters, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
Spencer gives him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Don't worry, Alvez. Maybe if you play your cards right, one day you'll get some, too."
With a sharp, victorious nod, Spencer picks up his coffee and strolls right past a stunned Luke, heading up the stairs to the round table room without looking back.
pairing: spencer reid x french!reader (mentioned, used of french)
summary: The one where the team thinks Spencer and Y/N have a quiet, innocent romance, until they accidentally crash date night and realize Spencer learned a few very different things after prison.
tw: mdni, insinuation of smut, spencer is surprisingly hot & confident, team is unsurprisingly noisy
word count: 875 words.
masterlist
~♡~
The team had pinned you down perfectly—or so they thought. To the BAU, you were the epitome of effortless European grace. A French teacher who had packed up her life after high school to attend university in USA and ended up staying for most of her adult life. You carried yourself with a casual elegance that couldn’t be taught. Your accent was a soft, melodic lilt that clung to your words, perfectly adapted to English but still distinctly, beautifully french.
They adored you. But more than anyone, Spencer worshipped the ground you walked on.
You had met him not long after he got out of prison, during a time when his world was fractured and heavy.
Somehow, your quiet, eloquent presence became his anchor. Since then, the two of you had been practically inseparable. Because you were always so modest, poised, and soft-spoken, the team naturally assumed your relationship with Spencer was a sweet, intellectual, almost library-quiet romance.
They were hilariously wrong.
It’s a Friday night, and Penelope has successfully dragged Luke and JJ out to L'Atoll, the new, highly anticipated tropical-themed restaurant downtown. The atmosphere is vibrant—dim, warm lighting, lush indoor palm trees, and the low thrum of steel drums and bossa nova playing over the speakers.
"I'm telling you, the passionfruit mojitos here are supposed to be life-changing," Garcia beams, scanning the crowded room as the hostess leads them toward a booth.
But midway through the dining room, Garcia freezes. Her jaw drops.
"No way," JJ mutters, blinking rapidly.
Luke just lets out a low whistle, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
A few tables away, tucked into a semi-private booth draped in faux hibiscus vines, sit Spencer and you. But this isn't the Spencer and y/n they know.
Spencer is wearing a crisp, dark linen shirt—but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and the top three buttons are completely undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his chest. He looks relaxed, leaning back, a look of pure, smoldering confidence on his face that the team has never seen outside of a high-stakes interrogation room.
And you?
You are breathtaking.
Gone is the oversized knit sweater and the modest midi-skirt you usually wear to team dinners. Tonight, you’re in a slinky, emerald-green silk slip dress with a plunging back. Your hair is effortlessly pinned up, leaving your neck bare, and your lips are painted a bold, dangerous crimson.
"Should we go say hi?" Garcia whispers, clutching her purse, torn between respect for privacy and sheer, unadulterated shock. "I mean, look at them! They look like a movie poster!"
"Hold on," Luke says, gently catching Garcia’s arm and nodding subtly toward the underside of your table. "Look closer. I don't think we should interrupt."
JJ and Garcia squint through the foliage.
Your bare leg is extended, your foot wrapped in gold high heeled sandal slowly, deliberately tracing its way up and down Spencer’s calf, past his knee, and disappearing under the hem of his trousers. Spencer doesn't even flinch. Instead, his gaze darkens, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his lips as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes locked dead on yours. He reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around your ankle to steady your leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin before his hand begins to slide upward. He doesn't stop at your calf. His hand ventures higher, slipping past the hem of your emerald dress, his palm warm and possessive against the bare skin of your thigh. He squeezes, a silent command that has your breath hitching, forcing your leg higher into his lap.
"Oh my god," Garcia squeaks, turning around. "Okay, we are third-wheeling a vibe that is way too hot for us. Abort mission."
"We're not aborting," Luke chuckles, steering the girls to a table a few spots away, perfectly positioned to watch the drama unfold. "We're sitting right here. I need to see how smooth Reid actually is."
You catch the movement out of the corner of your eye. A flash of Garcia’s bright blonde hair, JJ’s shocked expression, and Luke’s amused smirk. You don't miss a beat. Leaning across the table, the silk of your dress shifting provocatively, you let out a low, amused hum.
"Mon chéri" you purr, your French accent thickening just a bit, a playful glint in your eyes. "Don't look now, but we have an audience. Your friends are three tables to your left."
Spencer doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look over. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. The prison walls had hardened him in ways the team rarely saw, but tonight, combined with your teasing, it manifests as pure, unadulterated confidence.
"Is that so?" Spencer asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and rasping.
"Oui" you murmur, leaning in closer, your fingers reaching out to trace the open collar of his shirt, your nails lightly grazing his collarbone. "They are trying very hard to pretend they are not staring. Should we acknowledge them?"
"Absolutely not," Spencer murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with sudden, intense heat. "Let's pretend they don't exist. In fact, let's give them a reason to look away."
With absolute, cool composure, Spencer slides over, bridging the gap between you until his chest is pressed against your shoulder. His hand leaves your thigh to grip the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the stray hairs at your hairline. He doesn't just kiss you; he claims you. It’s a slow, deep, filthy kiss that tastes of rum and desire, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that feels intensely private yet wildly bold.
You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, and Spencer takes advantage of the sound, pulling back just enough to trail his lips down your jawline. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath anchoring you to the spot as he bites gently at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, sucking softly until you let out a breathless moan. His hand on your thigh returns, sliding dangerously high, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip under the silk dress. It is blatant, heavy foreplay, right in the middle of the restaurant.
When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, your lips are flushed, and you let out a breathless laugh. He keeps his back squarely to the team, his universe entirely shrunk down to just you, leaving them staring in absolute, stunned silence.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen the next Monday is thick with unvented gossip. Garcia is practically vibrating at her desk in her office, while JJ and Luke are hovering near the coffee machine, waiting.
Right on cue, Spencer walks through the glass doors. He looks entirely too refreshed for a Monday morning. His stride is relaxed, his posture easy, and there's a certain, undeniable contentment in the way he carries himself.
Luke waits until Spencer pours himself a mug of black coffee before leaning against the counter, a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"Morning, Reid," Luke says, his tone dripping with mock casualness. "Had a good weekend? Got up to anything... interesting?"
Spencer takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. He doesn't look startled. He doesn't blush. He just turns his head, looking Luke dead in the eye with a cool, unbothered expression.
"I did, actually" Spencer replies, his voice steady and completely devoid of his usual academic rambling.
He sets his mug down, leaning back against the counter, mimicking Luke's posture with a smug, cocky grin.
"And judging by how much time you, JJ, and Garcia spent staring at my girlfriend's legs friday night, I'd say you already know exactly how good it was."
Luke’s smirk falters, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
Spencer gives him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Don't worry, Alvez. Maybe if you play your cards right, one day you'll get some, too."
With a sharp, victorious nod, Spencer picks up his coffee and strolls right past a stunned Luke, heading up the stairs to the round table room without looking back.
pairing: spencer reid x french!reader (mentioned, used of french)
summary: The one where the team thinks Spencer and Y/N have a quiet, innocent romance, until they accidentally crash date night and realize Spencer learned a few very different things after prison.
tw: mdni, insinuation of smut, spencer is surprisingly hot & confident, team is unsurprisingly noisy
word count: 875 words.
masterlist
~♡~
The team had pinned you down perfectly—or so they thought. To the BAU, you were the epitome of effortless European grace. A French teacher who had packed up her life after high school to attend university in USA and ended up staying for most of her adult life. You carried yourself with a casual elegance that couldn’t be taught. Your accent was a soft, melodic lilt that clung to your words, perfectly adapted to English but still distinctly, beautifully french.
They adored you. But more than anyone, Spencer worshipped the ground you walked on.
You had met him not long after he got out of prison, during a time when his world was fractured and heavy.
Somehow, your quiet, eloquent presence became his anchor. Since then, the two of you had been practically inseparable. Because you were always so modest, poised, and soft-spoken, the team naturally assumed your relationship with Spencer was a sweet, intellectual, almost library-quiet romance.
They were hilariously wrong.
It’s a Friday night, and Penelope has successfully dragged Luke and JJ out to L'Atoll, the new, highly anticipated tropical-themed restaurant downtown. The atmosphere is vibrant—dim, warm lighting, lush indoor palm trees, and the low thrum of steel drums and bossa nova playing over the speakers.
"I'm telling you, the passionfruit mojitos here are supposed to be life-changing," Garcia beams, scanning the crowded room as the hostess leads them toward a booth.
But midway through the dining room, Garcia freezes. Her jaw drops.
"No way," JJ mutters, blinking rapidly.
Luke just lets out a low whistle, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
A few tables away, tucked into a semi-private booth draped in faux hibiscus vines, sit Spencer and you. But this isn't the Spencer and y/n they know.
Spencer is wearing a crisp, dark linen shirt—but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and the top three buttons are completely undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his chest. He looks relaxed, leaning back, a look of pure, smoldering confidence on his face that the team has never seen outside of a high-stakes interrogation room.
And you?
You are breathtaking.
Gone is the oversized knit sweater and the modest midi-skirt you usually wear to team dinners. Tonight, you’re in a slinky, emerald-green silk slip dress with a plunging back. Your hair is effortlessly pinned up, leaving your neck bare, and your lips are painted a bold, dangerous crimson.
"Should we go say hi?" Garcia whispers, clutching her purse, torn between respect for privacy and sheer, unadulterated shock. "I mean, look at them! They look like a movie poster!"
"Hold on," Luke says, gently catching Garcia’s arm and nodding subtly toward the underside of your table. "Look closer. I don't think we should interrupt."
JJ and Garcia squint through the foliage.
Your bare leg is extended, your foot wrapped in gold high heeled sandal slowly, deliberately tracing its way up and down Spencer’s calf, past his knee, and disappearing under the hem of his trousers. Spencer doesn't even flinch. Instead, his gaze darkens, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his lips as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes locked dead on yours. He reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around your ankle to steady your leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin before his hand begins to slide upward. He doesn't stop at your calf. His hand ventures higher, slipping past the hem of your emerald dress, his palm warm and possessive against the bare skin of your thigh. He squeezes, a silent command that has your breath hitching, forcing your leg higher into his lap.
"Oh my god," Garcia squeaks, turning around. "Okay, we are third-wheeling a vibe that is way too hot for us. Abort mission."
"We're not aborting," Luke chuckles, steering the girls to a table a few spots away, perfectly positioned to watch the drama unfold. "We're sitting right here. I need to see how smooth Reid actually is."
You catch the movement out of the corner of your eye. A flash of Garcia’s bright blonde hair, JJ’s shocked expression, and Luke’s amused smirk. You don't miss a beat. Leaning across the table, the silk of your dress shifting provocatively, you let out a low, amused hum.
"Mon chéri" you purr, your French accent thickening just a bit, a playful glint in your eyes. "Don't look now, but we have an audience. Your friends are three tables to your left."
Spencer doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look over. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. The prison walls had hardened him in ways the team rarely saw, but tonight, combined with your teasing, it manifests as pure, unadulterated confidence.
"Is that so?" Spencer asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and rasping.
"Oui" you murmur, leaning in closer, your fingers reaching out to trace the open collar of his shirt, your nails lightly grazing his collarbone. "They are trying very hard to pretend they are not staring. Should we acknowledge them?"
"Absolutely not," Spencer murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with sudden, intense heat. "Let's pretend they don't exist. In fact, let's give them a reason to look away."
With absolute, cool composure, Spencer slides over, bridging the gap between you until his chest is pressed against your shoulder. His hand leaves your thigh to grip the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the stray hairs at your hairline. He doesn't just kiss you; he claims you. It’s a slow, deep, filthy kiss that tastes of rum and desire, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that feels intensely private yet wildly bold.
You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, and Spencer takes advantage of the sound, pulling back just enough to trail his lips down your jawline. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath anchoring you to the spot as he bites gently at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, sucking softly until you let out a breathless moan. His hand on your thigh returns, sliding dangerously high, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip under the silk dress. It is blatant, heavy foreplay, right in the middle of the restaurant.
When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, your lips are flushed, and you let out a breathless laugh. He keeps his back squarely to the team, his universe entirely shrunk down to just you, leaving them staring in absolute, stunned silence.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen the next Monday is thick with unvented gossip. Garcia is practically vibrating at her desk in her office, while JJ and Luke are hovering near the coffee machine, waiting.
Right on cue, Spencer walks through the glass doors. He looks entirely too refreshed for a Monday morning. His stride is relaxed, his posture easy, and there's a certain, undeniable contentment in the way he carries himself.
Luke waits until Spencer pours himself a mug of black coffee before leaning against the counter, a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"Morning, Reid," Luke says, his tone dripping with mock casualness. "Had a good weekend? Got up to anything... interesting?"
Spencer takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. He doesn't look startled. He doesn't blush. He just turns his head, looking Luke dead in the eye with a cool, unbothered expression.
"I did, actually" Spencer replies, his voice steady and completely devoid of his usual academic rambling.
He sets his mug down, leaning back against the counter, mimicking Luke's posture with a smug, cocky grin.
"And judging by how much time you, JJ, and Garcia spent staring at my girlfriend's legs friday night, I'd say you already know exactly how good it was."
Luke’s smirk falters, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
Spencer gives him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Don't worry, Alvez. Maybe if you play your cards right, one day you'll get some, too."
With a sharp, victorious nod, Spencer picks up his coffee and strolls right past a stunned Luke, heading up the stairs to the round table room without looking back.
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summary: aaron confirms his relationship during a game of interrogation. the team had no idea.
tw: mentions of abusive/toxic relationships, Jack being absolute sweetheart.
word count: 1.9k
authors note: coming back to you as a married woman now! I have one spencer reid story planned for this week. Please let me know how you like this one.
tag: @wormznrocks
masterlist
~♡~
The soft scratching of a charcoal pencil against heavy textured paper is usually the only sound that fills your sunlit living room on a Friday afternoon. Today, it’s soundtracked by the rhythmic, heavy thud of a docked tail wagging against the hardwood floor, and the bright, breathless laughter of a seven-year-old boy.
You look up from your sketchbook, a fond smile immediately tugging at your lips. Jack is currently on his hands and knees, completely buried beneath the massive, sleek frame of Buster, your ninety-pound doberman. Buster, whose usual demeanor is that of an imposing, razor-sharp guardian, has completely melted into a puddle of compliance. He is currently letting Jack drape a red superhero cape around his neck, his dark brown eyes tracking the little boy with nothing short of absolute adoration.
"Look, Y/N! He’s Super-Buster now!" Jack crows, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. He looks so much like his father in that exact moment that it catches in your chest.
"He looks magnificent, sweetie" you laugh, setting your sketchbook on the coffee table. "But I think Super-Buster is requesting a tactical deployment of belly rubs."
As if understanding the cue, Buster flops onto his side with a dramatic grunt, his massive paws curling into the air. Jack squeals with delight and immediately obliges, burying his small hands into the dog's sleek fur.
Watching them, a profound sense of peace settles over you—a feeling that, up until a year ago, you weren't sure you’d ever experience again.
Your past is a shadow you’ve had to run from for a long time.
Your ex-boyfriend hadn't just handled your breakup poorly. He had turned into a terrifying, relentless specter in your life. The stalking had escalated from flooded inboxes and unexpected appearances at your art studio to broken windows, slashed tires, and the suffocating feeling that you were constantly being watched. It had stripped away your sense of safety, leaving you hyper-vigilant and constantly looking over your shoulder.
Buster had been your saving grace. Trained rigorously for personal protection, the doberman became your living, breathing shield. He was the only reason you could sleep at night, a fierce deterrent of teeth and muscle that kept the nightmare at bay until the law finally caught up with your ex.
Now, that man was behind bars, serving a lengthy sentence, but the emotional scars didn't just vanish with a prison verdict.
Then, Aaron Hotchner walked into your life.
You had met him entirely by chance at a local community art gallery where some of your students' work was being displayed. He had been standing in front of a messy, vibrant watercolor painted by a six-year-old, looking at it with the kind of intense, quiet gravity he usually reserved for federal cases. You had approached him, amused, and a conversation about the raw honesty of children's art had sparked something neither of you expected.
Despite the six-year age gap, and despite the heavy armor you both wore—him from the horrors of his job and the grief of his past, you from the trauma of your stalking—you clicked. Aaron didn't push. He was patient, a steady and immovable rock in a world that had always felt like shifting sand to you. When he finally met Buster, he hadn't been intimidated or put off by the dog’s intense guarding instincts. Instead, Aaron had looked at the massive animal, then at you, and you had seen a visible wave of relief wash over his usually stoic features.
“Knowing he’s here with you when I’m on the road” Aaron had murmured one night, his large hand buried in Buster’s fur after the dog had finally deemed him trustworthy “it’s the first time in years I haven't worried myself sick leaving for a case.”
Three months ago, you took the leap and moved into Aaron’s house. It had been a seamless transition. Jack absolutely adored you, and perhaps more importantly, Jack and Buster had become an inseparable duo. Aaron jokes that Buster has officially traded his guard-dog credentials to become a glorified toddler-enabler, but you all know the truth: Buster loves Jack just as fiercely as he loves you.
"Y/N?" Jack's voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He has abandoned the belly rubs and is now leaning his elbows on the edge of the coffee table, looking at you with big, earnest eyes. "When is Daddy coming home?"
You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s just past four in the afternoon. "He should be home in a few hours, bud. He said they had a lighter day at the office today—mostly paperwork and training."
"Do you think he'll play catch with us? Me and Super-Buster?"
"I think if you ask him nicely, he won't be able to say no," you smile, reaching out to ruffle Jack’s hair.
Jack beams, then hesitates, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. He fidgets with the edge of his sleeve, looking down at his sneakers before looking back up at you. "Um... Y/N?"
"Yeah, sweetie? What's up?"
"Can I... can I ask you something big?"
Your heart softens, and you shift so you're facing him fully. "Of course you can. You can ask me anything."
Jack swallows, his small shoulders rising and falling. "My friend Maya at school... she has a mom and a dad. And she calls her mom 'mama'. I know my mommy Haley is in heaven..." He looks up, his eyes swimming with a mixture of vulnerability and hope that completely melts your heart. "But since you live with us now, and you take care of me, and you're my favorite person... is it okay if I call you mama Y/N? Or just... mama?"
For a second, the breath catches in your throat. A warmth so fierce and consuming floods your chest that tears prick the corners of your eyes. You know how much Haley meant to this family, and you have never, ever tried to replace her. To hear Jack offer this up entirely on his own is the most profound gift you've ever received.
You slide off the couch onto the floor, pulling Jack into a tight, warm hug. Buster immediately shuffles over, whining softly and nudging his wet nose against your tangled arms, wanting to be included.
"Oh, Jack," you whisper into his hair, blinking back tears of pure happiness. "I would love nothing more in the whole world than for you to call me mama. It would be the biggest honor."
Jack squeezes your neck tightly, his small body relaxing completely against yours. "Good. Because Buster and I already talked about it, and he agrees."
You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. "Oh, he agrees, does he? Well, far be it from us to argue with Super-Buster."
As you hold Jack, you can't help but wish Aaron were here to see this. You know how much this would mean to him—to know that the home you've built together is whole, happy, and brimming with love.
What you don't know, however, is that at that exact moment, across town in the glass-walled offices of the BAU, your stoic, fiercely private boyfriend is currently being subjected to a completely different kind of interrogation.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen is deceptively relaxed, a rare occurrence that usually only happens when a string of brutal cases finally snaps shut, leaving a graveyard of paperwork in its wake. But today, the quiet afternoon has been weaponized for a different purpose.
In one of the glass-walled conference rooms, the entire team is gathered. Derek Morgan is leaning back in his chair with a smirk, his arms crossed over his chest. Emily Prentiss is twirling a pen between her fingers, an amused glint in her eyes. Spencer Reid is nervously adjusting his satchel, though his eyes are sharp with analytical curiosity, and Penelope Garcia is practically vibrating with excitement, hovering near the doorway.
At the head of the table sits Aaron Hotchner. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and his expression is a terrifying, blank slate of absolute stoicism.
Opposite him sits David Rossi, looking like a man who is thoroughly enjoying his retirement years, even while on active duty. Next to Rossi is the catalyst for this entire exercise: Agent Jordan Todd, the newest addition to the team, who is currently sweating through her blazer.
The past few weeks had revealed a glaring vulnerability in Jordan's skillset. While she was brilliant at media relations and assessing public threats, her face-to-face interrogations with hardened suspects had been lacking. She struggled to maintain control of the room, often letting suspects deflect or read her emotions.
To remedy this, Hotch had suggested a hands-on training exercise. A "game," though anyone who knew Aaron Hotchner knew he didn't actually play games. The premise was simple: Hotch would play the role of a highly uncooperative, highly intelligent suspect. The team’s objective was to use various interrogation tactics to extract as much concrete, verifiable personal data from him as possible within a one-hour time limit.
"Alright, Jordan," Rossi says softly, leaning back. "The floor is yours. You’ve been trying the direct approach for fifteen minutes, and he hasn't given you a single inch. Change your angle. Find the pressure point."
Jordan swallows, looking at Hotch. Hotch doesn't blink. He looks like a statue carved out of marble and bureaucratic authority.
"Okay," Jordan says, leaning forward, trying to project confidence. "Suspects like you... you think you’re completely self-sufficient. You think you don't need anyone. But everyone has a anchor. A point of vulnerability. Let's talk about your personal life."
Hotch tilts his head by a fraction of a millimeter. "My personal life is not relevant to the charges."
"It's relevant to your psychology," Jordan counters, gaining a bit of footing. "You work long hours. You’re cold, distant. I bet you go home to an empty house every night, don't you? No one is waiting for you. No one cares when you walk through that door."
Morgan hides a smirk behind his hand. Prentiss bites the inside of her cheek. They all know Hotch’s life—or at least, they think they do. They know about the tragic loss of Haley, they know about Jack, and they know Hotch lives a solitary, dedicated life split entirely between the Bureau and his son.
Hotch lets a long, agonizing silence stretch through the room. Then, very slowly, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touches the corner of his lips. It’s gone so fast Jordan almost misses it.
"An empty house," Hotch repeats, his voice a low, steady baritone. "That’s an interesting assumption."
"It's an accurate one," Jordan pushes, thinking she’s found a crack. "Men in your position don't have time for relationships. You're married to the job. You don't have anyone."
Hotch leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks directly into Jordan's eyes, his expression a masterclass in controlled manipulation. "If I told you I did have someone, what would your profile say then?"
The room shifts. It’s subtle, but the collective energy of the BAU team suddenly sharpens.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up. Prentiss stops twirling her pen. Even Reid looks up from his notes, his head tilting like a confused puppy.
"I'd say you're bluffing," Jordan says, though she falters slightly under his intense gaze. "You're trying to project a sense of normalcy to throw me off. It’s a classic deflection tactic."
"Is it?" Hotch asks smoothly. He doesn't look at the rest of the team, keeping his focus entirely on Jordan, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s teaching her how a suspect can use truth as a weapon to disorient an interrogator. "What if I told you that not only do I have someone, but we’ve been together for over a year. And what if I told you we recently moved in together?"
A collective, silent gasp seems to echo through the glass walls.
Garcia, standing by the door, lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. Morgan instantly sits upright, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute" Derek interjects, completely breaking the protocol of the exercise. "Hold on. Hotch, are we still playing the character, or are we... because that sounded oddly specific."
Hotch doesn't break eye contact with Jordan. "Rule number one of interrogation, Agent Todd: never let outside interference break your focus. Continue."
Jordan looks bewildered, glancing at Morgan, then back to Hotch. "Uh... okay. If you're not bluffing, prove it. Give me a detail. Suspects who lie stumble on them. Give me a detail about this... imaginary partner."
Hotch relaxes back into his chair. He crosses his legs, the picture of absolute composure. But there is a softness in his eyes now, a tiny glint of something incredibly warm and fiercely protective that none of them have ever seen on a case.
"She’s younger than me," Hotch says, his voice dropping into a tone that is entirely too genuine to be acted. "Six years, to be exact. She’s an artist. An art teacher, specifically. She spends her days teaching children how to express themselves through color, because she believes the world is too bleak without it."
Prentiss’s jaw literally drops. She exchanges a wild, wide-eyed look with Rossi.
Rossi, for his part, has a massive, knowing grin spreading across his face. He leans forward, thoroughly invested now. "Go on, suspect. Describe her routine. Prove she lives there."
Hotch’s eyes flick to Rossi, a silent acknowledgement of the shift in the room. The exercise has officially devolved into a full-blown interrogation of Aaron Hotchner's secret life, and Hotch, surprisingly, is letting it happen.
"Her routine," Hotch murmurs, a genuine fond smile finally breaking through his stoic facade. "She wakes up earlier than I do but she stays in bed because she knows I like the quiet moments before the day starts. She smells like sandalwood and vanilla. There is currently a smudge of blue acrylic paint on the molding of my living room baseboard because she got a bit too enthusiastic while helping redesign the space. And if you walk into my kitchen right now, you’ll find a mug with a chipped handle that she refuses to throw away because she says it has 'character'."
"Oh my god," Garcia whispers, clutching her chest. "It’s not a drill. This is not a drill! Papa Bear has a honey!"
"Hotch," Morgan says, his voice a mix of utter disbelief and profound offense. "Are you serious right now? A whole year? You’ve been seeing someone for a year and you didn't say a damn word to us?"
"You never asked," Hotch replies smoothly, the quintessential corporate answer.
"We didn't ask because we thought you were married to the paperwork!" Prentiss exclaims, leaning over the table. "An art teacher? Six years younger? Hotch, how did you even meet an art teacher? You don't leave this building unless someone is dead!"
"At a gallery," Hotch says simply.
Jordan, realizing she has completely lost control of the room but completely fascinated by the unfolding drama, decides to play along with the team’s dynamic. "If this relationship is as serious as you say... how does your son feel about it? A man like you wouldn't bring a stranger into his child's life."
The mention of Jack makes Hotch’s entire demeanor soften completely. The rigid, formidable Unit Chief melts away, replaced entirely by a proud, fiercely loving father.
"Jack adores her," Hotch says, and there is a thick, emotional weight to his voice that commands the room's absolute silence. "They are... inseparable. He looks at her like she hung the stars. In fact, just this morning before I left for work, Jack told me in secret that he was planning on asking her if he could start calling her 'mama'."
Reid’s eyes widen, a soft, incredibly sweet smile spreading across his face. "That’s... that’s a huge psychological step for a child who experienced that kind of maternal trauma, Hotch. It means he feels entirely safe with her. Secure."
"He does," Hotch nods softly. "We both do."
"Hold up," Morgan says, narrowing his eyes as he processes the information. "You moved her into the house? With Jack? And there hasn't been a single security breach? No weird vibes? Hotch, you’re the most paranoid man I know. You background check the mailman."
"I did a background check on her," Hotch admits without an ounce of shame. "And her past is... complicated. She had a severe stalking incident with an ex-boyfriend before we met. The man is currently in maximum security, but the trauma of it doesn't just leave. Because of that, she doesn't travel alone."
"What do you mean?" Prentiss asks, her profiler mind immediately clicking into gear. "Does she have a security detail?"
"In a way," Hotch smiles. "She has a ninety-pound, professionally trained personal protection Doberman Pinscher named Buster."
Garcia lets out another gasp. "A Doberman! Oh, a big, scary, beautiful puppy!"
"He’s not a puppy," Hotch corrects, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "When I first met him, he wouldn't let me within five feet of her. It took three hours of patient integration before he allowed me to sit on the same couch. He is fiercely protective of her. But now?" Hotch chuckles, a low, rich sound that the team rarely hears. "Now, he’s Jack’s best friend. Jack dresses him up in superhero capes. Buster follows him around like a oversized shadow. Knowing that dog is at the house, knowing his teeth and his instincts are guarding my family when I am halfway across the country on a case... it’s the only reason I can sleep at night, Morgan."
The room falls into a warm, stunned silence. The image of the terrifying, unapproachable Aaron Hotchner going home to an art teacher, a laughing son, and a cape-wearing Doberman is almost too much for them to process.
Rossi leans forward, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Well, Agent Todd, I’d say you successfully cracked the suspect. Look at him. He’s spilling his guts."
Jordan laughs, raising her hands in surrender. "I think the team did most of the heavy lifting on this one, sir."
Morgan slaps his hand down on the table, a wide, challenging grin on his face. "Alright, Hotch. You let the cat out of the bag. You can't just drop a bomb like this and expect us to just go back to writing files. We need proof. We need to meet this saint of a woman who managed to tame the Unit Chief and a doberman."
"Yeah, Hotch," Prentiss chimes in, her eyes sparkling. "Dinner. This weekend. Or better yet, a barbecue at Rossi's. You owe us. One year of secrecy deserves at least a formal introduction."
Hotch looks around at his team—his family. He sees the genuine, deep-seated happiness in their eyes for him. They have seen him at his absolute lowest, through tragedy and grief, and he knows that their demanding nature right now comes from a place of pure, unadulterated love.
He glances at his watch. 4:30 PM.
"Alright," Hotch says, standing up and reaching for his suit jacket. "I'll tell you what. I'm heading home now. I will talk to her tonight. If she’s comfortable with it, we will arrange something for next weekend."
"Yes!" Garcia cheers, pumping her fist in the air.
"She better say yes, Hotch" Morgan warns playfully, walking with him toward the door. "Because otherwise, I'm going to start showing up at art galleries looking for a woman with a giant dog."
Hotch just shakes his head, a lingering smile on his face as he grabs his briefcase. "Goodnight, everyone. And Jordan? Good job today. You found the pressure point."
With a final, parting nod, Hotch exits the bullpen, his stride lighter than it has been in a very long time.
The drive home is a blur of anticipation. By the time Hotch pulls his sedan into the driveway of his suburban home, the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden-orange shadows across the lawn.
As soon as he cuts the engine, he can see the warm glow of the living room lights through the front window. He steps out of the car, gripping his briefcase, and walks up the front porch. Before he can even get his key into the lock, the heavy, muffled sound of barking echoes from inside—not an aggressive bark, but the sharp, excited alerts of Buster recognizing his car.
The door swings open before he can turn the key.
There you stand. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few stray tendrils framing your face. You’re wearing an oversized flannel shirt that actually belongs to him, paired with leggings, and there is a faint smudge of yellow pastel on your cheek. Behind you, Buster is vibrating with excitement, his docked tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters are shaking.
"Hey," you say softly, a brilliant, warm smile lighting up your face.
"Hey," Aaron breathes. Every ounce of residual stress from the Bureau, the weight of the dark cases, the exhaustion of the week—it all evaporates the moment he looks at you.
He steps across the threshold, dropping his briefcase on the entryway table, and immediately pulls you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp evening air. Aaron squeezes you tightly, his large hand cupping the back of your head, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into your hair.
Buster whines loudly, nudging his massive head right between your hips, demanding his share of the greeting.
Aaron laughs against your hair, finally pulling back just enough to look down at you. "Missed you too, buddy," he murmurs, reaching down with one hand to vigorously scratch Buster behind his floppy ears. The Doberman leans heavily into Aaron’s leg, eyes half-closed in bliss.
"Daddy!"
A small streak of lightning comes hurtling down the hallway. Jack skids to a halt on the hardwood floor, a massive grin on his face. Aaron immediately drops to one knee, catching his son in a tight embrace, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Hey, buddy," Aaron says, his voice thick with affection. "Have you been good for Y/N?"
"The best," Jack proudly declares as Aaron sets him down. "We played superheroes! Buster was Super-Buster. And, Daddy? Guess what?"
Aaron looks up at you, his eyes twinkling with a soft, knowing warmth, before looking back at his son. "What's that, Jack?"
Jack looks at you, then back to his dad, his chest puffing out with pride. "I asked her, and she said yes. I get to call her Mama now!"
Aaron freezes for a fraction of a second. His eyes instantly flick up to yours. You offer him a soft, slightly watery smile, nodding gently.
Aaron’s chest heaves with a deep, emotional breath. He looks back down at Jack, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, his thumb stroking through his fabric. "She did? That... that is the best news I’ve ever heard, Jack. You are a very lucky boy."
"I know!" Jack beams. "Come on, Buster, let's go get the cape!" Jack takes off toward the kitchen, Buster bounding happily right at his heels, his heavy paws clicking against the floor.
Aaron stands up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He steps closer, reaching out to gently cup your face with both hands. His thumbs gently brush over your cheekbones, wiping away the small smudge of yellow pastel.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice raw and deeply emotional. "For everything. For loving him. For being here."
"Aaron," you murmur, placing your hands over his wrists. "There is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. I love him. And I love you."
He kisses you then—a deep, slow, fiercely possessive kiss that speaks of promises, safety, and a future he never thought he’d get to have again. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his breathing steadying.
"So," he says, a sudden, amused hitch in his voice. "I have a bit of a confession to make."
You eyebrow arches, a playful smile touching your lips. "Oh really? Should I be worried? Did you bring home more paperwork?"
"Not paperwork" Aaron chuckles, leading you by the hand toward the living room couch. You both sit down, settling close against one another. "Today at the office, we did an interrogation training exercise with the new agent. I was playing the suspect."
"Okay..." you say, thoroughly intrigued. "How did it go?"
"Well," Aaron rubs the back of his neck, looking incredibly amused. "They tried to profile me. They suggested I went home to an empty house and that I had no one. So... I used a tactic. I told them the truth."
Your eyes widen slightly. "The truth? As in... about us?"
"About us" Aaron nods, his smile widening. "I might have mentioned that I’ve been seeing an incredibly talented, beautiful art teacher for a year. And that we moved in together. And that she has a ninety-pound Doberman protector who keeps her safe when I'm away."
You let out a startled, delighted laugh, burying your face in his chest. "Aaron! You didn't! You are notoriously the most private person on the planet! Your team must have experienced collective whiplash."
"Morgan almost fell out of his chair," Aaron admits, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Prentiss stopped breathing for a second, and Garcia screamed. They completely abandoned the training exercise and turned it into a full-scale interrogation about my personal life."
You look up at him, your heart swelling with an intense, overwhelming warmth. The fact that he was willing to share you—to proudly proclaim your existence to the people who mattered most to him—was the ultimate testament to how safe and secure he felt in this relationship.
"So" you smile, tracing the collar of his shirt. "What happens now? Are they going to put a tail on me?"
"Worse" Aaron smiles, kissing the top of your head. "They demanded a dinner. They want to meet you. Next weekend, if you're up for it. Rossi offered to host a barbecue at his place. It’ll be loud, Morgan will probably try to grill you for embarrassing stories about me, Garcia will try to hug you a dozen times, and Reid will likely list off thirty different facts about art history. But... they are my family, honey. And they are dying to meet the woman who brought me back to life."
You lean into him, looking out toward the kitchen where Jack's laughter echoes, accompanied by the happy thud of Buster's tail. The fear that used to define your life feels like a distant, faded memory, replaced entirely by the solid, unbreakable reality of the man holding you.
"I think" you say softly, looking up into Aaron's beautiful, dark eyes "that Super-Buster and I would absolutely love to go to a barbecue."
pairing: spencer reid x french!reader (mentioned, used of french)
summary: The one where the team thinks Spencer and Y/N have a quiet, innocent romance, until they accidentally crash date night and realize Spencer learned a few very different things after prison.
tw: mdni, insinuation of smut, spencer is surprisingly hot & confident, team is unsurprisingly noisy
word count: 875 words.
masterlist
~♡~
The team had pinned you down perfectly—or so they thought. To the BAU, you were the epitome of effortless European grace. A French teacher who had packed up her life after high school to attend university in USA and ended up staying for most of her adult life. You carried yourself with a casual elegance that couldn’t be taught. Your accent was a soft, melodic lilt that clung to your words, perfectly adapted to English but still distinctly, beautifully french.
They adored you. But more than anyone, Spencer worshipped the ground you walked on.
You had met him not long after he got out of prison, during a time when his world was fractured and heavy.
Somehow, your quiet, eloquent presence became his anchor. Since then, the two of you had been practically inseparable. Because you were always so modest, poised, and soft-spoken, the team naturally assumed your relationship with Spencer was a sweet, intellectual, almost library-quiet romance.
They were hilariously wrong.
It’s a Friday night, and Penelope has successfully dragged Luke and JJ out to L'Atoll, the new, highly anticipated tropical-themed restaurant downtown. The atmosphere is vibrant—dim, warm lighting, lush indoor palm trees, and the low thrum of steel drums and bossa nova playing over the speakers.
"I'm telling you, the passionfruit mojitos here are supposed to be life-changing," Garcia beams, scanning the crowded room as the hostess leads them toward a booth.
But midway through the dining room, Garcia freezes. Her jaw drops.
"No way," JJ mutters, blinking rapidly.
Luke just lets out a low whistle, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
A few tables away, tucked into a semi-private booth draped in faux hibiscus vines, sit Spencer and you. But this isn't the Spencer and y/n they know.
Spencer is wearing a crisp, dark linen shirt—but the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and the top three buttons are completely undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his chest. He looks relaxed, leaning back, a look of pure, smoldering confidence on his face that the team has never seen outside of a high-stakes interrogation room.
And you?
You are breathtaking.
Gone is the oversized knit sweater and the modest midi-skirt you usually wear to team dinners. Tonight, you’re in a slinky, emerald-green silk slip dress with a plunging back. Your hair is effortlessly pinned up, leaving your neck bare, and your lips are painted a bold, dangerous crimson.
"Should we go say hi?" Garcia whispers, clutching her purse, torn between respect for privacy and sheer, unadulterated shock. "I mean, look at them! They look like a movie poster!"
"Hold on," Luke says, gently catching Garcia’s arm and nodding subtly toward the underside of your table. "Look closer. I don't think we should interrupt."
JJ and Garcia squint through the foliage.
Your bare leg is extended, your foot wrapped in gold high heeled sandal slowly, deliberately tracing its way up and down Spencer’s calf, past his knee, and disappearing under the hem of his trousers. Spencer doesn't even flinch. Instead, his gaze darkens, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his lips as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes locked dead on yours. He reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around your ankle to steady your leg, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin before his hand begins to slide upward. He doesn't stop at your calf. His hand ventures higher, slipping past the hem of your emerald dress, his palm warm and possessive against the bare skin of your thigh. He squeezes, a silent command that has your breath hitching, forcing your leg higher into his lap.
"Oh my god," Garcia squeaks, turning around. "Okay, we are third-wheeling a vibe that is way too hot for us. Abort mission."
"We're not aborting," Luke chuckles, steering the girls to a table a few spots away, perfectly positioned to watch the drama unfold. "We're sitting right here. I need to see how smooth Reid actually is."
You catch the movement out of the corner of your eye. A flash of Garcia’s bright blonde hair, JJ’s shocked expression, and Luke’s amused smirk. You don't miss a beat. Leaning across the table, the silk of your dress shifting provocatively, you let out a low, amused hum.
"Mon chéri" you purr, your French accent thickening just a bit, a playful glint in your eyes. "Don't look now, but we have an audience. Your friends are three tables to your left."
Spencer doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look over. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. The prison walls had hardened him in ways the team rarely saw, but tonight, combined with your teasing, it manifests as pure, unadulterated confidence.
"Is that so?" Spencer asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and rasping.
"Oui" you murmur, leaning in closer, your fingers reaching out to trace the open collar of his shirt, your nails lightly grazing his collarbone. "They are trying very hard to pretend they are not staring. Should we acknowledge them?"
"Absolutely not," Spencer murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with sudden, intense heat. "Let's pretend they don't exist. In fact, let's give them a reason to look away."
With absolute, cool composure, Spencer slides over, bridging the gap between you until his chest is pressed against your shoulder. His hand leaves your thigh to grip the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the stray hairs at your hairline. He doesn't just kiss you; he claims you. It’s a slow, deep, filthy kiss that tastes of rum and desire, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that feels intensely private yet wildly bold.
You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, and Spencer takes advantage of the sound, pulling back just enough to trail his lips down your jawline. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath anchoring you to the spot as he bites gently at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, sucking softly until you let out a breathless moan. His hand on your thigh returns, sliding dangerously high, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip under the silk dress. It is blatant, heavy foreplay, right in the middle of the restaurant.
When he finally pulls back, just a fraction of an inch, your lips are flushed, and you let out a breathless laugh. He keeps his back squarely to the team, his universe entirely shrunk down to just you, leaving them staring in absolute, stunned silence.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen the next Monday is thick with unvented gossip. Garcia is practically vibrating at her desk in her office, while JJ and Luke are hovering near the coffee machine, waiting.
Right on cue, Spencer walks through the glass doors. He looks entirely too refreshed for a Monday morning. His stride is relaxed, his posture easy, and there's a certain, undeniable contentment in the way he carries himself.
Luke waits until Spencer pours himself a mug of black coffee before leaning against the counter, a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"Morning, Reid," Luke says, his tone dripping with mock casualness. "Had a good weekend? Got up to anything... interesting?"
Spencer takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. He doesn't look startled. He doesn't blush. He just turns his head, looking Luke dead in the eye with a cool, unbothered expression.
"I did, actually" Spencer replies, his voice steady and completely devoid of his usual academic rambling.
He sets his mug down, leaning back against the counter, mimicking Luke's posture with a smug, cocky grin.
"And judging by how much time you, JJ, and Garcia spent staring at my girlfriend's legs friday night, I'd say you already know exactly how good it was."
Luke’s smirk falters, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
Spencer gives him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, his grin widening. "Don't worry, Alvez. Maybe if you play your cards right, one day you'll get some, too."
With a sharp, victorious nod, Spencer picks up his coffee and strolls right past a stunned Luke, heading up the stairs to the round table room without looking back.
Synopsis: You love Aaron’s dominance a little too much and one night you finally get to experience it for yourself.
Content: 18+, smut, fingering, dominance, dirty talk, teasing, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, crying after orgasms (only in last paragraph)
Word Count: 1.7k
A/N: The criminal minds fixation has continued and dom Aaron weighs heavy on my mind
As the newest member of the BAU, having a crush on Aaron Hotchner shouldn’t have even crossed your mind. Who were you kidding? It was more than just a little crush and it wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon, definitely not with the way he was feeding into it.
Spanning over the next few weeks you’d noticed a few more subtle moments where Aaron radiated that dominance you’d come to drool over. Every moment you’d been playing over in your mind had been platonic at best. One night when the team returned from a marathon of a case, everything changed. You were beyond exhausted, barely keeping your eyes open. Everyone had already started filtering out and you were too tired to drive. You had planned to call an uber and deal with your car tomorrow, but that plan was discarded when Aaron offered to take you home. You tried to argue, but all it took was that firm tone of his and you were scrambling after him to his car.
By the time you got back to Aaron’s house, you were already nodding off and you woke up in his arms. It took a moment to process what had happened, letting out a surprised squeak as you did. Aaron had carried you all the way from his car into his house and he was sitting you on his bed. You tried to stand up, wanting to sleep on the couch so he could have his bed. As if he’d read your mind, Aaron lightly pushed you back down. “Sit.” He spoke in that same firm tone that always had you captivated. “Yes sir.” You said it without thought, cheeks turning bright red once you realized you had in fact said that aloud. “Sorry! That was.. I’m sorry.” You couldn’t make up much of an excuse in your still exhausted state. “Don’t be. It was cute.” Aaron replied with a little smirk. He tucked you into bed and you could’ve sworn he said “goodnight princess” as he did. You wrote it off, thinking you must’ve been imagining it as you drifted off to sleep.
You woke up the next morning in the tank top and shorts you’d packed in your go bag. In that moment, you realized Aaron had changed you into your pajamas. Your cheeks heated up again and as you sat up, they went even darker. Aaron was in bed next to you in only a pair of boxers. He woke up, giving you a little smile. “Good morning princess.” There it was, you hadn’t misheard the night before. You stared at him for a moment, at a loss for words. “I figure if I get a title, it’s only fair you do as well.” He explained, his lips curling up into that little half smirk of his. He did a stretch before moving to sit up, the smirk growing as he saw your wandering eyes. “You stare at me a lot you know, especially my hands. You think a fellow profiler wouldn’t be so obvious.” He was clearly unbothered as he teased you about it, but you were embarrassed nonetheless.
“Aww, you poor thing. Don’t get all pouty on me. Come here.” Aaron wrapped an arm around your waist, giving a little tug as a silent invitation to move closer. You didn’t dare fight him on it, gladly taking the opportunity to cuddle up in his side. “You seemed to have a rather interesting dream last night. Did you know you sleep talk?” He slipped his hand under your shirt as he spoke, his fingers delicately trailing along your bare skin. “I think sir, please don’t stop had to be my favorite bit.” You hid your face in his neck as he said that, unable to face him in all the embarrassment. Aaron used his free hand to grip you by the jaw, pulling you in to make you look at him. “Did I say you could look away?” As he spoke, he gradually got closer until his lips just barely grazed over yours. You made little stuttering noises, but no real words came out as he stayed so close you could feel his breath on your lips.
“Having a hard time using your words?” Aaron teased, gently brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “That’s okay, you’ve made it quite obvious what you want.” He let go of your jaw in favor of resting his hand on your thigh. “I believe it’s about time I show you what these fingers can really do.” He gave your thigh a little squeeze, letting his fingers run over your skin. “Let’s get these off first.” He pulled your shorts and panties down in one go, tossing them aside. “Much better.” He shifted and got himself positioned behind you, engulfing you in his touch. One of his hands moved down until his fingers met your center. His fingers glided over your soaking wet folds at an agonizingly slow pace and before you dared to push against him, his free hand gripped your hip to hold you in place.
“Can’t have you rushing me. That would just take away from the fun, don’t you think?” Aaron teased, tightening his grip on your hip as he spoke. Before you had a chance to respond, his fingers finally made their way to your clit. He slowly rubbed circles on the sensitive spot, moving in to trail kisses along your jaw as he did. It felt like ages passed before he slid two fingers inside you, curling them up toward the spot that drove you wild. You let out a breathy moan as your hips tried to buck up toward his touch. “Ah ah, I said no rushing.” Aaron teased, tightening his grip on your hip once again as he slowly moved his fingers out and back in to hit the same spot. “Aaron, please.” Your voice came out like a needy whimper, begging him for more.
“Aaron? What happened to sir? I thought we had a nice thing going.” Aaron spoke in that teasing tone of his, still moving his fingers in and out of you at a torturously slow pace. “Sorry— god, sir please.” You let out a whiny moan as his fingers continued to hit that same spot, leaving you that much more desperate. “Please!” You didn’t even recognize your own voice anymore, completely at his mercy. It was like a switch flipped all of a sudden, the agonizingly slow pace left behind and forgotten. Aaron’s thumb moved up to rub your clit as his fingers relentlessly pounded your pussy at a pace that couldn’t be described in words. The pleasure he gave was mind numbing and the sounds that came from you felt like nothing you’d experienced before. His fingers dug into your hip so harshly that you were sure he’d leave bruises and he was most definitely leaving marks on your neck with the amount of attention he’d put in each spot.
It didn’t take long before that all too familiar heat pooled in your stomach. You desperately clung to his arms, nails digging in as the feeling grew in intensity. “Please don’t stop! Please sir, I’m so close!” You pleaded with him and he gladly complied, except it didn’t end there. The heat in your stomach expanded until you felt like your entire body was on fire and your orgasm came over you in waves. Aaron didn’t stop once you’d finished, pulling little whimpering noises from you as you clawed at his arms. “Sir, please. Too much!” You whined, gripping at him desperately and squirming under his touch. “I believe you said don’t stop, didn’t you?” His breath landed on your neck as he spoke, trailing kisses all over the sensitive skin. “Yes but— oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” You cried out as a second orgasm suddenly washed over you, taking your protests along with it. You were right where you wanted to be, at the mercy of Aaron’s touch.
You’d lost count of your orgasms as the overwhelming pleasure continued. The overstimulation was torturous in both the worst and best ways. “Don’t know how much more I can take.” Your voice was whiny and weak, strained from the series of noises you’d let out. “Let’s see one more then princess. Just one more.” Aaron’s voice was soft against you as he kissed and nipped at your skin. With the overwhelming level of sensitivity you’d reached, it was mere moments before you came again. You could’ve sworn you’d screamed as your next orgasm ripped through you. You could feel your body shake from the overwhelming pleasure, riding it out until you fell limp against him with pathetic little noises escaping your lips.
You didn’t know what came over you as Aaron pulled his fingers out of you, but you did know that you were absolutely out of it. He wrapped the blanket around both of you, holding you close as you felt your body shake. You hadn’t processed what happened until you felt the wetness on his chest. You were sobbing into Aaron’s chest, clinging to him as you trembled. “I- I’m sorry. I don’t.. I’m not—“ You tried to form some type of coherent sentence but Aaron cut you off. “It’s alright princess.” He spoke in a soft tone, running his fingers through your hair. “You did so well taking all that for me. You don’t have to explain, I’ve got you.” Between Aaron’s soothing voice and his soft touch, you found yourself starting to drift off once again. “Get some rest princess.” That was the last thing you heard before you fell asleep.
Synopsis: You have an oral fixation and Spencer is the exact cure you need.
Tags: 18+, finger sucking, bj, smut, oral fixation, established relationship
Word Count: 620
A/N: I had no power during a storm and wrote a short self indulgent fic. I’m rusty after not writing fics for years but maybe this one is alright.
It all started one night when Spencer came home late from a case he’d been working on for days and the two of you, too exhausted for much effort, decided on a movie marathon. You curled up on the couch with your head in his lap and he sat comfortably with his fingers running through your hair. As per usual, after one movie you were starting to nod off. In your half asleep state, you gently grabbed him by his wrist and brought his hand closer, taking two of his fingers into your mouth. You sucked on his fingers as your hands held his wrist, finding yourself unable to stay awake any longer. Spencer smiled fondly as you laid there asleep, carefully removing his fingers after a few minutes. He was careful not to wake you, picking you up and carrying you off to bed where you both fell asleep with ease.
That night wasn’t the first time you’d silently searched for comfort by sucking on his fingers. However, a couple days later things took a step further. Spencer had spent most of the day on the couch reading while you sat on the opposite side keeping yourself busy. You once again craved the comfort of having something in your mouth, going for a much less innocent something on that day. As Spencer sat there reading, you took it upon yourself to get down on your knees in front of him and unbutton his pants. You didn’t waste any time, freeing his cock from his boxers and taking the tip into your mouth. As you felt his cock hardening in your mouth, you looked up to find him glancing down at you.
“You could’ve told me you had an oral fixation.” He spoke without accusation, simply giving you a reminder that you truly could tell him anything. He gently tucked your hair behind your ear and went back to his book. You sucked gently on his cock, the same way you had with his fingers. The two of you stayed that way for a while, up until you felt Spencer’s hand on the back of your head. You hadn’t taken notice when he set his book down to watch you, but a hand on your head was difficult to miss.
You took the hint from him, starting to slowly move your head up and down on his cock. You kept up the same gentle sucking motion, resting a hand on his thigh as you moved. “There you go, taking it so well for me.” Spencer’s voice came out breathy as his hand started moving you faster on his cock, causing you to take him in deeper. You followed his lead, letting him move your head just the way he liked as he let out those delicious noises. What were once soft little noises now came out as low breathy moans while his hips bucked up into your mouth.
“Just like that, mm.. getting close.” Spencer kept moving you on his cock as the warning left his lips. His words only encouraged you further and you kept up with ease. Moments later, a string of low noises escaped his lips as he filled your mouth with cum. You eagerly swallowed it all as his hips bucked up into your mouth, chasing the rest of the high you gave him. Once he’d finished, you licked his cock clean and got his pants back on before joining him on the couch.
“By the way, I knew about the oral fixation the entire time. Sucking on my fingers isn’t exactly subtle, you know.” Spencer wore that little smirk you loved as he moved in to give you a gentle kiss. “Don’t worry, it’s cute.”
summary: aaron confirms his relationship during a game of interrogation. the team had no idea.
tw: mentions of abusive/toxic relationships, Jack being absolute sweetheart.
word count: 1.9k
authors note: coming back to you as a married woman now! I have one spencer reid story planned for this week. Please let me know how you like this one.
tag: @wormznrocks
masterlist
~♡~
The soft scratching of a charcoal pencil against heavy textured paper is usually the only sound that fills your sunlit living room on a Friday afternoon. Today, it’s soundtracked by the rhythmic, heavy thud of a docked tail wagging against the hardwood floor, and the bright, breathless laughter of a seven-year-old boy.
You look up from your sketchbook, a fond smile immediately tugging at your lips. Jack is currently on his hands and knees, completely buried beneath the massive, sleek frame of Buster, your ninety-pound doberman. Buster, whose usual demeanor is that of an imposing, razor-sharp guardian, has completely melted into a puddle of compliance. He is currently letting Jack drape a red superhero cape around his neck, his dark brown eyes tracking the little boy with nothing short of absolute adoration.
"Look, Y/N! He’s Super-Buster now!" Jack crows, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. He looks so much like his father in that exact moment that it catches in your chest.
"He looks magnificent, sweetie" you laugh, setting your sketchbook on the coffee table. "But I think Super-Buster is requesting a tactical deployment of belly rubs."
As if understanding the cue, Buster flops onto his side with a dramatic grunt, his massive paws curling into the air. Jack squeals with delight and immediately obliges, burying his small hands into the dog's sleek fur.
Watching them, a profound sense of peace settles over you—a feeling that, up until a year ago, you weren't sure you’d ever experience again.
Your past is a shadow you’ve had to run from for a long time.
Your ex-boyfriend hadn't just handled your breakup poorly. He had turned into a terrifying, relentless specter in your life. The stalking had escalated from flooded inboxes and unexpected appearances at your art studio to broken windows, slashed tires, and the suffocating feeling that you were constantly being watched. It had stripped away your sense of safety, leaving you hyper-vigilant and constantly looking over your shoulder.
Buster had been your saving grace. Trained rigorously for personal protection, the doberman became your living, breathing shield. He was the only reason you could sleep at night, a fierce deterrent of teeth and muscle that kept the nightmare at bay until the law finally caught up with your ex.
Now, that man was behind bars, serving a lengthy sentence, but the emotional scars didn't just vanish with a prison verdict.
Then, Aaron Hotchner walked into your life.
You had met him entirely by chance at a local community art gallery where some of your students' work was being displayed. He had been standing in front of a messy, vibrant watercolor painted by a six-year-old, looking at it with the kind of intense, quiet gravity he usually reserved for federal cases. You had approached him, amused, and a conversation about the raw honesty of children's art had sparked something neither of you expected.
Despite the six-year age gap, and despite the heavy armor you both wore—him from the horrors of his job and the grief of his past, you from the trauma of your stalking—you clicked. Aaron didn't push. He was patient, a steady and immovable rock in a world that had always felt like shifting sand to you. When he finally met Buster, he hadn't been intimidated or put off by the dog’s intense guarding instincts. Instead, Aaron had looked at the massive animal, then at you, and you had seen a visible wave of relief wash over his usually stoic features.
“Knowing he’s here with you when I’m on the road” Aaron had murmured one night, his large hand buried in Buster’s fur after the dog had finally deemed him trustworthy “it’s the first time in years I haven't worried myself sick leaving for a case.”
Three months ago, you took the leap and moved into Aaron’s house. It had been a seamless transition. Jack absolutely adored you, and perhaps more importantly, Jack and Buster had become an inseparable duo. Aaron jokes that Buster has officially traded his guard-dog credentials to become a glorified toddler-enabler, but you all know the truth: Buster loves Jack just as fiercely as he loves you.
"Y/N?" Jack's voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He has abandoned the belly rubs and is now leaning his elbows on the edge of the coffee table, looking at you with big, earnest eyes. "When is Daddy coming home?"
You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s just past four in the afternoon. "He should be home in a few hours, bud. He said they had a lighter day at the office today—mostly paperwork and training."
"Do you think he'll play catch with us? Me and Super-Buster?"
"I think if you ask him nicely, he won't be able to say no," you smile, reaching out to ruffle Jack’s hair.
Jack beams, then hesitates, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. He fidgets with the edge of his sleeve, looking down at his sneakers before looking back up at you. "Um... Y/N?"
"Yeah, sweetie? What's up?"
"Can I... can I ask you something big?"
Your heart softens, and you shift so you're facing him fully. "Of course you can. You can ask me anything."
Jack swallows, his small shoulders rising and falling. "My friend Maya at school... she has a mom and a dad. And she calls her mom 'mama'. I know my mommy Haley is in heaven..." He looks up, his eyes swimming with a mixture of vulnerability and hope that completely melts your heart. "But since you live with us now, and you take care of me, and you're my favorite person... is it okay if I call you mama Y/N? Or just... mama?"
For a second, the breath catches in your throat. A warmth so fierce and consuming floods your chest that tears prick the corners of your eyes. You know how much Haley meant to this family, and you have never, ever tried to replace her. To hear Jack offer this up entirely on his own is the most profound gift you've ever received.
You slide off the couch onto the floor, pulling Jack into a tight, warm hug. Buster immediately shuffles over, whining softly and nudging his wet nose against your tangled arms, wanting to be included.
"Oh, Jack," you whisper into his hair, blinking back tears of pure happiness. "I would love nothing more in the whole world than for you to call me mama. It would be the biggest honor."
Jack squeezes your neck tightly, his small body relaxing completely against yours. "Good. Because Buster and I already talked about it, and he agrees."
You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. "Oh, he agrees, does he? Well, far be it from us to argue with Super-Buster."
As you hold Jack, you can't help but wish Aaron were here to see this. You know how much this would mean to him—to know that the home you've built together is whole, happy, and brimming with love.
What you don't know, however, is that at that exact moment, across town in the glass-walled offices of the BAU, your stoic, fiercely private boyfriend is currently being subjected to a completely different kind of interrogation.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen is deceptively relaxed, a rare occurrence that usually only happens when a string of brutal cases finally snaps shut, leaving a graveyard of paperwork in its wake. But today, the quiet afternoon has been weaponized for a different purpose.
In one of the glass-walled conference rooms, the entire team is gathered. Derek Morgan is leaning back in his chair with a smirk, his arms crossed over his chest. Emily Prentiss is twirling a pen between her fingers, an amused glint in her eyes. Spencer Reid is nervously adjusting his satchel, though his eyes are sharp with analytical curiosity, and Penelope Garcia is practically vibrating with excitement, hovering near the doorway.
At the head of the table sits Aaron Hotchner. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and his expression is a terrifying, blank slate of absolute stoicism.
Opposite him sits David Rossi, looking like a man who is thoroughly enjoying his retirement years, even while on active duty. Next to Rossi is the catalyst for this entire exercise: Agent Jordan Todd, the newest addition to the team, who is currently sweating through her blazer.
The past few weeks had revealed a glaring vulnerability in Jordan's skillset. While she was brilliant at media relations and assessing public threats, her face-to-face interrogations with hardened suspects had been lacking. She struggled to maintain control of the room, often letting suspects deflect or read her emotions.
To remedy this, Hotch had suggested a hands-on training exercise. A "game," though anyone who knew Aaron Hotchner knew he didn't actually play games. The premise was simple: Hotch would play the role of a highly uncooperative, highly intelligent suspect. The team’s objective was to use various interrogation tactics to extract as much concrete, verifiable personal data from him as possible within a one-hour time limit.
"Alright, Jordan," Rossi says softly, leaning back. "The floor is yours. You’ve been trying the direct approach for fifteen minutes, and he hasn't given you a single inch. Change your angle. Find the pressure point."
Jordan swallows, looking at Hotch. Hotch doesn't blink. He looks like a statue carved out of marble and bureaucratic authority.
"Okay," Jordan says, leaning forward, trying to project confidence. "Suspects like you... you think you’re completely self-sufficient. You think you don't need anyone. But everyone has a anchor. A point of vulnerability. Let's talk about your personal life."
Hotch tilts his head by a fraction of a millimeter. "My personal life is not relevant to the charges."
"It's relevant to your psychology," Jordan counters, gaining a bit of footing. "You work long hours. You’re cold, distant. I bet you go home to an empty house every night, don't you? No one is waiting for you. No one cares when you walk through that door."
Morgan hides a smirk behind his hand. Prentiss bites the inside of her cheek. They all know Hotch’s life—or at least, they think they do. They know about the tragic loss of Haley, they know about Jack, and they know Hotch lives a solitary, dedicated life split entirely between the Bureau and his son.
Hotch lets a long, agonizing silence stretch through the room. Then, very slowly, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touches the corner of his lips. It’s gone so fast Jordan almost misses it.
"An empty house," Hotch repeats, his voice a low, steady baritone. "That’s an interesting assumption."
"It's an accurate one," Jordan pushes, thinking she’s found a crack. "Men in your position don't have time for relationships. You're married to the job. You don't have anyone."
Hotch leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks directly into Jordan's eyes, his expression a masterclass in controlled manipulation. "If I told you I did have someone, what would your profile say then?"
The room shifts. It’s subtle, but the collective energy of the BAU team suddenly sharpens.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up. Prentiss stops twirling her pen. Even Reid looks up from his notes, his head tilting like a confused puppy.
"I'd say you're bluffing," Jordan says, though she falters slightly under his intense gaze. "You're trying to project a sense of normalcy to throw me off. It’s a classic deflection tactic."
"Is it?" Hotch asks smoothly. He doesn't look at the rest of the team, keeping his focus entirely on Jordan, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s teaching her how a suspect can use truth as a weapon to disorient an interrogator. "What if I told you that not only do I have someone, but we’ve been together for over a year. And what if I told you we recently moved in together?"
A collective, silent gasp seems to echo through the glass walls.
Garcia, standing by the door, lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. Morgan instantly sits upright, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute" Derek interjects, completely breaking the protocol of the exercise. "Hold on. Hotch, are we still playing the character, or are we... because that sounded oddly specific."
Hotch doesn't break eye contact with Jordan. "Rule number one of interrogation, Agent Todd: never let outside interference break your focus. Continue."
Jordan looks bewildered, glancing at Morgan, then back to Hotch. "Uh... okay. If you're not bluffing, prove it. Give me a detail. Suspects who lie stumble on them. Give me a detail about this... imaginary partner."
Hotch relaxes back into his chair. He crosses his legs, the picture of absolute composure. But there is a softness in his eyes now, a tiny glint of something incredibly warm and fiercely protective that none of them have ever seen on a case.
"She’s younger than me," Hotch says, his voice dropping into a tone that is entirely too genuine to be acted. "Six years, to be exact. She’s an artist. An art teacher, specifically. She spends her days teaching children how to express themselves through color, because she believes the world is too bleak without it."
Prentiss’s jaw literally drops. She exchanges a wild, wide-eyed look with Rossi.
Rossi, for his part, has a massive, knowing grin spreading across his face. He leans forward, thoroughly invested now. "Go on, suspect. Describe her routine. Prove she lives there."
Hotch’s eyes flick to Rossi, a silent acknowledgement of the shift in the room. The exercise has officially devolved into a full-blown interrogation of Aaron Hotchner's secret life, and Hotch, surprisingly, is letting it happen.
"Her routine," Hotch murmurs, a genuine fond smile finally breaking through his stoic facade. "She wakes up earlier than I do but she stays in bed because she knows I like the quiet moments before the day starts. She smells like sandalwood and vanilla. There is currently a smudge of blue acrylic paint on the molding of my living room baseboard because she got a bit too enthusiastic while helping redesign the space. And if you walk into my kitchen right now, you’ll find a mug with a chipped handle that she refuses to throw away because she says it has 'character'."
"Oh my god," Garcia whispers, clutching her chest. "It’s not a drill. This is not a drill! Papa Bear has a honey!"
"Hotch," Morgan says, his voice a mix of utter disbelief and profound offense. "Are you serious right now? A whole year? You’ve been seeing someone for a year and you didn't say a damn word to us?"
"You never asked," Hotch replies smoothly, the quintessential corporate answer.
"We didn't ask because we thought you were married to the paperwork!" Prentiss exclaims, leaning over the table. "An art teacher? Six years younger? Hotch, how did you even meet an art teacher? You don't leave this building unless someone is dead!"
"At a gallery," Hotch says simply.
Jordan, realizing she has completely lost control of the room but completely fascinated by the unfolding drama, decides to play along with the team’s dynamic. "If this relationship is as serious as you say... how does your son feel about it? A man like you wouldn't bring a stranger into his child's life."
The mention of Jack makes Hotch’s entire demeanor soften completely. The rigid, formidable Unit Chief melts away, replaced entirely by a proud, fiercely loving father.
"Jack adores her," Hotch says, and there is a thick, emotional weight to his voice that commands the room's absolute silence. "They are... inseparable. He looks at her like she hung the stars. In fact, just this morning before I left for work, Jack told me in secret that he was planning on asking her if he could start calling her 'mama'."
Reid’s eyes widen, a soft, incredibly sweet smile spreading across his face. "That’s... that’s a huge psychological step for a child who experienced that kind of maternal trauma, Hotch. It means he feels entirely safe with her. Secure."
"He does," Hotch nods softly. "We both do."
"Hold up," Morgan says, narrowing his eyes as he processes the information. "You moved her into the house? With Jack? And there hasn't been a single security breach? No weird vibes? Hotch, you’re the most paranoid man I know. You background check the mailman."
"I did a background check on her," Hotch admits without an ounce of shame. "And her past is... complicated. She had a severe stalking incident with an ex-boyfriend before we met. The man is currently in maximum security, but the trauma of it doesn't just leave. Because of that, she doesn't travel alone."
"What do you mean?" Prentiss asks, her profiler mind immediately clicking into gear. "Does she have a security detail?"
"In a way," Hotch smiles. "She has a ninety-pound, professionally trained personal protection Doberman Pinscher named Buster."
Garcia lets out another gasp. "A Doberman! Oh, a big, scary, beautiful puppy!"
"He’s not a puppy," Hotch corrects, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "When I first met him, he wouldn't let me within five feet of her. It took three hours of patient integration before he allowed me to sit on the same couch. He is fiercely protective of her. But now?" Hotch chuckles, a low, rich sound that the team rarely hears. "Now, he’s Jack’s best friend. Jack dresses him up in superhero capes. Buster follows him around like a oversized shadow. Knowing that dog is at the house, knowing his teeth and his instincts are guarding my family when I am halfway across the country on a case... it’s the only reason I can sleep at night, Morgan."
The room falls into a warm, stunned silence. The image of the terrifying, unapproachable Aaron Hotchner going home to an art teacher, a laughing son, and a cape-wearing Doberman is almost too much for them to process.
Rossi leans forward, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Well, Agent Todd, I’d say you successfully cracked the suspect. Look at him. He’s spilling his guts."
Jordan laughs, raising her hands in surrender. "I think the team did most of the heavy lifting on this one, sir."
Morgan slaps his hand down on the table, a wide, challenging grin on his face. "Alright, Hotch. You let the cat out of the bag. You can't just drop a bomb like this and expect us to just go back to writing files. We need proof. We need to meet this saint of a woman who managed to tame the Unit Chief and a doberman."
"Yeah, Hotch," Prentiss chimes in, her eyes sparkling. "Dinner. This weekend. Or better yet, a barbecue at Rossi's. You owe us. One year of secrecy deserves at least a formal introduction."
Hotch looks around at his team—his family. He sees the genuine, deep-seated happiness in their eyes for him. They have seen him at his absolute lowest, through tragedy and grief, and he knows that their demanding nature right now comes from a place of pure, unadulterated love.
He glances at his watch. 4:30 PM.
"Alright," Hotch says, standing up and reaching for his suit jacket. "I'll tell you what. I'm heading home now. I will talk to her tonight. If she’s comfortable with it, we will arrange something for next weekend."
"Yes!" Garcia cheers, pumping her fist in the air.
"She better say yes, Hotch" Morgan warns playfully, walking with him toward the door. "Because otherwise, I'm going to start showing up at art galleries looking for a woman with a giant dog."
Hotch just shakes his head, a lingering smile on his face as he grabs his briefcase. "Goodnight, everyone. And Jordan? Good job today. You found the pressure point."
With a final, parting nod, Hotch exits the bullpen, his stride lighter than it has been in a very long time.
The drive home is a blur of anticipation. By the time Hotch pulls his sedan into the driveway of his suburban home, the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden-orange shadows across the lawn.
As soon as he cuts the engine, he can see the warm glow of the living room lights through the front window. He steps out of the car, gripping his briefcase, and walks up the front porch. Before he can even get his key into the lock, the heavy, muffled sound of barking echoes from inside—not an aggressive bark, but the sharp, excited alerts of Buster recognizing his car.
The door swings open before he can turn the key.
There you stand. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few stray tendrils framing your face. You’re wearing an oversized flannel shirt that actually belongs to him, paired with leggings, and there is a faint smudge of yellow pastel on your cheek. Behind you, Buster is vibrating with excitement, his docked tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters are shaking.
"Hey," you say softly, a brilliant, warm smile lighting up your face.
"Hey," Aaron breathes. Every ounce of residual stress from the Bureau, the weight of the dark cases, the exhaustion of the week—it all evaporates the moment he looks at you.
He steps across the threshold, dropping his briefcase on the entryway table, and immediately pulls you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp evening air. Aaron squeezes you tightly, his large hand cupping the back of your head, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into your hair.
Buster whines loudly, nudging his massive head right between your hips, demanding his share of the greeting.
Aaron laughs against your hair, finally pulling back just enough to look down at you. "Missed you too, buddy," he murmurs, reaching down with one hand to vigorously scratch Buster behind his floppy ears. The Doberman leans heavily into Aaron’s leg, eyes half-closed in bliss.
"Daddy!"
A small streak of lightning comes hurtling down the hallway. Jack skids to a halt on the hardwood floor, a massive grin on his face. Aaron immediately drops to one knee, catching his son in a tight embrace, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Hey, buddy," Aaron says, his voice thick with affection. "Have you been good for Y/N?"
"The best," Jack proudly declares as Aaron sets him down. "We played superheroes! Buster was Super-Buster. And, Daddy? Guess what?"
Aaron looks up at you, his eyes twinkling with a soft, knowing warmth, before looking back at his son. "What's that, Jack?"
Jack looks at you, then back to his dad, his chest puffing out with pride. "I asked her, and she said yes. I get to call her Mama now!"
Aaron freezes for a fraction of a second. His eyes instantly flick up to yours. You offer him a soft, slightly watery smile, nodding gently.
Aaron’s chest heaves with a deep, emotional breath. He looks back down at Jack, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, his thumb stroking through his fabric. "She did? That... that is the best news I’ve ever heard, Jack. You are a very lucky boy."
"I know!" Jack beams. "Come on, Buster, let's go get the cape!" Jack takes off toward the kitchen, Buster bounding happily right at his heels, his heavy paws clicking against the floor.
Aaron stands up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He steps closer, reaching out to gently cup your face with both hands. His thumbs gently brush over your cheekbones, wiping away the small smudge of yellow pastel.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice raw and deeply emotional. "For everything. For loving him. For being here."
"Aaron," you murmur, placing your hands over his wrists. "There is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. I love him. And I love you."
He kisses you then—a deep, slow, fiercely possessive kiss that speaks of promises, safety, and a future he never thought he’d get to have again. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his breathing steadying.
"So," he says, a sudden, amused hitch in his voice. "I have a bit of a confession to make."
You eyebrow arches, a playful smile touching your lips. "Oh really? Should I be worried? Did you bring home more paperwork?"
"Not paperwork" Aaron chuckles, leading you by the hand toward the living room couch. You both sit down, settling close against one another. "Today at the office, we did an interrogation training exercise with the new agent. I was playing the suspect."
"Okay..." you say, thoroughly intrigued. "How did it go?"
"Well," Aaron rubs the back of his neck, looking incredibly amused. "They tried to profile me. They suggested I went home to an empty house and that I had no one. So... I used a tactic. I told them the truth."
Your eyes widen slightly. "The truth? As in... about us?"
"About us" Aaron nods, his smile widening. "I might have mentioned that I’ve been seeing an incredibly talented, beautiful art teacher for a year. And that we moved in together. And that she has a ninety-pound Doberman protector who keeps her safe when I'm away."
You let out a startled, delighted laugh, burying your face in his chest. "Aaron! You didn't! You are notoriously the most private person on the planet! Your team must have experienced collective whiplash."
"Morgan almost fell out of his chair," Aaron admits, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Prentiss stopped breathing for a second, and Garcia screamed. They completely abandoned the training exercise and turned it into a full-scale interrogation about my personal life."
You look up at him, your heart swelling with an intense, overwhelming warmth. The fact that he was willing to share you—to proudly proclaim your existence to the people who mattered most to him—was the ultimate testament to how safe and secure he felt in this relationship.
"So" you smile, tracing the collar of his shirt. "What happens now? Are they going to put a tail on me?"
"Worse" Aaron smiles, kissing the top of your head. "They demanded a dinner. They want to meet you. Next weekend, if you're up for it. Rossi offered to host a barbecue at his place. It’ll be loud, Morgan will probably try to grill you for embarrassing stories about me, Garcia will try to hug you a dozen times, and Reid will likely list off thirty different facts about art history. But... they are my family, honey. And they are dying to meet the woman who brought me back to life."
You lean into him, looking out toward the kitchen where Jack's laughter echoes, accompanied by the happy thud of Buster's tail. The fear that used to define your life feels like a distant, faded memory, replaced entirely by the solid, unbreakable reality of the man holding you.
"I think" you say softly, looking up into Aaron's beautiful, dark eyes "that Super-Buster and I would absolutely love to go to a barbecue."
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This is such an interesting scene between Hotch and Garcia, and it tells why Hotch is the team's dad and the best unit chief for the team.
He's the most strict boss, he asks for something and every single team member replies YES SIR, and here Garcia just shouted at the man, but he understands, she is drowning and she needs support right now. So he doesn't scolds her, and assigns Morgan to garcia, so she can breathe.
