#fbi agent

summary: in which aaron is being a clingy sleepy boyfriend.

pairing: - aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings/info: fluff | cuddles | aaron being clingy | no use of y/n | no pov I use of she/her pronouns

a/n: hey everyone hope you like this short piece, i love this kind of plot bc i love the idea of a clingy aaron hotchner as my boyfriend like ugh the dream really.

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It was a lazy Saturday evening, mid-February. The last of the winter weather was causing a cold, blustery wind through the small cracks in their windows.

The heat was on low, and the old decorations they bought a while ago, slowly started leaving the living room shelves. Creating a homey, cozy feeling once the spring weather started to come through.

He slowly walked over to her as he woke from a nap. He went to the gym this morning and did some shopping. When he got back, he showered and fell asleep on the couch in his home office.

Obviously working on files he brought home from the BAU.

His bigger sock-covered feet patted across the hardwood floors over to the couch where she was. She looked up immediately, a smile forming on her soft lips.

“You’re awake.” She stated. She was wrapped up in a soft cream colored plush blanket, in sweat pants, one of his hoodies, fuzzy socks, and her computer playing a old movie.

“Mhm…” He rasped. He fell on top of her making her laugh and attempt to push him off. “You’re so soft. Smell so good.” He mumbled into her hoodie.

“You’re so heavy.” She whined playfully.

“Shut up and love me.” He replied. His voice mumbled against the hoodie.

She could hear the smile in his voice. It made butterflies crawl over her body. She wrapped her arms around him as he rested his head on her chest.

“Missed you.” She muttered into his messy hair.

“Missed you too sweet girl.” He responded.

Soon enough he fell back into a soft slumber on top of her chest with her fingers massaging his scalp.

Steady - Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x Rookie FBI Reader

summary: As a new FBI agent, you’re paired with Dex for your first mission manning a sniper’s nest. Your aversion for each other has you both struggling with staying on objective and following the rules.

warnings: Gun, unprotected sex, smut, semi-public sex, bruises, scratching, strong pull out game

a/n: first smut let's goooo

w.c: 3,400

You were new to the unit.

A fresh graduate from Quantico, you proudly wore your badge of Special Agent for the FBI with a smile. The other agents had been welcoming and kind; throwing out tips about the rugged New York streets, helping with the overwhelming paperwork— and even assigning a more experienced agent to show the ropes and keep a watchful eye on you.

Agent Benjamin Poindexter.

Even the name gave you chills.

When his dark eyes glared at you for the first time, greeting you with a raspy voice and that smug smirk, you knew it was going to be rough.

Unlike the other agents, Dex wasn’t that enthusiastic on helping a rookie.

Cocky and independent, you could tell he hated you.

It ruined his order of things.

He would always send you down to fetch his coffee or do some other chore he couldn’t be bothered with, anything to get you away from him. Yet whenever you weren’t next to him, obediently waiting and ready for the next task, you could feel his piercing gaze from a far, just in time to see him quickly look away when your eye caught his.

You could really feel his stare when he was assigned to man the sniper position with you.

One of your first ever real missions; keeping watch during a high profile event where some underground crime network might attend, of course you were thrilled— until you found out you were going to be stuck with Dex all night.

The job was easy, if things went south while the other agents were in the building, the sniper would take out the problem from an isolated distance.

The kind superior he was, Dex of course gave you the honor of being the sniper—which was really just lookout and a punishment for ruining his night. The bright streets of Midtown were alive with distant sirens and pedestrian chatter echoing off the buildings. Too bad you had to enjoy it on a cold rooftop lying stomach down on the ground next to the one guy who hated you the most.

Six feet of Dex was towering next to you, completely engulfed in his work and eyes rarely leaving the building through his telescope. Your bones had began to ache— your hips had been digging into the floor for the past hour and your arms were tired from gripping the rifle, which was positioned on a tripod at the edge of the roof. You were becoming dizzy from the height, multiple stories and the cold concrete being the only thing separating you from falling whenever the wind shifted.

It was late, but you didn’t know how long this event was going to last and if things were going to even get exciting. As far as you knew, you would be stuck like this next to Dex until dawn.

After a while of staring at the windows and entrance, you began scanning the New York skyline, trying to name as many familiar buildings as possible.

Just when you were adjusting the sights to see the Brooklyn Bridge, a rasped voice pierced the silence.

“Do you even know how to handle that thing?”

You pulled back, looking up to see Dex had lowered his telescope and was now watching you.

“If you didn’t know if I could handle it, why give me the gun?”

He only shook his head. “Stop messing with it, its not a toy from your training.”

“I’m not.”

Your objection was no use. You could see that smug look in his eye through the dark, peering down at you like an ant near his boot.

“Then take a practice shot, rookie.”

A nervous feeling formed in your gut at the future criticism that was bound to happen.

“We’re not authorized to fire unless its for approved force.”

Dex was almost surprised at your defiance. “I’m your superior, you can do what I say or leave. There’s not going to be any action anyways.” He sighed, putting the telescope back in the sniper case, crossing his arms over his chest with a patronizing smirk. “Now c’mon, lets see if you’re really the hot shot you think you are.”

You swallowed your pride for a moment, looking back into the scope and gripping the gun steady. You brought the sights back to the area, scanning the nearby rooftops for a target to hit.

There was a low groan of annoyance when Dex landed on his knees next to you. He took one close look at your form and position and scoffed.

“Lower.”

You rolled your eyes, shuffling your hip against the hard floor. “I can see.”

“No-” A rough hand pushed your shoulders, knocking your chest to the ground and nearly your jaw. “Here.”

You gritted your teeth to stifle the whimper at the hit to your ribs. “I got it.” You managed to hiss, nudging your shoulder to get his hand off of you.

“No, you don’t.”

Before you could fit another snide remark in, arms wrapped you— caging you to the ground and gun.

His broad forearms were on the concrete floor on both sides of you, biceps flexed and brushing against your numbing arms. Dex’s chest was hovering just above your flexed back, shifting his weight to draw closer to the scope.

His head loomed over your shoulder for his eye to reach down the sight, so close you could feel his breath on your cheek— hot and raspy. His knees were anchored to the ground next to you, the holsters and buckles of his belt dug into the side of your leg, your hip brushing his waist.

He felt close.

Way too close.

You were now pushed nearly face forward into the ground, your superior almost completely on top of you and so close you couldn’t tell if it was his heartbeat you were hearing or just the blood thundering in your ears.

You had no choice but to try and slow down your breathing and not make a noise every time you felt him touch you. You kept your eye through the lens, not even realizing his hands were reaching for yours until you felt them wrapped over the sides of the weapon.

Dex moved the gun around on the ground, just enough to find the new target as you laid there in a daze.

“Right there,” he whispered. “You see that billboard?”

You could only manage a small nod as you felt your breath catch in your throat. The large billboard was on the building parallel from you across the street, featuring a model posing in the newest collection of a fashion designer; big blue eyes peering at you through the dark night, sparsely illuminated by the bright lights on the street level.

“I want you to hit the eye, got it? Right in the middle.”

His hand brushed against yours as he reached the scope, adjusting the ring until it was in perfect focus for the distance and looking right into the model’s pupil. Rough skin cradled your own as he gently moved your loosened grip around until he decided it was right.

“Deep breath,” His right hand disappeared from your own as it reached back, gently resting on your back below the end of your vest.

The vision in the scope seemed to blur and fade away for a moment as he brushed it lower, sending a shiver straight through your body from the contact. You obeyed, stirring the night air into your nervous lungs as his hand pressed deeper into you the more you inhaled.

“Just like that.”

He assured, yet it sounded more like a growl than a whisper.

His index finger lightly applied pressure over your own, pressing on the trigger. You breathed in tandem with him, your back brushing against his tense chest as the heat between your bodies overwhelmed you more than the cold air ever did.

He let out a deep exhale against you, pushing your finger down as your body jolted against his, a shot ringing out into the night and piercing the eye perfectly in the middle.

You could finally breathe again when the sound of the shell clattered to the ground and snapped you from the trance, a sheepish smile formed on your face as you admired the perfect hit.

You pulled your eye from the scope and looked over your shoulder to suddenly become face to face with Dex.

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw flashing behind his eyes. The grip on your hand tightened, just slightly, like he was holding onto restraint by a thread.

A soft gaze— his dark eyes glinting with the reflections of city lights. It was out of character seeing Dex look at you like that.

He must’ve realized he was staring at your lips— his adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, “Good.”

The praise lingered in your ear, whistling in the wind and reverberating in your mind.

His lips hovered inches from yours. You could feel his breath ghosting against your skin, every inhale shared in that narrow space. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find a reason not to do it, trying to remember what lines he wasn’t supposed to cross.

But then his hand slid further down your back—deliberate, grounding, possessive.

He hated that he was stuck with you.

He hated that he was always partnered with you. He hated that he couldn’t get your body out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

He hated every single second he was near you. And he hated that he couldn’t stop himself.

Your lips brushed.

A mistake.

You gasped softly, and that was all it took—Dex’s mouth crashed into yours like he’d been starving for it, rough and hungry and angry at himself for wanting it this badly.

His hand gripped the side of your neck, tilting your jaw up and holding you like he was afraid you’d pull away, the other still pressed firmly into your back, anchoring you in place— slowly skimming lower down the curve of your spine and over your hip.

Your breath hitched and his smirk pressed into your lips.

You kissed him back just as desperately, your teeth grazed his lip— you weren’t sure if it was punishment or need—but it made him moan against you, breath hitching as he pushed you further into the rooftop floor.

A hand hooked under you, flipping you to your back and pulling you by your hips away from the edge and the gun as you struggled to regain your lost breath. Dex loomed on top of you, straddling your body with his knees on each side of your legs.

His belt clinked as he shifted above you, his weight pressing into you harshly. One hand slid up your shirt—calloused fingertips exploring every line and curve like he had to memorize, methodical and precise , just like how he handled the gun.

You moaned into his reconnecting kiss, your hands clutching into his hair.

Your conscious returned for a moment and you managed to breath out a plead.

“Dex—the mission-”

“Fuck the mission.”

He practically ripped your vest off from the sides in one brute stroke, tossing it the dusted concrete next to you.

He leaned back just enough to rip the rest of your shirt over your head, his eyes dragging over your body like you were something he couldn’t believe he’d kept his hands off this long. There was something frantic in the way he moved now—like weeks of tension had finally cracked open all at once.

His eyes stayed on you as he shrugged off his vest, tossing it next to yours and pulling his shirt off in one brisk motion. The warmth of his chest hit yours, your fingers digging down his neck to his back, pulling him against you.

A deep groan escaped him as he dropped his head to your neck, gently biting your sensitive skin as his arms hooked under your back, lifting you from the cold concrete to unclasp your bra.

A trail of heat led from your collarbones to your breasts as Dex kissed your exposed skin, fingers caressing over your peaking nipples and gripping your ribs as he trailed down your torso.

You were breathless and flushed, looking down to see Dex’s arms flexing as he manhandled you to lift your hips, tearing off your pants as you kicked off your boots in desperation.

The cold night air brushed at your bare legs, but it was nothing compared to the burn his mouth left as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the slope of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your pulse stutter.

Your back arched off the concrete as his hands dragged down your thighs, rough palms searing into your skin with every possessive touch as he reunited his lips to yours.

This wasn’t the same Dex from a moment ago, complete control and smooth precision—this was chaos breaking through, hungry and shaking as he grappled your body with a wet mouth and trembling hands.

You whimpered as his belt dug into the thin fabric of your panties, sending a sensitive throb in between your legs.

“Dex-” You breathed out as his hands gripped your thighs. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shut up.” He growled, spreading them wider as he pressed his hips against yours. “They’ll call if they need us. Right now, I need this.”

He looked down at you from half lidded eyes as his fingers hooked under your waistband, dragging them down as your bare legs moved to cling to his hips.

Dex grunted as he leaned back on his knees, towering over your vulnerable form as his fingers undid his belt— never breaking eye contact as he freed his straining cock, stroking the pre-cum over bulging veins.

In one swift, harsh motion he pinned your hip in place and thrusted inside of you, stealing the air from your lungs as you managed a breathless whimper, fingers digging into his tense shoulders to stabilize the blinding pressure that pierced your body. Dex began a rhythmic pace, digging deeper into you with each movement, grinding you into the ground as the silent rooftop filled with the raw noise of your bodies slamming together.

“Oh, fuck—” Your hand reached for his stomach, nails trailing down firm abs to his v-line as you clutched at his skin, palm pressing into his tense muscle.

His outstretched arm holding him up from the ground next to you buckled for a second, breath catching in his throat as he hovered closer over you.

Dex brought his mouth to yours, your moans mixing together with a sloppy kiss.

You were ruining each other, abandoning all sense of the mission to fuck each other senseless, the rooftop dissipating as his body slammed against yours. Your muscles strained to keep up with his movements, hips bucking and back arching.

His mouth bit into your neck, sucking at your pulse and hand pushing into your hip so hard you knew it would be a black bruise by morning. He was fast, desperately driving deeper to reach both your climax’s before you were caught. The anticipation was driving you mindless, resisting the impulse to let your eyes fall back by keeping them locked on Dex.

Your moans were erratic, high pitched and needy as tension in your body became overwhelming against the friction. You whimpered incoherently as your fingers clung into his shoulder, a plead to continue. He grunted as your nails dug into his skin, obeying with a sharper thrust.

You cried out as the orgasm shook through you, your hold on Dex being the only thing keeping you grounded. He groaned with his last thrusts, trembling as your pulse around his dick sending him over the edge.

Dex tore himself away, spilling hot cum over your belly and dripping down your thighs as you both struggled to catch your breath in the cold night air. Hot pants rippled through the quiet, your chests heaving as you gasped for air. Dex collapsed back onto his knees, muscles twitching and abs trembling with rapid breaths and covered with red welts left from your nails.

Your eyes locked in the dark, staring at each other in awe as you resisted regret. You swallowed, remnants of his spit trickling down your throat as his hand flinched close to your skin.

“Poindexter.”

The static of the comms tore through the silence. “We’ve got movement.”

Dex didn’t move, breath rasping as he looked down at you.

“Dex, do you copy?”

The sudden wave of shame and cold air rippled over you as Dex pulled away, harsh reality pulling you from your lust induced trance.

He switched into sniper mode in an instant, like a trained command and subconscious pull of routine. All distractions of the mission fell away.

He would curse himself for abandoning procedure, for falling through and giving in— to you.

As you breathlessly stared at the dark sky, Dex was already at the edge of the roof, pants zipped and in position, one knee down cradling the gun in his arms— eye trained down at the street.

“Suspect exiting through west side.”

He was back in his domain, grip steady— the same tight force around the gun like he’d used on you.

But metal doesn’t bruise.

He gripped it harder, forcing it down as he breathed out. A sharp roar of the gun rippled in the night. Dex jolted with the weapon, the end jabbing into his tight uncovered shoulder, red marks decorating the skin.

A yelp pierced the air from below, a man screaming echoing across the street as sirens lit up.

After a few seconds the comms crackled back on. “Nice shot, Dex. We got him.”

He lingered with the rifle, his bare back glistened with sweat in the faint light, flexed muscle trailing from his shoulders to his biceps as he moved with rapid breaths.

A finger trembled over the trigger— like it was taking everything in him to resist the urge to plunge the next shot through the bastard’s skull for so selfishly interrupting your moment.

He had to follow orders. Keep the suspect alive.

Not like he was good at following them— not when a second body laid breathlessly naked behind him.

Finally, he pulled himself from the gun, keeping his eye on the scene below, refusing to look back at you. With practiced ease he dismantled the rifle, stowing it back in the case as he retrieved his shirt and vest like nothing had ever interrupted the job.

You managed to tug your clothes back on, wincing as the fabric clung to skin smeared with cum and dirt, every movement a sharp reminder of what had just happened.

“Transporting suspect to Mass General—shot obliterated his kneecap. Recon at lobby.” The comms buzzed and clicked off.

As you clipped your vest into place, Dex loomed over you—one hand gripping the case handle, the other securing his belt with a harsh tug.

Without warning, he grabbed the strap of your vest, hauling you up with one arm until your toes barely scraped the ground.

His face lingered inches from yours, looking down at you. “You don’t tell anyone about this, got it?” He rasped, low and cold. “Not a fucking word.”

You nodded fast, breath caught in your throat before you could mutter a promise.

Then, without warning, he kissed you—sloppy and raw, more claim than affection. He pulled back just enough to flash that crooked grin.

“Good girl.”

He let you go, sending your half tied boots staggering for a grip on the floor as he brushed past you. You looked back at the empty roof, red and blue lights cascading through the dark from below, revealing the emptiness— proof nothing had ever happened.

The only evidence left now marked both of your bodies in reddening lines and darkening bruises.

The Etymology of “Most Beautiful"

pairing: spencer reid x f!bau!reader

summary: the team used to bet on how many times would reid and you finish each other’s sentences, but then it changed into: how long until spencer reid finally snaps?

warnings: reader is f, reader is called “callie” or spencer “jokingly” calls you “most beautiful” as callie is “most beautiful” in greek, CHAOTIC FUN, domestic fluff!, team's chaos in waiting, LOTS of teasing !!!, spencer is soooo OBVIOUS, callie is either dump asf or dense asf, slowburn, spencer quietly yearning!!!

wc: 2.8k

masterlist

request more of spencer here !

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The Behavioral Analysis Unit was accustomed to anomalous behavior. They profiled serial killers, deciphered cryptic manifestos, and mapped complex psychological regression.

What they were not prepared for was the daily, agonizing spectacle of Dr. Spencer Reid quietly suffocating under the weight of his own unexpressed affection.

It always began the same way: with a sentence.

"The temporal spacing between the dump sites suggests—" Spencer had said on a damp Tuesday morning, leaning over the glass table with a stack of crime scene photos.

"—an Unsub who only operates during shift-changes at the rail yard," Callie supplied instantly, sipping her coffee without looking up from her tablet.

"Which would mean his primary stressor isn't financial, it's—" Spencer continued.

"—occupational humiliation, specifically involving a superior," Callie finished, tapping her pen against the glass.

Across the room, Derek Morgan slowly set his coffee mug down. He looked at JJ. JJ looked at Emily Prentiss. Emily looked at David Rossi, who quietly pulled a crisp ten-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it in the center of the mahogany table.

"Five bucks says they do it four more times before the 11:00 AM briefing," Morgan whispered.

"I'll take the over," Prentiss muttered back. "Make it six."

Within three weeks, the casual tally had morphed into a full-scale, highly organized underground gambling ring run with terrifying precision out of Penelope Garcia’s cave. The rules were simple: ten dollars bought a slot on the whiteboard tracking the exact number of times Dr. Spencer Reid and Agent Callie Mercer finished each other’s complex, high-speed thoughts during a shift.

It wasn't just that they did it. It was how they did it. It was seamless. Telepathic. Two brilliant minds functioning on identical frequencies.

The real tragedy, however, wasn't the sentence-finishing.

The real tragedy was Spencer Reid’s face every single time it happened.

Whenever Callie finished his thought, Spencer would freeze. His hazel eyes would widen behind his floppy brown fringe, his breath catching in his throat like he’d been struck by lightning. He would stare at her side profile with a raw, breathtaking reverence—his knuckles whitening against his notebook, his chest rising and falling in shallow, nervous hitches—while Callie simply kept reading, completely immune to the romantic radiation pulsing two feet away from her.

"You know, linguistically speaking, your name is quite fascinating," Spencer said softly one rainy afternoon, leaning against the edge of Callie’s desk while she rummaged through her bottom drawer for a stapler.

Callie paused, blinking up at him through her messy hair. "My name?"

"Yes," Spencer said, his fingers fidgeting nervously with a pink eraser. A rosy, telltale blush was already creeping up his neck. "Callie. It's derived from the Ancient Greek Kallisto, which stems from kallos—meaning 'beauty'—or kallistos, which translates directly to 'most beautiful'."

He cleared his throat rapidly, his heart hammering so hard against his ribs he was certain she could hear it. He leaned in just an inch, his voice dropping into a tender, quiet register that made his own throat go dry.

"Technically... in classical literature, Callisto was a celestial figure associated with grace and beauty. So... semantically speaking, whenever I say your name... I'm essentially calling you—"

"—a walking Greek tragedy?" Callie offered with a bright, cheerful laugh, finally pulling out the stapler and slamming it onto her desk. "Because if you saw the state of my apartment after this 80-hour work week, 'tragedy' is definitely the word."

Spencer froze mid-breath. His mouth opened. It closed. His hazel eyes blinked rapidly as his entire brain short-circuited.

"I... yes," Spencer stammered, his cheeks burning a furious, radioactive red as he shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. "That... that is precisely the semantic parallel I was attempting to draw."

Behind the glass wall of his upper office, Aaron Hotchner slowly lowered his pen and buried his face in his hands.

Down in the bullpen, Morgan buried his head into his desk, letting out a long, muffled groan of sheer psychological agony.

The breaking point didn't come on a case. It came during a quiet late-night shift two weeks later.

Spencer had spent three hours trying to find an excuse to hand Callie a cup of chamomile tea. He had paced the breakroom four times, recalculated the optimal steeping temperature twice, and rehearsed a simple, two-sentence casual check-in in his head until his jaw hurt.

When he finally walked out into the bullpen holding the mug, he found Callie sitting back in her chair, her head tilted back, fast asleep under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her case file was resting on her lap, her pen slipping from her slack fingers.

Spencer stopped dead in his tracks.

The bullpen was empty. The rest of the team was upstairs finishing paperwork.

Slowly, quietly, Spencer walked over to her desk. He set the tea down with agonizing care so the ceramic wouldn't click against the wood. Then, taking a trembling breath, he reached over to his own chair, grabbed his worn brown cardigan, and gently draped it over her shoulders.

He lingered there for a fraction of a second. His fingers hovered barely an inch above her cheek, catching a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen across her face. His expression was so painfully soft, so utterly steeped in quiet, helpless adoration, that it looked like a portrait of pure yearning.

"I'm so in love with you, Callie," Spencer whispered into the silence of the empty room, the confession slipping out of him like a secret he could no longer hold inside his lungs. "You have no idea."

Callie stirred slightly in her sleep, burying her face deeper into the warm knit of his cardigan. "Mmm... 'S-Spence... needs more data..." she mumbled incoherently.

Spencer let out a breathless, wet laugh, his dimples appearing as he tucked the blanket closer around her neck. "Yeah. More data."

Unbeknownst to Spencer, Garcia’s cave door was cracked open precisely two inches.

Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, and JJ were squeezed into the doorway like a four-tier tower of surveillance, watching the entire exchange through the gap.

Garcia was silently weeping into a pink tissue. JJ had her hands clasped over her heart, while Morgan was rubbing his forehead in utter disbelief.

"That's it," Morgan declared in a fierce, furious whisper, slamming the cave door shut as they retreated inside. "That is IT. I cannot watch this man live in the friend-zone cellar for another damn day!"

Garcia marched up to her whiteboard, grabbed an eraser, and violently wiped away the sentence-tally scores.

"Bet Number One is officially dead!" Garcia announced, her voice shaking with righteous indignation. "Counting their brain-waves is no longer entertainment! It is a public health hazard! My boy is drowning in slow-burn misery!"

"She's not doing it on purpose," Prentiss pointed out, shaking her head in amazement. "Callie is just functionally blind to romance. Spencer could write her a sonnet in three different dead languages and she'd ask him to check her Latin grammar."

"So, new bet," Morgan said, picking up a thick red marker and writing in massive capital letters across the top of the board: HOW LONG UNTIL SPENCER REID FINALLY SNAPS?

"Twenty bucks says he breaks on the next field assignment," JJ chimed in immediately, slapping her money down. "He's at critical mass. Did you see his hands shaking when he put that sweater on her?"

"Fifty bucks says he tries three more times, fails because she's denser than depleted uranium, and snaps in the elevator," Prentiss countered, tossing her bill onto the desk.

"One hundred," a deep voice spoke from the doorway.

The team spun around. Hotch was standing in the entrance, his arms folded over his chest, his face an unreadable mask of stone. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and placed it squarely on Garcia's desk.

"Before 5:00 PM today," Hotch said flatly.

Morgan stared at him. "Hotch... do you know something?"

"I know that Reid has been holding a box of bakery pastries behind his back in the hallway for fifteen minutes," Hotch replied calmly, checking his watch. "And Mercer just woke up."

In the bullpen, Callie stretched her arms above her head, letting out a long yawn as Spencer's sweater slid down her shoulders. She blinked, catching the warm scent of lavender wool and fresh tea sitting on her desk.

"Morning, sleepyhead," a soft voice spoke.

Callie looked up. Spencer was standing beside her desk. His hair was a glorious, windblown mess, his tie was slightly crooked, and he was holding a small paper bag from the bakery downstairs so tightly the edges were crumpled.

"Spencer?" Callie blinked, rubbing her eyes. "Did I fall asleep? Wait... is this your cardigan?"

"You looked cold," Spencer said rapidly, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His cheeks were already glowing like embers. "The central heating in the building fluctuates by four degrees between 2:00 AM and 4:00 AM due to automated energy-saving protocols, so..."

"Thanks, Spence," Callie smiled warmly, wrapping the cardigan tighter around herself. "You're the best friend a girl could ask for."

Friend.

The word hung in the air like a heavy iron weight.

Upstairs, watching from the glass balcony, Morgan winced so hard he had to turn away.

Spencer stood completely frozen. Something inside his hyper-efficient, analytical mind finally—finally—snapped under the weight of twenty weeks of absolute, unadulterated frustration.

He didn't give a lecture. He didn't cite a study. He didn't explain the thermodynamic properties of cotton.

He stepped around her desk, grabbed her rolling chair by the armrests, and pulled her smoothly across the floor until she was sitting directly between his knees.

Callie’s breath hitched in surprise, her eyes widening as she looked up at him. "Spence—?"

"I am not your best friend, Callie," Spencer said.

His voice wasn't his usual soft, academic pitch. It was low, deep, and laced with an intense, raw authority that made a sudden, electric shiver shoot straight down Callie’s spine.

"I... I don't understand—"

"I know you don't," Spencer interrupted, stepping even closer, his long legs framing her chair, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the bullpen. He leaned down until his face was barely three inches from hers, his hazel eyes burning with a fierce, trembling light. "Because every time I try to tell you, you turn it into a joke, or a trivia fact, or an academic exercise."

Callie’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her mouth went dry. "Spencer..."

"When I talked about the etymology of your name," Spencer whispered, his breath warm against her lips, his fingers trembling as he reached out and lightly touched the edge of her jaw, "I wasn't giving you a linguistics lesson. I was trying to tell you that you are... literally, objectively, and completely... the most beautiful thing I have ever looked at."

Callie froze. The dense, thick fog of oblivious comfort that had protected her for months shattered into a million tiny pieces.

"You... you meant..." she stammered, her voice barely a breath.

"I mean that I haven't slept properly in three months because every time I close my eyes, I think about you," Spencer confessed, the words pouring out of him now in a desperate, beautiful torrent. "I mean that every time you finish my sentences, it's not just brain synchronization—it's because my entire mind already belongs to you. I am completely, utterly, and helplessly in love with you, Callie."

He stopped, his chest heaving, his face flushed brilliant crimson, looking at her with a raw, terrifying vulnerability, waiting for her to pull away.

Up on the balcony, six FBI profilers were holding their breath in absolute, agonizing silence.

Callie stared up at him. Her mind replayed the last three months in a split second—the tea, the cardigans, the lingering looks, the way he always stood between her and danger on cases, the way his voice softened whenever he said her name.

The realization hit her like a freight train.

"Spencer," Callie breathed, a slow, radiant, breathless smile suddenly breaking across her face. "You... you idiot."

Spencer blinked, his heart sinking into his shoes. "I... an idiot? Statistically, my IQ—"

Callie didn't let him finish his sentence.

She reached up, grabbed the lapels of his tweed jacket, and pulled him down into a firm, sweet, long-overdue kiss.

Spencer’s brain went entirely blank. His hands hovered in mid-air for a fraction of a second before he let out a soft, helpless gasp against her mouth. His long arms wrapped tightly around her waist, lifting her slightly out of her chair as he pulled her flush against his chest, burying his face into the curve of her neck as he kissed her back with every ounce of the yearning he had bottled up for months.

Upstairs on the balcony, Garcia let out a loud, high-pitched squeal, covering her mouth as JJ clapped wildly.

Hotch didn't say a word. He simply held out his open palm toward Morgan.

Morgan grumbled under his breath, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and slapped it into his boss's hand. "Unbelievable. The man is a mentalist."

Down in the bullpen, Spencer pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against Callie's, his hazel eyes shining with pure, unadulterated joy, his dimples deeper than she had ever seen them.

"So," Spencer whispered, his thumb lightly stroking her cheek, his voice still trembling with happiness. "Does this mean... our baseline probability of a relationship is—"

"—one hundred percent, Dr. Reid," Callie finished softly, reaching up to kiss him again. "One hundred percent."

The aftermath in the bullpen was less of a shift conclusion and more of an official victory parade.

The moment Spencer and Callie finally separated, breathlessly smiling at each other with flushed cheeks, the double doors of the glass balcony burst open.

"I KNEW IT!" Garcia squealed, practically flying down the iron staircase with her arms raised in pure ecstasy. "My brilliant, beautiful babies! The universe is finally aligned!"

Morgan sauntered down right behind her, shaking his head with a massive, proud grin plastered across his face. He walked straight up to Spencer, clapping a heavy, affectionate hand onto the younger profiler's shoulder—nearly knocking a completely dazed Spencer off balance.

"Look at you, Kid!" Morgan chuckled, winking at Callie. "Who knew you had that smooth, dominant profiler voice in you? 'I am not your best friend, Callie'—man, I thought Hotch was going to hire a fireworks display right then and there."

"Derek!" Spencer squeaked out, his cheeks instantly re-igniting into a bright, radioactive crimson as he tried to adjust his tie with trembling hands. "I was... I was simply establishing clear interpersonal boundaries!"

"Right, boundaries," Prentiss laughed, leaning against the corner of Callie's desk and handing her a fresh paper cup of cold water. "You practically dragged her chair across the room, Reid. Very caveman of you. I approve."

Callie took the cup, her fingers still tingling, her gaze flickering back toward Spencer, who looked like he was about to pass out from sheer happiness and flustered embarrassment. "So... you guys knew about this?"

"Knew about it?" JJ chimed in, stepping over with her arms crossed and a sweet, triumphant smile. "Callie, we’ve been running an underground pool on you two for nearly two months."

Callie blinked, her jaw dropping slightly. "A pool? On us?"

"Bet Number One was counting how many times you two completed each other's sentences," Rossi explained smoothly, strolling down the stairs while tucking his leather wallet back into his suit jacket. "It was canceled due to high levels of secondhand emotional exhaustion."

"And Bet Number Two," Morgan added, pointing a finger straight at Hotch, who was descending the stairs with his usual calm, stoic composure, "was won by the Boss. He took the over on Spencer snapping before five o'clock today."

Callie turned her dark eyes toward the Unit Chief in utter shock. "Hotch? You bet on us?"

Aaron Hotchner stopped at the foot of the stairs, unbuttoning his suit jacket. His face remained carved out of solid marble, but the unmistakable, rare warmth in his eyes gave him away completely.

"I don't gamble, Agent Mercer," Hotch said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "I simply make logical deductions based on behavioral patterns. When Dr. Reid forgets to state three statistical facts during a case briefing, it usually means he's distracted by critical personal matters." He paused, looking between Spencer and Callie with a faint, genuine smile touching the corner of his lips. "Congratulations, you two. Don't let this interfere with the Detroit case logs."

"We won't, Hotch!" Spencer promised hastily, stepping half an inch closer to Callie and subtly, protective-like, sliding his hand behind her waist, his long fingers gently resting on her hip.

As the team slowly dispersed, chatting and laughing back toward their desks, Spencer leaned down close to Callie’s ear.

"Statistically speaking," Spencer whispered, his voice warm, low, and laced with that sweet, dimpled grin, "the team is going to tease us about this for the next four to six years."

Callie turned her head, her dark eyes sparkling as she reached up, lightly fixing his askew tie. "Let them tease us, Dr. Reid. They're just jealous they didn't get a front-row seat."

The FBI agent who initially began working with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to investigate the fatal ICE shooting of Renee Good has resigned from the bureau, two sources familiar with the matter told CNN.

Soon after the agent opened the civil rights investigation, she was ordered to reclassify it as an investigation into an assault on the officer. The FBI blocked the BCA from participating in the investigation.

The New York Times first reported the resignation.

The agent’s resignation comes as the agency has undergone another purge of seasoned FBI agents across several states, multiple sources familiar with the departures told CNN. Some of the people who are being pushed out were confronted after the bureau conducted a review of the FBI’s internal messaging system and discovered instances when they made negative comments about President Donald Trump, according to the people familiar.

Pairing: ex!FBIagent!Chan x FBIagent!afab!reader, slow burn, strangers to reluctant allies, nonidol au

Synopsis: he died. Everyone believed he did. But you found out. And whether you like it or not, keeping you alive is now his job.

Warnings: violence, onomatopoeia, switching btwn chris and chan (but its the same person), russian (there will be translations), mullet chan...

a/n: I liked this piece a lot actually, and I hope you do. dw, there will be more parts (relax...), uhh my longest so far? 5k words? yeahh..if you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't.

next...

Christopher Bang is dead.

The world had been convinced that Christopher Bang was dead.