`°•The Seventh Dimension•°`

Spencer reid

Male reader:

I Put the D in ADHD - Spencer Reid x ADHD! Male! Reader

Pet Names and Profilers - Spencer Reid x Male! reader

Show Off - Spencer Reid x Male! reader

An Extrovert's Guide to Introvert Adoption - Spencer Reid + Male! Reader (platonic)

Satan's Microwave - BAU Team (Spencer, Morgan, and Hotch) x Male!Reader

Gender Neutral Reader:

Embracing Sanctuary Beyond Confinement - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Petals and Perseverance - Spencer Reid x OCD! Gn! Reader

Are you missing me like I'm missing you? - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Sand and Scars - Trans! Spencer Reid x Gn! reader

Seedless Seedlings, the End and Beginning. - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Here, My Dear, in this Moment. - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Connections 101: How Not to Overthink It - Spencer Reid x Gn! reader

The First Time— Not Like That. - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

The Smartest Person in the Room (And you too, I guess.) - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Constellations of Us - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Down Under Discoveries - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Pain in Good Company - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader + Platonic! Spencer Reid (Part 2)

Lost in the Stacks - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Each Dog-Eared Page - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

When the Walls Close In - BAU team x Gn! Reader

SMUT

Male Reader:

Relentless Sensations - FtM! Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader

He wasn't beaten up I swear. - Spencer Reid x Top! Male! reader

Just a Tip over the Edge - FtM! Spencer Reid x Top! Male! reader

Not Walking is a Good Pay Off - Spencer Reid x (Implied Top!) Male! Reader

After Case Special - Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader

Half-Asleep and Yours - Ftm! Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader

Loose at the Neck - Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader

Freud Would Have a Field Day - Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader (part 1 vvv)

From Bedroom to Bullpen - Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader (Part 2 ^^^)

A Killer’s Masquerade - Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader

Gender Neutral Reader:

Tugging on Your Patience - Spencer Reid x Top! Gn! Reader

Temptation in Crimson - Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Aaron Hotchner

Male Reader:

Heavy Stakes and Healthy Shakes - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

"Dumbass" "Your Dumbass." - Aaron Hotchner x Male! reader

Organophospha—What..?? - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Finish Lines and Fries - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Tea Spilled Above 30,000 Feet - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Just Some Guy (In Hotch’s Kitchen) - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Do Not Disturb (He’s Relaxing!) - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Satan's Microwave - BAU Team (Spencer, Morgan, and Hotch) x Male!Reader

He Knows a Guy (..Ominous?) - Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Gender Neutral Reader:

Paperwork, Kisses, and Office Escapes: The Hotch Chronicles - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

The Art of the Post-Case Cuddling - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

For You, I’d Endure the Spooks - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

Dry by Morning - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

Catch Me If You Can - Aaron Hotchner + Gn! Reader (platonic)

Just One Serving - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

Bright Lights = Big Ouch - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader (Part 1 vvv)

Pain in Good Company - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader + Platonic! Spencer Reid (Part 2 ^^^)

Observed, Noted, Remembered - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

A Body in the Bed, A Man at the Door - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

The Scarlett Echoes - Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

When the Walls Close In - BAU team x Gn! Reader

SMUT

Male Reader:

None Yet!! :))

Gender Neutral Reader:

Drive my Car~? - FtM! Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

Derek Morgan

Male Reader:

404: Garcia Not Found.. - Derek Morgan x Male! Reader

Satan's Microwave - BAU Team (Spencer, Morgan, and Hotch) x Male!Reader

Stride by Stride - Derek Morgan x Male! Reader

When the Walls Close In - BAU team x Gn! Reader

Gender Neutral Reader:

My Favourite Place Was You - Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

No Psalms for the Forgotten - Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

The Weight of Small Things - Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader (Part 1)

The Weightlessness After - Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader (Part 2)

Gotcha, Punk! - Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

David Rossi

Male Reader:

Gay? European?? Both??? - David Rossi x Male! Reader

Mildly Drowning With a Hand to Hold Onto - David Rossi x Male! Reader

Gender Neutral Reader:

A Penne for Your Thoughts? - David Rossi + Gn! Reader (Platonic)

Penelope Garcia

Male Reader:

Text me later! Or not. - Penelope Garcia x Male! Reader

Request Rules:

Fanfics - Open/Closed

I write Male or Gender neutral Reader only. Any requests with unspecified genders will be written as gn! reader, unless smut with PiV or PiA was requested.

Specify whether or not it's NSFW!! I want to write what you want to read if I'm fulfilling your request!!

I write Top Male/Gn reader only. I'm willing to discuss submissive if your idea is well written and appeals to me, but I'm not comfortable with writing bottom reader :).

I'm fine with writing female characters, although it is not my preference, so excuse me if it isn't as good as my regular stuff!! :)

Trans! (Character) = No smut

FtM/MtF = Smut w gendered anatomy

If you want to request, please specify:

Hello, I want (Season!)(Character) x (Gender!) reader. (Plot specifics) (Type of fic, smut, fluff, angst).

I WILL NOT BE WRITING:

Technology was the devil’s work. That was a hill you were willing to die on. The second you joined the BAU, you were handed a stack of updated rules regarding confidentiality and internet usage.

It was the same corporate song and dance you assumed every FBI desk jockey got: Never discuss sensitive case information on an unsecured line; never use 'Select All' on an email; change your password every thirty days. Blah, blah, blah.

But as far as you were concerned, none of that was a problem if you just… didn’t use the damn stuff in the first place. Didn't it seem simple? No pain, no gain. The "no pain" was never having the massive pain in the ass of learning a computer, and the "no gain" was never gaining a random virus.

While the rest of the team was busy tethered to their tablets and buzzing smartphones, you were a ghost in the machine. Or rather, a ghost who refused to even touch the machine.

You lived out in the woods, far enough from the grid that the hum of a server couldn't reach your ears.

You didn't even have a landline; instead, your only concession to the modern age sat in the corner of your cabin like a grumpy, mechanical dog. It was a beige, clunky fax machine from 1994 that screamed with a horrific, electronic screech every time a new lead came through. It sat there like a relic from a museum, the only way the Bureau could notify you of a case without sending a carrier pigeon.

While Penelope Garcia spoke to her servers with the tenderness of a mother, you treated that machine like a necessary evil, a temperamental beast that only barked when there was a body to find.

You were a smudge of graphite in a world of high-definition. While the rest of the team looked sleek in their pressed suits, you carried the physical toll of the "old ways", the permanent ink stains ghosting your fingertips and a scent of cedar and woodsmoke that clung to your coat, a defiance against the sterile, bleach-scented air of the office.

.

.

. The first time Garcia walked past your desk and saw nothing but a stack of legal pads and a sharpened pencil, devoid of a monitor, a mouse, or even a charging cable, she physically recoiled as if the vacuum of space had opened up in the middle of Quantico.

"Where… where is your everything?" she asked, her voice hitching in genuine distress.

You didn't even look up from your handwritten notes. "If it’s important, fax it. If it’s not, don't worry about it. Technology is a window, Penelope. And I prefer my curtains closed."

.

.

.

Your relationship with Penelope Garcia was a walking contradiction, a glitch in the logic of the BAU that even Reid couldn’t quite categorize. She was a neon-soaked explosion of digital data, and you were a charcoal sketch in a world of high-definition.

By all accounts, you should have annoyed the hell out of her. You were the man who made her job ten times harder by refusing to own a smartphone, the man who forced her to hunt down ribbon for an antique typewriter just so you could submit your field reports.

And yet, she was the only one who truly seemed to see you through the thicket of your own reclusive habits..

.

.

. "You know, I tracked your coordinates this morning," Garcia chirped, leaning against the edge of your stark, monitor-less desk. She was wearing a headband with oversized glittery sunflowers that seemed to vibrate against the beige walls of the office. "Based on the atmospheric pressure and the specific bird calls I heard through the office phone when you called in… I’d say you’re approximately forty miles deep into the 'Please Don't Murder Me' woods."

You didn't look up from the physical map you were marking with a grease pencil, but the corner of your mouth quirked. "Thirty-eight miles, Penelope. And the birds were just complaining about the humidity. I told you, don't call the cabin unless the world is ending."

"The world is always ending in this building, sugar-plum," she countered, her voice dropping an octave, becoming softer, more intimate. "And besides, I worry. What if a bear eats you? Or worse, what if you run out of… I don't know, whatever it is you people eat? Bark? Foraged berries?"

You finally looked up. Her eyes, magnified and bright behind her teal-rimmed glasses, were fixed on yours. There was a spark there, a tether of genuine, frantic affection that went beyond coworkers. You liked her. Um. Platonically. You liked the way she smelled like vanilla and ozone, and the way she refused to let you disappear into the shadows you built around yourself.

Neither of you said it. You couldn't. To say it out loud would be to bridge a gap that felt impossible, the distance between a server farm and a log cabin.

"I have plenty of supplies," you said, your voice lower than usual. "But I did run out of that tea you liked. The one that smells like a campfire."

Garcia’s face lit up, a glow that no LED screen could ever replicate. "The smoked Lapsang Souchong! I knew it! I actually… I might have tucked a tin of it into your go-bag when you weren't looking."

.

.

.

Standing at the threshold of Penelope Garcia’s office felt like staring directly into the mouth of hell.

The moment you stepped into the "Bat Cave," the sheer sensory overload made you visibly wince. The low, persistent hum of the massive servers sounded like a swarm of digital hornets, and the twelve flickering monitors reflecting off her glasses felt like they were searing your retinas.

"Oh, thank the Goddess you're here, my handsome relic," Garcia chirped, her fingers dancing across a keyboard with a speed that made your stomach turn. She picked up a sleek, glowing tablet and held it out toward you. "I’ve got the facial rec results back from the toll booth. It’s grainy, but I can-"

You didn't reach for the glass. Instead, you reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a heavy, brass-rimmed magnifying glass and a weathered, physical notebook.

Garcia froze, the tablet still extended like a peace offering you were refusing to touch. Her eyes went wide with genuine horror. "Dude… I can enhance this four-thousand percent with a single swipe of my thumb. It’s literally magic."

You leaned in, squinting through your lens at the screen from a safe, six-inch distance. "Every time you swipe, a satellite records your fingerprint, Penelope. I’ll stick to my eyes. They don't have a login."

Garcia slowly lowered the tablet, turning her head toward Morgan, who was leaning against the doorframe with an amused smirk.

Overhead, a single bulb stutters—a nervous, high-pitched buzz—before it dies, leaving you with the trembling spear of your flashlight. Darkness rushes in like water. Scents sharpen: dirt, iron, wet timber, something faintly sweet and old. The space aches against your skin; you can feel the walls without touching them. You try to take inventory—exits, tools, comms—but your lungs rebel against a weight that isn’t logic, only instinct.

Claustrophobia. That’s what you call it when people ask. Easier than explaining how tight spaces crush the words out of your veins until all that’s left is pulse and dread.

You drag a breath. “Cellar’s sealed,” you report, voice clipped to hide the tremor. “I’m fine—just need a second. Door’s locked. Might need Morgan’s muscle.”

Static answers you, whispering like someone exhaling at your ear.

Then the dark exhales back—alive, patient, listening.

Footsteps scuff above, muffled through concrete. Each breath rasps hotter, heavier. You force yourself to pace, boots scraping the dust just to prove the room hasn’t swallowed you whole. Your flashlight skims over rusted shelves, clouded jars, a lantern choked in soot. The beam quivers in your hand, your only tether.

Sweat crawls down your neck in itching lines. The air tastes metallic, every swallow like biting a coin. Your pulse beats through your teeth.

“Okay… okay.” The words barely leave your mouth, a ritual for bad nights. “Not the worst. Been in tighter. Been in—”

Trapped. The word scrapes up your throat; you bite down hard.

The radio sputters to life—Hotch, thin and staticky, calling out your name: “Report.”

Your flashlight coughs, flickers. The beam catches the brass lock—a fractured mirror of your own face, eyes gone strange in the glare.

You jab the button. “Still locked in. Air’s… thick. No other exit.”

You want to keep talking, to stay tethered to the human noise, but your breath knots. The walls blur at the edges, closing in until you feel smaller than your own body.

It begins quietly: a tremor in your chest, a shimmer at the edge of hearing. You try to breathe slow, deliberate, but the air only curdles heavier. Every sound sharpens—boots overhead, the metallic crackle of the radio, the thunder of your blood hammering double-time.

You stumble, shoulder scraping stone, fingers digging grooves too deep. Pain blooms; your hands ache, bones grinding as if something ancient stirs beneath the skin. Knuckles swell. Nails press out sharp and greedy.

“Not here,” you rasp. “Not like this.”

The flashlight slips free, spinning across the floor. Shadows lurch, stretch—oil-slick shapes that breathe and twist. Heat floods behind your eyes; the world flares amber and black, every particle carved in light.

A new scent breaks through—harsh, wild—and it’s yours. Fear so strong it burns. You press into the wall, shaking, trying to swallow it back, but every nerve screams run. There’s nowhere to go.

You try to call out, force out words, but the sound breaks apart on your tongue, an involuntary growl curling deep in your chest.There’s a heartbeat of silence before Morgan cuts in, his tone sharpened by fear. “What the hell was that?” Reid stammers an excuse—signal distortion, technical interference—but you hear the brittle edge in his voice. Prentiss doesn’t bother hedging: “Or he’s in trouble. Move.”

Your jaw locks with a crack, a low growl uncoiling from somewhere older than language.

Above, the team’s voices scatter and fade. All you can hear now is your heartbeat—raw, thunderous—and beneath it, the deeper rhythm of your body deciding it’s finished pretending to be only human.

Thudding boots hammer the stairs above, each impact splitting through foundation and bone alike. You hear human heartbeats tangled together, the sound a drumline just behind your teeth. Too much. Too close. Each thud sends another ripple of panic through your body.

“Breathe,” Hotch says, calm and relentless, but you can’t. The air is wet cloth over your mouth; your vision flickers at the edges, the cellar shrinking with every pulse. All sound needles in—every bootstep, every rushed gasp—and in the middle of it you drop, knees cracking cold against concrete, palm pressed so hard over your mouth you almost believe you can hold the creature down.

Then comes the crack—the old doorframe splintering. You flinch, muscles coiling. The shadows leap. They’re coming through. Some part of you, not quite human, wants to run.

Fear tips you over, and it doesn’t feel like pain—not at first. It feels like falling through your own body, every muscle shuddering loose as centuries of instinct claw their way up from beneath your skin. Bone bends, ribs splay; your stomach turns to water as your spine arches and your hands spasm into claws that dig furrows in stone.

Your scream breaks free, but it’s twisted—raw, guttural, ripped through with a snarl that shakes the walls. Heat pulses down your arms, slick with sweat that steams off in the chill.

You crush the flashlight under your shift, glass popping, shadows blossoming until the world vanishes and returns, sharp in new colors and shapes. The dark isn’t empty anymore—it’s painted with scents you shouldn’t know. Wood rot, gun oil, blood iron, the sick-sweet sting of fear—yours, theirs, everyone’s.

A growl bursts up, predatory, volatile. You don’t want to hurt anyone. You just need a way out. Voices hammer overhead; they sound too near, too loud, no longer words but thundering threat.

When the battered latch gives, and the door yanks wide—

Instinct takes the wheel.

Bootsteps crash behind you—the team, now, their presence beating in your ears. Light explodes, razor-bright on broken bottles and fur. You’re hunched, wild, crouched over what’s left, sticky blood on your hands and in your mouth, vision swimming.

The unsub stands in the door, gun half-raised, stink of old rage everywhere—target, enemy, danger.

He isn’t fast enough. You hit him hard, all beast and panic and terror. Motion becomes blur, then a scatter of hot, wet impressions—teeth, struggle, sharp metallic tang, the thump of body on stone. His scream fizzles out in a spray of red, warm against your tongue. After, the silence is deafening, thick as syrup.

You see them: Morgan frozen mid-draw, eyes wide. Prentiss mouthing disbelief—Reid, trembling, curiosity at war with horror. Hotch, always Hotch, mask set, mind firing through options.

Sound swells in your chest—their fear, your fear, heartbeats hacking together like thunder. You stagger back, claws up, snarl broken and confused. You don’t mean to threaten, but you can’t speak. All you know is terror, the cornered-animal urge to lunge or run or break something just to taste air.

The light stabs at your eyes—white and brutal, peeling your vision into jagged flashes. Every voice grinds against your skull, every scent is a knife edge: the iron tang of blood clinging to your tongue, the thick musk of old sweat, the note of gun oil threaded through adrenaline and fear. It’s all too much.

Your name, spoken by every voice in the room. It means nothing.

All you hear is the thunder of your pulse, and the beast inside, spitting its ancient single rule: cornered, trapped, fight, survive.

Your claws rip accidental furrows into the concrete as you stagger, snarling a hoarse warning. The sound bounces in the stone box, wild and half-shaped, more plea than threat.

The team moves around you in wide, deliberate arcs. They aren’t running. They aren’t screaming. Shoulders squared, eyes fixed, bodies braced. Predators, but not monsters.

“Hold your fire!” Hotch’s order snaps the room in half. “Non-lethal only.”

Morgan and Prentiss move as one, calm and measured. This is just another standoff—except this time, the threat is you.

You know your own name, but the sound of it—Hotch’s voice—barely claws its way through your own ragged panting. “You’re in control… You’re not trapped anymore.” But you are. The cellar is still a tomb, the scent of fresh blood traps you in the moment, instincts scratching at the inside of your skull. Fight or flee.

Morgan steps close. That’s all it takes.

You surge—a blur of claws, muscle, panic. He rolls clear, shouting a warning that drowns beneath the red roar in your ears. Then the taser cracks—a snap of light and searing pain tears through your chest, your cry twisted, feral, echoing.

You hit the ground and try to scramble up, claws skittering against stone. Another dart bites deep, its heat a fire under your skin. Tranquilizer. Not silver—no burning death—just ugly, numbing agony.

You hear Hotch’s voice—strained, stretched thin with urgency. “Again! Bring them down!” More boots. More darts. The world narrows around your heartbeat, slowing, dragging you under.

A final hiss. Something sharp buries in your shoulder. Lips peeled back, you lift your head one last time, vision tunneling. Hotch’s gaze meets yours—calm, grim, unmoving. There’s no fear there. Just sorrow. Grim, resolute, human sorrow.

One last breath—then darkness.

You surface in pieces. Not the muck-black quiet of the basement, but a clean, low hum—fluorescence, machines, the sterile ghost of antiseptic over metal and sweat. Your mouth tastes strange. You feel too heavy, wrists pinched by metal, every muscle slow with the weight of poison and change.

You force your eyes open, wary. The world registers as a cage disguised as comfort: reinforced walls, sealed window, medical monitors blinking soft and green. A containment room—hospital made for monsters.

Reid’s there first, perched near the door, hunched tight and jittery. His fingers twitch at a tablet. He studies you over the top, wary but not afraid. “Hey,” he murmurs, soft and almost unsure, as if volume could break the spell. "You're, um.. you're awake. Hi."

Your voice grates up from a throat rubbed raw. “That’s… one way to put it. Not sure I'm quite there yet..”

He hesitates, words jammed up somewhere between awe and curiosity. “Do you… heal faster than humans? Because your vitals—”

“Reid.” Hotch’s silhouette fills the door. His gun is gone; so are the cuffs, save for what pins you to the bed.

“You’re not under arrest. You saved three people. Including Morgan.”

You look down. Your hands—human hands—still tremble with remembered claws. “And killed one.”

Hotch’s jaw muscles flex. “The unsub would have killed you. You acted on instinct.”

“That’s the problem.” Your laugh is brittle. “Instinct doesn’t stop on command.”

Morgan’s frame appears behind Hotch, bruised but undeniably alive. A half-smile sneaks across his face. “Yeah, well. You kept me from eating a bullet. Guess we’re square.”

Silence pools in the room, heavy but not suffocating. Prentiss lands on the edge of the table, gaze intent. “So. You’re a werewolf.”

You shrug. “You say it like it’s a punchline.”

She grins. “It kind of is.”

Reid is vibrating, words bursting at the seams. “Technically, lycanthropy appears in over four hundred myth traditions, but if this is real—”

Morgan shakes his head, exasperated. “Not now, man.”

Hotch folds his arms, gaze unblinking. “You should have told us.”

You sigh, tired to your marrow. “Would you have believed me?”

He considers. “No. But it would’ve saved you some trouble.”

There’s a pause. Something steady flickers beneath the strangeness—old trust trying to breathe again. Emily nudges, sly: “Next full moon, we’re locking you in a field, not a closet. Deal?”

Your laugh is rough, but real. “Deal.”

For the first time, the air tastes clear. Not easy, not free—but eased, somehow. Accepted.

Hotch shakes his head, faint smile ghosting his mouth. “Get some rest. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Reid starts up, “Do you think your biology could be replicated—”

Morgan groans, “Reid.”

“Sorry.”

You nod, and when the team files out—Morgan with a thumbs-up, Emily’s elbow, Reid’s sheepish wave—you finally let yourself sag back, eyes drifting shut.

He laughed — a deep, unbothered sound that carried through the park. That was the game you played: playful challenges, shoulder checks that lingered, fingers brushing when you both reached for the water bottle.

They were small things, nothing earth-shattering, but they wrapped the run in a sense of quiet intimacy you couldn’t get anywhere else. It was your rhythm, your routine, and every morning it settled deeper into something that felt like home.

By the time you rounded the bend near the coffee cart, you weren’t expecting company. But there she was — Emily Prentiss, cup in hand, brows raised as she spotted the two of you barreling down the path. She lifted her free hand in a half-wave, a smirk already forming.

“Really, Morgan? It’s not even seven and you’ve got someone joining your boot camp?” she called out, amusement laced in her tone.

Derek grinned like she’d just complimented him. “Gotta keep him on his toes,” he shot back, flashing you a look that dared you to deny it.

Emily’s smirk widened, but she didn’t linger. A sip of coffee, a little shake of her head, and she kept walking, leaving the moment hanging like mist in the morning air.

You tried to mirror Derek’s easy grin, but the quiet that followed pulled your thoughts inward. He seemed unshaken, relaxed, unbothered by even the possibility of being noticed. And yet, for you, something caught at the edges of your chest.

Would no one ever look close enough to see?

Would you always be invisible, tucked behind assumptions and whispers about Derek’s past with women?

The ache surprised you — that quiet question of whether, in the eyes of the world, your love would ever matter.

You swallowed it down, lengthening your stride to keep pace, unwilling to let him notice the shadow that had slipped across your thoughts.

By the time noon rolled around, you’d already decided: if the morning left you with doubts, then the afternoon would put them to rest.

Derek wasn’t just a teammate, not just some running buddy or “gym bro” orbiting his workouts. He was yours, and you wanted that to be seen — not whispered about or hidden behind assumptions.

So you walked into Quantico with a little grin tugging at your lips, a white pastry box in hand, the warm scent of Derek’s favorite bakery trailing after you. You ignored the stares, the curious glances. Your target was clear.

Derek looked up from his desk as soon as he sensed you. His smile lit up the bullpen, already enough to steady your nerves. Still, you didn’t hesitate — you leaned in and pressed a kiss against his cheek, casual but undeniable.

“Brought reinforcements,” you said, setting the box down in front of him.

A ripple of surprise passed through the bullpen. Emily froze mid-step, coffee halfway to her lips, and the other team members exchanged those quick, sharp looks — the kind people wear when something clicks into place. But Derek? He just laughed, warm and proud, the kind of laugh that made the edges of everything else blur.

“Look at you,” he teased, opening the box to peek inside. “You trying to bribe me with almond croissants?”

You shrugged, sliding into the seat across from his desk like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Maybe.”

Emily hadn’t expected a midday show. She’d barely looked up from the stack of files on her desk when you walked into the bullpen, pastry box in hand, but the moment you leaned down and kissed Derek’s cheek, her brain stalled like a car hitting black ice.

For a beat, all she could do was blink. Derek Morgan — the guy who filled the air with flirtatious banter, whose reputation with women was kind of a running joke — was smiling like a man completely undone by something as simple as a kiss. And it wasn’t from any of the faceless names she’d half-listened to in his stories but from you.

Her gaze snapped back, unspooling in memory. That morning in the park: the brush of your shoulders, the way your fingers briefly met over the water bottle.

She’d written it off at the time — Morgan just being Morgan: physical, competitive, playful. But now, the picture sharpened. That grin on his face, the way you looked at him when you didn’t think anyone noticed.

Emily leaned back in her chair, coffee forgotten in her hand, the realization clicking into place.

She hadn’t doubted Derek’s loyalty but had assumed — automatically, unthinkingly — that he was straight, because of the trail of stories about women he told so effortlessly. Watching the way he touched your wrist when you set the box down, as if it grounded him, she couldn’t believe she’d missed it.

The bullpen buzzed with low murmurs and exchanged glances, whispers barely contained. But Emily only found herself smiling — somehow, the truth didn’t change a thing, except maybe making it clearer just how happy Derek really was.

It wasn’t until later, tucked into a corner booth at the café down the street, that he finally turned the full weight of his curiosity on you. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the faint bitterness of coffee, warm light spilling across the table and casting soft shadows on your hands as they toyed with the edge of your napkin.

A plate of sandwiches sat between you, the smell of roasted peppers and melted cheese making your stomach rumble despite the flutter of nerves.

Derek’s elbow was braced on the table as he leaned closer, the subtle creak of the wooden bench under him blending with the low hum of conversation around you.

“Alright,” Derek said, his voice softer now, searching but steady. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was all that about? The kiss, the box, the little show back at the bullpen?”

You shifted, brushing a stray crumb from your sleeve, fingers twisting nervously at the napkin, the warmth of his gaze making the air feel suddenly heavier. “I just… I don’t want people to see me as just some gym bro hanging around you. I don’t want to be another story — someone who’s temporary or invisible. I want them to know I love you. Not like a bro or a buddy, but—”

Derek’s hand found yours, warm and grounding, the slight callous on his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture so intimate it made your chest unclench a little. His grin softened into something rare and tender. “Hey,” he said, voice low and certain. “You didn’t have to do that for me. But the fact that you did? That means the world.”

The tight knot in your chest loosened, replaced by a glowing calm that seemed to settle into your bones. You caught the faint clatter of a coffee cup, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and baked goods around you.

As Derek picked up his sandwich, smirking at you over the crust, you realized it didn’t matter who else noticed. The warmth in his hand, the steadiness of his gaze, the quiet intimacy between bites—it was enough.

Reid’s voice cut through before anyone else could speak. “This isn’t just murder—it’s narrative. The unsub’s building a performance around wealth and access. They elevate the victim for a night, then kill them as a final act. To them, it’s benevolence. They’re ‘saving’ the victim from returning to a life of poverty.”

JJ frowned, shaking her head. “So the unsub isn’t targeting the wealthy. They’re targeting the ones brought in as tokens—symbols of charity.”

“Exactly,” Rossi added grimly. “Inherited wealth twisted into a savior complex. They believe they’re offering mercy, but it’s nothing more than control.”

Hotch let the silence hang before continuing. “The Laurent Foundation is hosting another gala in three nights. The Bureau secured two invitations under assumed identities.” His gaze lifted toward you and Reid. “You’ll attend. Blend in. Observe. Identify potential suspects.”

Reid shifted stiffly in his chair, tugging at his sleeve. “I… I’m not exactly—”

“Comfortable at parties?” Morgan grinned. “That’s why you’ve got backup. They can handle the charm while you handle the details. It’ll sell.”

Your brows arched, but you didn’t argue. Hotch slid a velvet box across the table—two embossed invitations gleaming inside.

“Remember,” Hotch said, his tone final. “The unsub wants to feel untouchable, even in a crowd. They’ll strike again soon. We need eyes inside before they do.”

The team exchanged loaded looks. You just exhaled slowly, closing the file. “So… ball gowns, tuxedos, champagne flutes, and catching a narcissistic killer who thinks they’re God?”

Rossi smirked faintly. “Just another Saturday night.

You’ve been in bulletproof vests, interrogation rooms, and crime scenes splattered with things you’ll never unsee. But somehow, standing in front of the mirror in a suit tailored within an inch of its life feels more dangerous. Too polished. Too noticeable.

“Statistically,” Spencer muttered somewhere behind you, his voice muffled like he was fighting his own tie, “these galas are actually despised by at least forty-two percent of attendees. They’re performative, tedious, and—”

“Reid,” you interrupted, turning to find him wrestling with his reflection, tie a sad knot of fabric strangling his neck. “You’re gonna scare the unsub into confessing before we even get through the door if you keep lecturing about statistics.”

His brow furrowed, lips parting to argue, but you stepped forward, hands brushing his collar. “Here,” you said lightly, fingers deftly undoing his mess. “Let me.”

Too close. The kind of close where you could count his lashes, where the faintest trace of your cologne drifted between you. Spencer froze, Adam’s apple bobbing hard against your knuckles as you looped the fabric into something that actually resembled a tie.

“There,” you murmured, smoothing it flat against his chest. “Now you look like someone who knows how to gamble away millions.” You smirked, brushing past him to grab your coat.

The Laurent Foundation’s gala was every stereotype wrapped in gold: chandeliers dripping crystals, champagne bubbling like liquid wealth, gowns glittering with more carats than crime scenes you’d cataloged this year.

You felt eyes on you the moment you walked in. Not because they knew who you were—but because in this world, new faces were currency.

Spencer stiffened at your side, posture screaming I-don’t-belong-here. You slipped seamlessly into social-butterfly mode, looping an arm through his and pasting on the kind of smile that said you’d done this a thousand times.

“This is my partner,” you said smoothly when someone in sequins and diamonds swooped in to greet you. “He’s brilliant with numbers.”

Spencer offered a polite nod. “Actually, baccarat has one of the lowest house edges of all casino games. The banker bet has a house edge of only 1.06 percent, which makes it statistically optimal if you—”

The socialite blinked, smile faltering.

You leaned in, warmth in your voice as you laughed, saving him. “Translation: don’t play against him unless you like losing. He’s basically a card shark disguised as a professor.”

The stranger relaxed, charmed by your tone. Spencer, meanwhile, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like prime factors.

You squeezed his arm lightly, steering him toward the bar. “See? You’re a hit already.”

The donor circle laughed politely at something you barely heard—your brain was busy watching Spencer’s posture lock like he’d been rebooted mid-sentence.

“Oh you two are so adorable together! How long have you been together? how did you two meet?” one woman interrogated, diamonds catching the chandelier light.

Spencer's breath snagged, the movement of his throat betraying him. He blinked three times, like maybe a preloaded anecdote would just appear.

You rescued him. Again. Sliding your fingers through his, you gave his hand a grounding squeeze. “Oh, it’s a story. Peace conference in Europe, five years ago. He beat me at chess, and obviously, I had to marry him to reclaim my pride.”

The group chuckled, charmed by the effortless banter. Spencer’s ears flushed crimson, but he didn’t let go. His thumb twitched against your knuckle like he was accidentally testing what it felt like to hold you back.

The gala’s host raised a crystal flute. “To generosity, to love, to legacy.”

Couples leaned close all around you, some rehearsed, some genuine. You felt Spencer tense, glass of water trembling faintly in his hand. People were watching.

So you pressed close, threading your arm through his, tilting your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Smile,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “We’re supposed to be in love.”

Spencer’s laugh was strangled, almost a cough—but when you clinked your glass to his, he looked down at you too long, like the command had been less acting, more revelation.

That was when you noticed him—the host. Perfect teeth, perfect posture, eyes sharp as glass. Watching you.

Spencer noticed too. His hand landed at the small of your back, protective instinct masquerading as intimacy.

“Five years, is it?” the host said silkily, circling you like a shark. “Love is the most exclusive club of all.”

You laughed lightly, leaning just a fraction into Spencer’s side. “Wouldn’t trade it,” you said, steady and warm.

The man smiled, indulgent. But you felt Spencer’s pulse hammering where his palm pressed to your spine. And he didn’t move it when the conversation ended.

“The Laurent Gala tradition,” the host announced grandly over the microphone, his voice echoing off crystal and marble. “All couples must share a dance!”

The room erupted in polite applause. Couples already drifted toward the floor, gowns rustling like waves of silk.

Beside you, Spencer went pale. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” you murmured, curling your fingers around his sleeve before he could melt into the wallpaper.

You led him onto the floor, placing his hand firmly at your waist, threading your fingers through his other one. “It’s just a slow waltz. One, two, three. Easy.”

His jaw tightened. “Statistically, there’s nothing easy about this.” Still, he counted under his breath, every syllable clipped: “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

You tilted closer, guiding him into rhythm. “See? You’re not bad at this,” you teased.

He huffed, ears burning. “I’m… statistically average.”

“Mm, no. You’re supposed to be charming,” you whispered, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “And right now, you actually are.”

That did it. His laugh slipped out, nervous and unsteady—but his eyes caught yours, hazel wide and too soft, holding on far too long.

The music swelled. Couples pressed closer around you. Somehow, you and Spencer did too—your chest grazing his, your breath mingling with his in the charged air between you.

Then it happened: a careless guest clipped your shoulder, knocking you forward. You stumbled—and Spencer caught you instantly, one arm locking tight around your waist.

Suddenly you were chest-to-chest, faces inches apart. His gaze darted down, betraying him, flicking to your lips.

For a heartbeat, it was just you and him. The noise, the chandeliers, the case—they all blurred. If either of you leaned the tiniest bit closer…

“Target’s on the move,” Hotch’s voice cracked sharply in your earpiece.

The spell shattered. You sprang back, smoothing your outfit with trembling hands. Spencer cleared his throat, yanking at his cuff like it might hide him.

He wasn’t basking in applause or shaking hands. He was slipping away, one manicured hand clamped around the wrist of a girl who looked far too young for borrowed satin and diamonds.

The last note of the ballad was still echoing when you spotted him.

The host. The unsub.

Music dulled as you tracked him down a gilt hallway, footsteps muffled on the carpet. Spencer hovered just behind your shoulder, tension humming off him in waves.

You and Spencer exchanged a single look. No words. Just the same sharpened instinct sparking between you.

You followed.

The unsub’s voice floated back, syrupy sweet, sticky with false benevolence.

“You don’t belong with them, do you? But with me—you’re chosen. Special.”

You eased to the corner—just in time to see him slam his palm against the plaster by her head. She flinched, caught between the wall and his body.

Your stomach turned. You’d heard this before—the predator’s gospel, coated in charm and entitlement.

Spencer’s jaw flexed, eyes hard.

Then, with a showman’s flourish, he snatched a champagne flute, smashed it against the molding. Shards rained glitter to the carpet.

The jagged stem pressed to her throat.

“FBI!” Your voice cracked like a whip down the corridor. You and Spencer stepped out as one, guns raised.

Her breath hitched. His smile didn’t waver.

“Don’t worry. I’ll save you from all of this.”

“Drop it,” Spencer snapped, his voice sharp as glass. No stammer, no hesitation—just lethal focus.

The unsub froze, then angled his head toward you both, insulted, like you’d spoiled his masterpiece. The girl whimpered.

His face twisted, that smile cracking. “They laugh at you. All of them. Pretend they’re better. She understands. She needs me.”

You pitched your voice low, steady. Negotiator-calm.

“You don’t want to do this. Hurting her won’t make you a savior. It’ll prove what you already know—you’re a coward hiding behind broken glass.”

“You’re not saving her,” you countered, keeping your muzzle locked steady on his chest. “You’re trapping her. Look at her face. She doesn’t want this.”

The girl shook her head frantically, tears streaking her satin cheeks.

While you held his gaze, voice soft and sharp in equal measure, Spencer shifted. Inch by inch. Silent. Predatory in a way you’d never seen from him.

The unsub’s rant crescendoed: “I’ll free her from all this poison! I—”

But instead of folding, the unsub snarled, thrashing like a cornered animal. He lunged, slamming his weight into Spencer.

He didn’t finish.

Spencer struck like a viper—grabbing the unsub’s wrist, twisting it back with brutal precision. The glass clattered to the floor, harmless shards skittering.

Spencer recovered fast, snapping the cuffs around his wrists. The unsub bucked once, then stilled, panting against the floor.

You moved before you thought—striking hard, wrenching him down to the carpet. Your knee pinned him, gun angled at the base of his skull.

“Stay down,” you barked.

The girl bolted straight into your chest, trembling so violently you felt it in your ribs. You holstered your gun, curling one arm protectively around her while your other hand stroked gently through her hair.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, steady and soft against the crackling adrenaline. “He can’t touch you again. You’re safe now.”

Her sobs soaked into your suit, muffled against your shoulder. Behind you, Spencer rose from the takedown, jaw set, breath sharp. But when his eyes flicked over—saw you soothing her with quiet steadiness—something in his expression shifted.

The blaze in his eyes softened, raw, unguarded. Something unspoken lingered there, just for you.

You were still riding the leftover adrenaline when your phone buzzed in your pocket. Hotch’s name lit the screen.

“Yeah?” you answered, stepping a pace away from Spencer, who was slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Hotch’s voice came steady, clipped. “Good work tonight. The girl’s safe, and we’ll process the unsub in the morning. But there’s been a delay with the jet — weather grounded departures. You and Reid will return tomorrow.”

You blinked, glancing at Spencer. He raised a brow in quiet question.

“So… we’re stuck here for the night?” you asked.

“That’s correct,” Hotch confirmed. “Rooms are already covered. Get some rest — you’ve earned it.”

The line clicked dead, leaving you in the quiet hotel hallway with Spencer watching you expectantly.

“Well,” you said, sliding your phone back into your pocket, “looks like it’s just you, me, and Bureau-issued sheets for one more night.”

Spencer gave a small, helpless smile — awkward, tired, but warmer than you expected. “That… doesn’t sound too terrible.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you nudged open the door to your suite. “Come on, genius. Try not to overanalyze the thread count.”

The door closed behind you with a solid thunk, cutting you both off from the rest of the world.

The silence was different here. Not tense, like the ballroom. Not heavy, like the precinct after. Just… quiet. Unsettlingly so.

Spencer dropped his go-bag onto the chair, shoving both hands into his pockets like maybe he could disappear into his wrinkled suit. His tie was loose now, shirt collar uneven, every inch of him radiating exhausted awkwardness.

“So…” you said, perching on the desk with a sigh. “I didn’t know you could dance like that.”

He froze, halfway through tugging his tie the rest of the way off. “I — I wasn’t, uh, particularly proficient—”

“Spence.” You smiled, head tilting. “Even with me helping, you didn’t step on me once. I’m impressed.”

A blush climbed high over his cheekbones as he ducked his head, glasses slipping a little on his nose. “Well, the… probability of stepping on you was lower once I adjusted stride length to your pace.”

You laughed softly. “Of course it was statistics.”

But the teasing ebbed when your eyes caught on the sliver of red peeking beneath his cuff. A thin cut, sharp and angry-looking.

Your smile fell. “Spence. What the hell’s that?”

He glanced down, then flinched faintly, tugging his sleeve down as though it might disappear. “It’s nothing. Superficial laceration. I didn’t even notice until—”

“Oh my God.” You groaned, pushing off the desk, crossing the room in two strides. “You have got to be kidding me. Do you ever believe in self-care? You got sliced with a piece of gross champange glass and you didn't clean it? And here i thought you were a germaphobe..”

“I really don’t need—”

You grabbed his wrist gently, tugging him down into the chair before he could protest further. “Sit. Don’t argue.”

He did, awkwardly folding his tall frame into the seat, blinking up at you like you’d just hijacked his brain.

A few minutes later, you were bent over his arm, carefully cleaning the shallow cut with Bureau-issued antiseptic and taping gauze neatly into place. The room smelled faintly of alcohol wipes and soap, your touch steady against the tender skin of his wrist.

“See?” you said, softer now. “Not so hard to let someone take care of you.”

Spencer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I usually… manage on my own.”

“Yeah, well. That’s the problem.” You smoothed the last strip of tape down. “You don’t have to, you know.”

When you looked up, you realized just how close you were. His knees brushed against yours. He was leaning forward slightly, glasses slipping low on his nose, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs.

Hazel eyes widened, darting from yours to your mouth and back again in betrayed flickers. His lips parted. He didn’t answer aloud — but the way the silence stretched between you, humming and fragile, was its own reply.

Your own breath stuttered. The words caught in your throat before they made it out a whisper.

“…Do I need to check anywhere else?”

The air vibrated with everything you hadn’t said all night.

Spencer swallowed hard, the sound loud in the hush of the room. his skin flushed hot enough you could feel it even in the space between you, red blooming all the way to the tips of his ears. He wasn’t one to respond in kind to flirting — usually he fumbled, deflected, buried himself in statistics until the tension bled out. And he wasn’t one to drink, either. But after a night of playing “millionaire,” after waltzing beneath chandeliers, after spinning the lie of five years together so convincingly… maybe the champagne had stolen a fraction of his control. Enough to silence the endless brakes in his head.

“M-maybe you…” His voice cracked, unsteady, but he pushed on. “…should check me over quickly.”

The words hung there, suggestive in a way that wasn’t quite like him — not careful, not calculated, but raw. Risky.

He blinked rapidly, throat working, gaze darting to the side, then down, anywhere but at you. But he didn’t pull back. He didn’t take it back. His hand flexed faintly where it rested in yours, like he was testing the shape of permission.

Your gaze snapped to his. Darkened. Searching. You murmured his name — not playful, not a warning shot this time, but a low sound that trembled between caution and want.

“Spencer…”

That was enough.

You stood slowly, tugging at his hand with deliberate patience. He followed without resistance, long body unfolding in hesitant half-steps like every nerve screamed at him to retreat, but none of them truly wanted to let go.

Your back brushed against the edge of the bed. With a careful press to his chest, you urged him down. He sat with a soft thump, knees spreading instinctively to catch his balance.

He looked wrecked — tie loosened, hair a mussed halo, glasses slipping low on his nose, the blush staining him from jawline to ear-tips. Not untouchable Doctor Reid. Just Spencer. Exhausted, unraveling, human.

And then you leaned in.

Slow enough to give him every chance to stop you. Close enough for your breath to mingle with his. His lips parted with a trembling exhale, like he was waiting for the world to collapse. And when your mouths finally touched, it wasn’t neat.

It was tentative, shaky, uncertain. He kissed like he was afraid of breaking something — you, himself, whatever this fragile space was between you. His hands fluttered, unsure where to rest, until one finally landed along your arm. The tremor in his fingers gave him away, but the grip that followed was steady, tugging you closer into the heat of him.

And then — once he let go of fear, once he decided to want — the dam broke.

Weeks of swallowed looks, buried tension, stolen almost-moments came crashing through in the press of his mouth to yours. His breath hitched against you, lips parting fully, messy and unpracticed but hungry. A desperation long pent-up and finally set free.

The kiss began tentative, almost clumsy — the kind of touch that felt more like a question than an answer. His lips brushed yours, featherlight, uncertain, like he still wasn’t convinced he had the right. His hand trembled where it cupped your arm, knuckles hovering shyly against your sleeve as if he was afraid you’d burn him for leaning in too far.

Adrenaline wasn’t running anymore.

Something far more dangerous was.

But then you tilted your head, pressing back with a firmer, steadier heat. Something inside him buckled at that—his shoulders sagged, the rigid frame of his body loosening by degrees. He let go of his tight breath all at once, a shiver running through him as his other hand rose hesitantly, hovering at your waist before finally, finally settling there.

You let him find his rhythm. You gave him the space to fumble, to learn you. Every soft brush of his mouth was nervous but earnest, tasting of champagne and adrenaline, threaded through with the sheer force of him trying. When you inched closer, closing the last of the gap, you felt his breath stutter sharply against your cheek.

He pulled back for just a heartbeat, eyes flickering open, wide and frantic. Like he needed to check the physics of the world hadn’t dissolved. That you were still here. That the kiss had been real. That he wasn’t dreaming.

“Spence,” you whispered, soft but grounding, thumb smoothing along the clean edge of his jaw.

Spencer’s throat worked, lips flushed and bruised as he tried to catch his breath. “I— I don’t usually…” His words tangled out, fell silent again as his mind scrabbled for statistics to hide behind.

You pressed your thumb lightly against his lips, silencing him. “I know.”

For a fleeting moment, he just looked at you. Really looked. His hair was a mess from your fingers, his mouth pink and ruined, his composure undone. And for once, he didn’t try to fill the silence with numbers or facts.

For once, he let it exist — the truth of you, of this, unspoken but undeniable in the air between your mouths. From your place between his legs you slowly start to grind your groin into his, testing the waters.

Spencer inhaled sharply as he felt you press closer, a shudder running through him at the sudden contact. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he registered the deliberate grind of your hips against his. A soft, breathy sound caught in his throat, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and his fingers flexed against your waist, gripping you tighter.

He swallowed hard, his voice low and rough when he finally spoke. "You're playing with fire," he warned, but there was no real conviction behind the words. If anything, he sounded almost hopeful, like he was daring you to burn him, to consume him entirely.

At the same time, his hips lifted slightly to meet yours, a subconscious, instinctive response that betrayed his growing arousal. The bulge in his slacks was becoming impossible to ignore, the fabric straining against his hardening length.

you gulp lightly. "Even though i can feel you.. reacting," you chuckle. “I need to know if you want this.”

For a moment, Spencer just stared at you — wide‑eyed, lips parted, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. His fingers tightened reflexively on your waist, like he was holding on for dear life.

Then, before hesitation could choke him, the truth slipped out — rough, bare, unpolished.

“I’ve wanted this for longer than I should admit.”

Spencer's breath shuddered out of him as he spoke the words, a confession torn from the very core of him. He looked away briefly, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed down the last of his hesitation.

When he met your gaze again, his eyes were fierce and fervent, blazing with a hunger he could no longer hide. "But I need to hear you say it too," he murmured, voice low and intense. "I need to know that this isn't just..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly before continuing, "That this isn't just a figment of my imagination. That you want this as much as I do."

Your breath caught as you cupped his face, forcing his frantic eyes to stay locked with yours. Slowly, steadily, you whispered it back, every word intended to strike through the doubts still tearing at him.

“I want this. I want you. Not pretend, not part of the cover. Just you, Spencer.”

It wrecked him—your voice, your certainty, the final brick toppled from his defense. His eyes fluttered closed, exhale shuddering out between parted lips, and when he leaned back into you this time there was no hesitation, no restraint. The kiss that followed was deep, reverent and desperate, like he was carving your truth into memory with every press of his mouth.

The tension broke in the way his hands pulled you closer, in the way your bodies collided and tangled, in the sound he made against your lips—half‑moan, half‑prayer. The world blurred at the edges, leaving nothing but the two of you, the heat, the unraveling.

You push back from your place on top him and instead move to lay down on the bed, beckoning him over and pulling him into your lap.

Spencer melted into your lap, his body pliant and responsive, a far cry from his usual rigid control. His hands roamed your chest, fingers splaying over your heart like he was trying to feel it beating, to confirm that this was real.

He looked up at you through hooded eyes, cheeks flushed and lips parted as he fought to regulate his breathing. The bulge in his slacks was now straining urgently against the confines of his trousers, an unmistakable tent forming at his crotch.

"I want..." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, and he had to stop to swallow before continuing, "I want you to touch me. Please. I need to feel your hands on me, all over me..."

God, he was so close to you — close enough you could count the freckles across his nose if your brain wasn’t short-circuiting.

As if to emphasize his point, he deliberately rolled his hips up against yours, a shameless moan spilling from his lips at the delicious friction. The heat pooling in his groin was becoming unbearable, his cock throbbing almost painfully as it strained against the fabric of his boxers.

you gulp at his words before smirking softly. "I think we have far too many layers on right now, don't you agree?"

Spencer's breath hitched as he registered the implication in your words, a fresh wave of lust crashing over him at the thought of finally feeling your skin against his. He nodded fervently, his hands already moving to the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling in their haste.

"Yes," he breathed, voice ragged with anticipation. "Too many layers. I want to feel you. All of you."

He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it carelessly to the side, before starting on the buttons of his shirt. Each one popped open with a soft, satisfying click, revealing more of his pale, toned chest. He wore a simple white t-shirt underneath, and he quickly tugged that off as well, leaving him bare-chested and flushing under your heated gaze.

His hands moved to his belt next, unbuckling it with shaking fingers, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet room. He stood up just long enough to shimmy out of his slacks and boxers in one go, stepping out of them to kick them aside. Now he stood before you, clad in only his glasses and socks, his erection bobbing freely, the flushed head already glistening with pre-cum.

You softly take his glasses off and put them on the bedside table, before you look him up and down, biting your lip before stripping as well and revealing your own large throbbing cock, your hard erections pressing up against each others, pre-cum mixing into a small sticky pool on your stomach.

Spencer's eyes widened as he drank in the sight of your naked form, his gaze immediately drawn to your impressive erection. He licked his lips unconsciously, a hunger burning in his eyes as he stared at your throbbing cock. He could feel the heat radiating off of it, could see the bead of pre-cum welling at the tip.

"Fuck," he breathed, almost reverently. "You're... you're so big."

His voice was filled with a mix of awe and trepidation, and he couldn't resist reaching out to wrap a tentative hand around your shaft, marveling at the weight and heat of you in his palm.

At the same time, he rolled his hips forward, pressing his own aching length against yours, shuddering as he felt your pre-cum smear against his sensitive skin. The sensation made him gasp, his head falling forward as he gazed at you through hooded eyes.

"I want to taste you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "Please... can I taste you?"

you sigh softly. "As if you have to ask, sweetheart. well then, go to town on it." you snicker, sitting up against the headboard so he can shuffle down.

Spencer didn't hesitate for a moment. He shuffled down your body until he was positioned between your spread legs, his face mere inches from your straining erection. He looked up at you with lidded eyes, a coy smile playing at his lips before he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along the underside of your shaft.

He started at the base, his tongue tracing the thick vein there before dragging upwards, his lips and tongue caressing every hard, throbbing inch until he reached the swollen head. He paused there, his breath hot against your flesh as he gazed up at you, silently asking permission before taking you into his mouth.

At your nod, he opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the head of your cock, his tongue swirling around the sensitive crown as he suckled gently. He hollowed his cheeks and took you deeper, inch by throbbing inch disappearing between his lips until he felt the head of your cock bump against the back of his throat.

Spencer pulled off your cock with a soft 'pop', a string of saliva connecting his lower lip to the tip. He looked up at you with a smug, playful smile, eyes twinkling. "No, I haven't. But I've read a great deal about the subject. And as you pointed out, I'm quite adept at picking up new skills quickly."

He punctuated his statement by dragging his tongue along the underside of your shaft again, swirling it around the sensitive spot just below the head before taking you back into the wet heat of his mouth. "I want to make this good for you," he murmured around your length, the vibrations of his voice sending delicious shivers up your spine. "I want to taste every inch of you, to feel you come undone because of my mouth."

You tilt your head at his words, eyes darkening, wordlessly shoving him back down onto your cock all the way to the base. "You can't just say something like that and not expect me to go wild, Reid." you growl, slowly begin to move his head back and forth on your own with the hand you have in his hair, thrusting up to meet his lips, essentially fucking his face.

Spencer let out a muffled moan around your cock as you took control, his eyes widening briefly before fluttering shut. He relaxed his throat, allowing you to thrust deeper, feeling the head of your cock bump the back of his throat with each forward motion. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the muscle as he braced himself against your increasingly forceful thrusts.

You notice Spencer's desperate grinding, the way his hips jerk and twitch as he ruts against the sheets like a man possessed. Pulling your slick cock from his mouth with a obscene pop, you gaze down at him with lust-darkened eyes, taking in the sight of his flushed face, the desperation etched into his features.

The sensation only served to turn him on more, his own neglected erection bobbing against his stomach, leaking a steady stream of pre-cum onto the sheets below, which he began to grind on, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through his body. The wet spot on the bedspread grew larger as his pre-cum leaked steadily, soaking into the fabric. His hips rolled and bucked, instinctively seeking more stimulation, more pressure, more anything to relieve the throbbing ache in his loins.

"Spencer," you growl, voice rough with arousal, "Are you trying to fuck the sheets through the mattress? Or do you need something... sturdier to grind on?"

To emphasize your point, you take your spit-slicked cock and slap it against his flushed cheek, leaving a smear of pre-cum behind. Your other hand grips his hair tighter, using it to tug his head back, forcing him to meet your heated gaze.

"Tell me what you need, baby. I want to hear you say it."

Spencer's face flushed an even deeper shade of red at your commanding tone, his eyes wide and uncertain as they met yours. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the charged silence of the room. When he spoke, his voice was a mortified whisper, barely audible even to his own ears.

"I... I need you," he admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I need you to fuck me. Hard. I need to feel you inside me, filling me... claiming me..." He trailed off, biting his lip as a wave of embarrassment crashed over him at the admission, even as his body screamed with the desperate need for your touch.

You hum, nodding slowly. "Well, lucky for you.. i think we can make that happen."

You make it so you switch places with each other, Spencer let out a soft gasp as you maneuvered him onto his back, his heart pounding in anticipation. He gazed up at you with wide, trusting eyes, his chest heaving with each shallow breath he took.

He could feel the heat radiating off your body as you settled between his legs, the weight of your gaze heavy and intense. His own arousal throbbed against his stomach, flushed and leaking, the musky scent of his desire permeating the air between you.

"Please..." he breathed, the word barely audible as it caught on the lump in his throat. His legs fell open for you, a clear invitation, his body already missing your touch, craving it like a drug.

Just as you're about to dive right in, you pause for a second, realizing you have no lube.

Spencer's eyes widened as he noticed your pause, a flicker of concern crossing his face. Then he remembered the oversight, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

"We… we don't have any lube," he admitted, sounding almost ashamed. Then, hesitantly, he added, "But I'm sure we can figure something out. I can't… I can't wait much longer to feel you inside me." His voice was a mortified whisper, his body trembling with anticipation and a touch of nerves.

"Well, considering you just, y'know.. sucked me off," you choke on your own words. "You're, uh, fine with spit, right..? I mean my cock is already kinda coated with it, just need to make sure you're stretche- ...I'm going to stop talking now."

Spencer licked his lips, tasting the lingering essence of your arousal, before nodding slowly. "Yes, I… I'm fine with using the saliva on your cock. It's not the most ideal lubricant, I know, but… but I need you too badly to wait any longer."

He took a deep breath, steeling himself before continuing, "Just please… be gentle, at first. I've never… I haven't taken before, and…" He trailed off, a blush staining his cheeks a deep shade of red as he gazed up at you with trusting, almost worshipful eyes. "I haven't really done anything at all before, so.."

You promptly wet your fingers by getting Spencer to suck on them, and his eyes fluttered shut as he felt your spit-slicked fingers circling his tight entrance, his body tensing for a moment before forcing himself to relax. He let out a shaky breath as your finger breached him, a soft gasp escaping his lips at the unfamiliar sensation.

"Nnngh... " he whimpered softly as you began to work your finger in and out, his walls clenching and fluttering around the invading digit. His hips squirmed restlessly beneath you, torn between the instinct to pull away from the intrusion and the desperate need to draw you deeper.

As you added a second finger, pumping them in and out of his tight heat, Spencer's breathing grew more ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you. The wet sounds of your fingers plunging into his hole filled the room, punctuated by Spencer's soft gasps and muffled moans.

Spencer's breath hitched and he squirmed beneath your touch, his body aching to feel you inside him, filling him. He gazed up at you with hazy, desperate eyes, his chest heaving with each ragged breath.

"Please…" he whimpered, his voice a needy, broken sound. "I… I need you. I can't wait much longer…" He clenched around your fingers, his body screaming for more, for you.

You leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you murmured soothingly, "Just a little longer, baby. I promise, I don't want to hurt you. You're so tight, and I'm… well, I'm not small. I need to make sure you're ready for me."

You punctuated your words by curling your fingers just so, brushing against that bundle of nerves deep inside him that made him see stars. "Breathe for me, sweetheart. Just a bit longer, and then I'll give you what you need. I swear."

Spencer let out a choked moan as your fourth finger pushed past his tight rim, his body clenching and fluttering wildly around the intrusion. His back arched off the bed, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut as he panted harshly.

"Oh god," he gasped out, his voice ragged and strained. "Oh god... I feel so full. I don't know if I can take any more..."

He looked up at you with wide, trusting eyes, his face flushed and his hair disheveled. Despite the discomfort, there was a hunger in his gaze, a desperate, aching need that demanded your satisfaction.

With gentle hands, you positioned pillows beneath Spencer's head and hips, tilting him to the perfect angle. He gazed up at you, heart pounding in anticipation and a flicker of nervousness in his amber eyes as he watched you spit into your palm and stroke your thick, rigid length.

Spencer's breath caught as you guided the slick tip of your cock to his now stretch-prepared entrance. He could feel the heat radiating off your flesh, could imagine the delicious stretch and fullness you would bring. His body trembled, a mix of excitement and apprehension, as he awaited your first push inside.

Spencer's breath hitched and his body went rigid as he felt the broad head of your cock press against his slick, stretched hole. He could feel the heat of it, the pulsing hardness, and he braced himself for the inevitable breach. His fingers clawed at the sheets beneath him, fisting the fabric as he tried to relax his body, to will it to accept your girth.

"Breathe, baby," you reminded him softly, your voice a soothing rumble in his ear. "Nice and easy. You're doing so well, sweetheart. Just keep breathing for me."

With a gentle but firm push, you began to sink into him, the thick head of your cock popping past his tight rim with a guttural groan from Spencer's throat. His eyes widened, then fluttered shut as his body struggled to adjust to the sudden, intense stretch.

Spencer let out a choked cry as you pushed forward, his body yielding to your insistent pressure. Inch after hard inch of your thick cock sank into him, stretching him wider than he ever thought possible. The burn of the initial breach faded as his slick walls clenched and fluttered around your invading length, trying instinctively to accommodate you.

Within moments, you were fully sheathed inside him, your hips pressed flush against his ass, your heavy balls resting against his own aching arousal. Spencer's chest heaved with ragged breaths, his eyes glazed and unfocused as he struggled to process the overwhelming sensation of being so utterly filled.

Spencer's mind went blank, all thoughts of equations and crime scenes evaporating like mist under the scorching heat of your possession of his body. In that moment, all he could process was the intense, overwhelming sensation of your cock pulsing deep inside him, stretching him in a way he had never experienced before.

Yet even as he lost himself to the pleasure, some distant part of his genius brain was busy documenting every detail - the heavy drag of your hips against his ass, the way his walls clenched and fluttered around your thick length, the scorching, throbbing heat that seemed to emanate from your very core.

He could feel every ridge and vein, every twitch and throb of your arousal as it pulsed inside him, and his photographic memory was busily committing it all to its vast, unassailable stores. Some part of him knew he would be replaying this moment over and over again in his mind later, analyzing every sensation, every breath, every heartbeat.

As you began to move, pulling your hips back until just the tip of your cock remained inside him, Spencer let out a shuddering gasp. His belly, already taut and toned, now bore an obscene bulge where your thick length had stretched him wide. The sight was incredibly erotic - the way his usually flat stomach protruded, showcasing the sheer size of your arousal.

You couldn't help but let out a dark chuckle at the sight, one hand coming to rest possessively on the curve of his belly. You gave it a squeeze, feeling your own cock throb in response to the lewd display. "Look at you, taking me so well," you murmured, voice a low, appreciative rumble. "I can see every inch of my cock stretching out your tight little tummy. Fuck, that's hot."

Spencer could only whimper in response, his hips twitching upwards as if seeking to draw you back in, to feel you fill him once again. His hands fisted in the sheets, gripping them like a lifeline as he braced himself for your next thrust.

As you began to move, pulling your hips back until just the tip of your cock remained inside him, Spencer let out a shuddering gasp. His belly, already taut and toned, now bore an obscene bulge where your thick length had stretched him wide. The sight was incredibly erotic - the way his usually flat stomach protruded, showcasing the sheer size of your arousal.

You couldn't help but let out a dark chuckle at the sight, one hand coming to rest possessively on the curve of his belly. You gave it a squeeze, feeling your own cock throb in response to the lewd display. "Look at you, taking me so well," you murmured, voice a low, appreciative rumble. "I can see every inch of my cock stretching out your tight little tummy. Fuck, that's hot."

Spencer could only whimper in response, his hips twitching upwards as if seeking to draw you back in, to feel you fill him once again. His hands fisted in the sheets, gripping them like a lifeline as he braced himself for your next thrust.

As you began to move, pulling your hips back until just the tip of your cock remained inside him before ramming back in, Spencer let out a shuddering gasp. His belly, already taut and toned, now bore an obscene bulge where your thick length had stretched him wide. The sight was incredibly erotic - the way his usually flat stomach protruded, showcasing the sheer size of your arousal.

You couldn't help but let out a dark chuckle at the sight, one hand coming to rest possessively on the curve of his belly. You gave it a squeeze, feeling your own cock throb in response to the lewd display. "Look at you, taking me so well," you murmured, voice a low, appreciative rumble. "I can see every inch of my cock stretching out your tight little tummy. Fuck, that's hot."

Spencer could only whimper in response, his hips twitching upwards as if seeking to draw you back in, to feel you fill him once again. His hands fisted in the sheets, gripping them like a lifeline as he braced himself for your next thrust.

"Look at you, all tongue-tied and lost for words," you taunted playfully, giving a particularly hard thrust that made your belly bulge obscenely. "I guess even a genius can be reduced to a babbling mess with the right… motivation."

You punctuated your words with another deep, powerful thrust, grinding your hips against his ass and forcing a choked moan from his throat. Spencer's body was flushed and trembling, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as he clung to the sheets for dear life.

Spencer let out a raw, primal scream as you nailed his prostate dead-on, his back arching clean off the bed. His eyes rolled back, fluttering shut as wave after wave of intense, mind-numbing pleasure crashed over him. At the same time, your fingers found his nipples, pinching and rolling the hardened nubs as your other hand wrapped around his weeping cock, stroking it in time with your powerful thrusts.

"FUCK!" Spencer roared, his voice echoing off the walls, raw and guttural. His hips bucked wildly, fucking up to meet your thrusts as his cock throbbed and pulsed in your grip. Drool trickled down his chin as he lost himself completely to the overwhelming sensation, his body no longer his own but a vessel for your pleasure.

You could feel his walls clenching and fluttering wildly around your pistoning length, his body trying desperately to hold you inside him, to milk your cock for all it was worth. The slick, obscene sounds of your coupling filled the room, a symphony of skin slapping against skin and Spencer's escalating moans and cries.

Spencer's body went rigid, his back arching sharply as his climax crashed over him like a tidal wave. A guttural, almost feral sound tore from his throat, his voice breaking on a scream of ecstasy as his cock jerked and pulsed in your grip, painting thick ropes of pearly white seed across his chest and belly.

The sensation of his walls clamping down around you like a vice, gripping your cock with an almost painful tightness, was enough to send you hurtling over the edge with him. With a hoarse shout of his name, you buried yourself balls-deep inside his spasming channel, your own release erupting from your throbbing length.

Spencer could feel the hot, thick spurts of your seed flooding his insides, painting his inner walls with your essence. The dual sensations of his own mind-blowing orgasm and the feeling of your scorching release filling him up pushed Spencer to new heights of bliss, his eyes rolling back and his tongue lolling out as he surrendered completely to the overwhelming pleasure.

As the intense waves of your shared climax began to ebb, Spencer slowly blinked away the haze of lust clouding his vision. It was then that your eyes met, and the absurdity of the situation suddenly struck you both. Spencer's eyes widened in realization, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks as he processed what had just transpired between you.

Before either of you could stop it, a burst of laughter spilled from your lips, growing in volume until you were both laughing uncontrollably. Tears of mirth streamed down Spencer's face as he shook with laughter, the sound a stark contrast to the raw, primal noises he had been making only moments before.

"I… I can't believe we just did that," Spencer gasped out between giggles, still trying to catch his breath. "It's not like I'm some kind of… of porn star, or anything!" He was practically hysterical, his usual composure shattered by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Mmmm, you sure?" You giggle. "You certainly were acting like one.."

Spencer flushed an even deeper shade of red at your teasing words, his eyes going wide with mortified surprise. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out, only another strangled giggle escaping his lips.

"I… I was not!" he finally managed to choke out, his voice a mixture of indignation and lingering amusement. "This was just… you know, a one-off thing. It doesn't mean anything!" Despite his words, Spencer couldn't quite meet your gaze, his blush spreading down to the nape of his neck. as he laughs.

You raise an eyebrow. "You… You want this, us, to be a one time thing?"

Spencer's laughter died in his throat at your question, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing nervously in his slender throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost hesitant.

"No," he admitted quietly, a faint blush still coloring his cheeks. "No, I don't think I want this to be a one-time thing. I mean…" He trailed off, biting his lower lip as he gathered his thoughts. "I liked this. I liked being with you, like this. And I… I think I want to do it again. If you do, that is." He glanced up at you from beneath his long lashes, a tentative hopefulness in his amber eyes, silently seeking your agreement.

Your eyes soften at that. "Uh, yeah.. I'd like that. a lot."

Spencer's face broke into a soft, almost shy smile at your words, a relieved and happy expression spreading across his features. The tension that had been building in his shoulders eased, and he leaned into your touch as you brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair off his forehead.

"Good," he murmured, his voice low and sweet. "Because I don't think I'm ready to give this up just yet. There's still so much more I want to learn, to experience..." He trailed off, a mischievous glint entering his eye as he gazed up at you. "With your... expert guidance, of course."

As you carefully pulled out of Spencer, he let out a soft whimper at the sudden emptiness he felt without you filling him. But before he could dwell on it, you were already moving, grabbing some tissues to gently clean the mix of your releases from his skin - his chest, his belly, his thighs. Spencer watched you through heavy-lidded eyes, a lazy smile playing on his kiss-swollen lips.

Once you had both been cleaned up, you didn't hesitate to gather Spencer into your arms, pulling him close and tucking him against your chest. Spencer came willingly, his body molding to yours like it was always meant to be there. He rested his head on your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck as he let out a soft, contented sigh.

Throughout the night, Spencer tangled himself around you, his long legs intertwining with yours and his arms wrapped around your waist. In sleep, he looked younger, more vulnerable and innocent, his face soft and his breathing deep and even.

You knew, as you drifted off yourself, that this wouldn't be the last night you spent like this - holding each other close, reveling in the warmth and comfort of a shared bed.

“We’ve got work,” you hummed, patting his hip before striding—far too energetically—out of bed.

Dragging himself upright felt like an Olympic feat. He gingerly shuffled to the bathroom, avoiding your gaze in the mirror, careful not to reveal his flushed cheeks or the sting between his legs—a secret souvenir of your fierce night together. Gripping the sink, he fumbled with his toothbrush, only to nearly drop it as another memory overtook him:

“Louder, Spencer. I want the whole damn neighborhood to know who’s making you cum.”

Toothpaste foamed down his chin at the thought. You noticed immediately, smiling as you rinsed your razor. “You’re blushing. What’re you thinking?”

Spencer’s mind spun and, true to form, clung desperately to trivia to process the overload. “Did you know—uh, brushing your teeth for two minutes removes about 100 million bacteria?” he blurted, scrubbing fiercely until his cheeks burned for an entirely different reason.

"And, um, actually, the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss—statistically speaking—uh, except for the risk of mono, but…”

You laugh, cutting him off with a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, and his face grows even redder.

In the kitchen, he sat at the table, back ramrod straight, trying to focus as you set a fresh coffee in front of him, your fingers brushing his. He tenses a little, face coloring.

"Statistically, regular physical affection lowers stress hormones," he rambles, too fast. "So you’re, uh, improving my health."

You nudge him, grinning. "Want to list more benefits or just want another kiss?"

You ruffle his already messy hair before laughing and padding around brewing a second cup. Spencer, pretending calm, risked a glance at your torso…and promptly recalled how your hand had pinned his wrists to the headboard.

“Good boy. Keep them there or I’ll tie them myself.”

He made a strangled sound into his mug.

You grinned slyly. “You good?”

“H-Hot,” he stammered. “…The coffee’s hot.” How.. unconvincing.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “Sure it is, sweetheart.”

“Coffee is actually the second most traded commodity on earth, after oil—”

“Spencer, you’re adorable, but you still have toothpaste on your chin.”

Getting dressed became a Herculean feat. Every motion tugged at bruised hips, the ache a private badge of ownership. In the mirror, the faint marks littering his throat and that dazed, blissful look brought a dizzy wave of happiness, embarrassment, and longing all at once. He tugged his tie much too tight and coughed for air.

You stepped behind him, deftly loosening and straightening it. “You’re distracted,” you murmured, fingers brushing his nape. “Something on your mind?”

Spencer’s face heated. “Just…statistics. Did you know the average tie is tied incorrectly seven out of ten times?” he rushed out.

You only smiled, pressing a fluttering kiss to his cheek. “Sure, baby. Whatever you say.”

Spencer thought he’d hidden it well.

He really did.

Straightened posture, carefully measured steps, a hand ghosting at his hip like it was just the weight of his satchel, not the very real ache radiating through him. He even told himself if he didn’t think about how thoroughly you’d fucked him into the mattress last night, no one else would notice.

Unfortunately, Derek Morgan exists.

The bullpen hummed with morning chatter when Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as Spencer hobbled past with his coffee. “Uh-huh,” he drawled, smirk curling like a shark scenting blood, “Why’s Pretty Boy walking like he just rode a mechanical bull all weekend?”

Spencer nearly choked on his sip. Ears blazing red, he sputtered, “I—I’m not—there’s nothing wrong with the way I walk!” His voice cracked halfway through, making it painfully unconvincing.

Emily glanced up with a raised eyebrow, but went back to her files, while JJ pressed her lips together, clearly holding back laughter. The air was thick with restrained amusement.

Morgan smirked wider, but just as he opened his mouth for another jab, Spencer—a little desperate—launched nervously into a ramble, a classic Reid coping mechanism:

“Did you know that walking gait can reflect emotional state? Studies show people under stress tend to have shortened stride length and altered cadence, which can be mistaken for discomfort or injury—um, not that I’m injured or anything, just—statistically speaking—”

Morgan raised an amused brow. “Dude. Save it for the briefing.”

Spencer flushed deeper but managed a sheepish smile.

And then, just as if the universe was eager to embarrass him further, you appeared beside him. Without warning, your hand landed firmly on his ass with a sharp swat. Spencer stiffened, a jolt of surprise and heat racing through him as you laughed softly.

“Oh, that good, huh?” you teased, your voice low and confident. You didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, you kept walking forward, to his desk, reveling in every inch of Spencer’s flustered reaction.

Morgan’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight as he followed your gaze, then caught Spencer desperately trying to avoid looking at you. The pieces fell together in glorious, cinematic clarity.

“Oh,” Morgan breathed. Then louder: “Ohhhhhh.” His grin stretched wide as he slapped the desk. “OHHHHH. Our boy genius got wrecked!"

Spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t.”

“Oh no, kid, it’s too late.” Morgan’s laugh boomed across the bullpen. “Your secret’s out.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you as you passed by, flashing a knowing smirk that nearly made Spencer disappear through the floor.

“Derek,” Hotch’s sharp voice cut from his office doorway, steel lacing his tone.

Morgan straightened instantly, clearing his throat. “Just… noting that Pretty Boy needs a new desk chair. Ergonomics, you know?”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing, retreating into his office.

Morgan leaned back, smug as ever. “Don’t worry, Reid. Your secret’s safe with me.” He paused. “Mostly.”

Then, laughing, he gave Spencer a firm pat on the back. Spencer winced at the sudden pressure on his bruises. “Sorry, man,” Morgan said, still chuckling, “but you had that coming.” His grin softened as he added, “You and him have been pining for each other forever. About time, huh?”

Spencer groaned louder, muttering into his hands, “I hate all of you.”

You didn’t miss the chance to murmur low as you passed his desk, just for him: “Better get used to it, sweetheart. You’ll be walking like that more often.”

Years at the BAU have made you a master at picking up patterns, but even you’re surprised by how oblivious Spencer is to your nearly constant, pointed flirting. You’re known for being bold—a little too bold, maybe—but clearly, subtlety is lost on Reid. He smiles awkwardly at your compliments, goes bright red when you brush your hand against his, and stammers his way through every interaction with you. Yet, oddly enough, never pushes you away.

It goes on for years. You expect one day he’ll catch on, or at least stammer out a flustered question about your intentions, but each attempt at escalation is met with the same bashful confusion. Eventually, you snap.

Just like that first time years ago, you corner him in the break room. He’s reaching for coffee, utterly unprepared for the way you step into his space, crowding him until his back presses against the counter. Your arms cage him in, and his fingers freeze around the mug.

“Reid,” you say, voice low, “I don’t know if you’re just dense or if you genuinely think I flirt like this with everyone. But for years, I’ve been dropping every hint short of outright writing it on your forehead.”

He swallows, wide-eyed, breath hitching as your hand settles at his waist, thumb brushing the band of his slacks. “W-what do you mean?” he manages, voice barely above a whisper.

You lean in, lips right by his ear. “I mean,” you growl, frustration and desire bleeding through, “I’ve been wanting you for ages. I want to fuck you. And I’ve been waiting for you to give me a sign, or do I need to spell it out for you?"

You stare at him for a beat, then snort. “Jesus Christ, Spencer. Next time I’ll bring a PowerPoint. Bullet points. Pie chart. Maybe some Freud quotes in Comic Sans.”

His cheeks are flushed, mouth slightly parted in shock, and you can feel the tremor in his hands as he clutches the counter behind him. But there’s a spark in his eyes—a curious, nervous, desperate spark—that tells you maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop pretending he doesn’t notice you.

Spencer gulps, mind racing and heart pounding. In truth, it isn’t that he’s missed your flirting—he’s a profiler, after all, and he’s analyzed every look, every teasing remark, every lingering touch over the years. But the idea that someone like you—older, confident, put-together, ..sexy—could want him? His own self-doubt was always louder than the evidence.

“Oh.” The word slips out before he can stop it, awkward and faint. “Okay…” He pauses, eyes glued to the floor, face blazing red. Gathering his courage and voice, he mumbles, “Just… just not here, okay? Maybe somewhere more… private, and preferably not in our workplace…” he lets out a small awkward laugh. "Unless you want the entire BAU staff to witness—uh—what Freud might call a live enactment of repression theory.” He freezes. His mouth shuts. His eyes widen in horror.

He dares a glance your way, still trembling, but there’s determination in his voice, too—a quiet plea not to let this chance pass him by. Even as nerves tie him in knots, he’s finally giving you the answer you’ve waited so long to hear: yes, he wants you, too.

You growl lowly, your breath hitching as you press more insistently into his slight frame, making sure he can feel your arousal against him. Your voice drops to a teasing growl, sharp and commanding. "Tomorrow night, you're coming home with me after work. I think we both need to… destress a little, don't you?"

Your eyes lock onto his, dark and unblinking, leaving no room for argument. Your hand slides up his side, fingers ghosting just beneath his shirt, a promise of what’s to come. You sense the tension coil in him, the familiar mixture of nerves and anticipation sparking behind his flushed cheeks.

Spencer’s mind whirls, caught somewhere between sheer astonishment and yearning. For all his intelligence and analytical mind, this moment slips past his careful calculations, and he finds himself unable to find words, only a breathy nod.

"You don’t have to say anything," you whisper, a slow smirk curving your lips, "just be ready."

The weight of your presence, the promise in your voice—it's more than enough for him to understand. Tomorrow night, when the doors close behind you both, all the waiting, wondering, and pretending will finally come undone. And you’ll both finally give in to the tension that's been building for years

Spencer sags against the counter, his knees suddenly weak as he watches you exit the break room with a newfound spring in your step. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his racing heart and frazzled nerves. What just happened? Did that really happen? He's not sure whether to be terrified or thrilled at the prospect of tomorrow night. But one thing is for certain - he won't be able to focus on anything else until then.

The next day drags on endlessly for Spencer, his usual sharp mind crowded with restless thoughts and nervous anticipation. Every task feels twice as difficult as he wrestles with his swirling emotions. What will happen tonight? What exactly are you planning? The teasing growl earlier, your commanding hold in the break room, the electric charge of your closeness—his mind replays every detail, every word like a loop, making his heart race.

He wonders what it'll be like, what you intend to do with him behind closed doors, away from the watchful eyes of the BAU. Will you take control? Will it be overwhelming? The thought wraps around his nerves like a tight coil but also ignites a fragile, thrilling hope. He imagines your hands exploring him, your touch bold and sure, the promise of something he's never dared to ask for but desperately craves.

By the time the last case of the day ends, Spencer is on the edge, his usual cautious nature giving way to a jittery excitement. As you lead him to your car, he climbs in quietly, the silence between you not awkward but potent, filled with unspoken tension. His hands grip the door handle, knuckles pale, as his eyes flick to you briefly, searching for clues in your steady composure.

He keeps questioning himself silently: Have I prepared enough? Am I ready? But deep down, Spencer knows this night will change everything—because for once, he’s not just the brilliant, awkward profiler; he’s something more, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. And then, all he can do is wait for your car to pull away from the precinct, driving him into the unknown that feels strangely like home.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you when you arrive home, you don’t give him a moment to breathe. With a decisive shove, you slam Spencer against the door, your body pressing hard against his. Your lips crash onto his in a heated storm—urgent, demanding, and completely unrelenting. You kiss him senseless, hands tangling in his hair as your mouths mold together with fierce passion.

you pull back just long enough to mutter against his swollen mouth, “Careful, genius. If you pass out, I’m not performing CPR in the middle of round one.”

His eyes flutter open, glassy with desire, but he still manages to mumble, “Technically… mouth-to-mouth resuscitation isn’t the preferred method anymore. Modern CPR guidelines emphasize—”

You cut him off with another kiss, smirking into it. “God, you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

The slow grind of your hips against his sends jolts of electricity through his body, his own arousal growing with each purposeful roll. He can feel the evidence of your desire pressing insistently against him, and it makes his head spin with want.

When your lips leave his jaw to focus on the column of his throat, Spencer tilts his head back instinctively, a low moan catching in his throat. His pulse races beneath your lips, the skin there growing hot and flushed as you mark him, claim him, make him yours. His fingers curl tighter, nails digging into your shoulders as he fights the urge to beg you for more.

Panting harshly, Spencer finally breaks the kiss, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. "I… I don't know if I can wait," he confesses, his voice strained with pent-up desire. "I want you. Now."

He sounds almost desperate, his usual shy hesitation replaced by a raw, aching need. It's clear that his body is screaming for your touch, craving more of the pleasure you've been teasing him with for so long.

His words send a thrill down your spine, spurring you on as your hands continue their bold exploration of his body. You tug impatiently at his shirt, practically ripping it open in your haste to feel more of his skin against yours. Buttons fly everywhere as you expose his lean chest, your palms skimming over the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch.

"Fuck, Spencer," you groan, ducking your head to press open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone and down to his pecs. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've dreamed of having you like this."

Spencer's fingers thread through your hair, holding you to him as he arches into your touch, a litany of breathless moans and whimpers falling from his lips. You can feel his heart pounding wildly against your mouth, his skin flushed and hot with desire. It's intoxicating, knowing that you've reduced this brilliant, put-together man to a trembling, needy mess.

With a growl, you hook your hands under his thighs and lift him up, encouraging him to wrap those long, toned legs around your waist. Spencer hesitates for only a moment before complying, his legs locking around you as you press him back against the door. The new angle allows you to grind harder against him, the thick ridge of your arousal nestling perfectly against his own straining erection.

You capture his mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing his cries of pleasure as your hips undulate against his, creating a delicious friction that has you both panting into the kiss. One hand slides down to palm him through his slacks, feeling the sizeable bulge that's been teasing you for months. You squeeze and stroke him through the fabric until he's writhing against you, his hips bucking desperately into your touch.

"Please," he gasps out, breaking the kiss to stare at you with hazy, lust-darkened eyes. "Please, I need… I need…"

He can't seem to finish the thought, too lost in sensation to put words to his desire. But you understand all the same, your own arousal throbbing almost painfully in your pants. With a grunt, you tear at the fastenings of his slacks, popping the button and shoving the fabric down his hips until his cock springs free, flushed and leaking and so fucking perfect.

"Fuck, look at you," you murmur, wrapping your fingers around his length and giving him a slow, teasing stroke from base to tip. "So fucking gorgeous, all because of me. Because of how badly you need my cock."

Spencer throws his head back against the door with a strangled moan, his hips jerking into your hand as he seeks more of that delicious friction. But you're not ready to give it to him, not yet. Instead, you lean down and take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head before taking him deep, all the way to the back of your throat.

You feel Spencer's body tense and then shudder as he comes, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as his release crashes over him. The salty taste of his climax floods your mouth, and you swallow every drop, relishing the way he pulses and throbs against your tongue. It's clear that he's new to this, his inexperience making his pleasure all the more intense and satisfying. "F-fuck.. I didn't mean to- so quickly..-"

Panting harshly, Spencer slumps back against the door, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You pull off him slowly, giving his softening cock a gentle kiss before straightening up to meet his gaze. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"But, wow," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the afterglow of his first real orgasm. "That was… wow. I can't believe I just did that. With you."

You chuckle softly, reaching up to cup his cheek and tilt his chin towards you. "And I can't believe I get to be the one to teach you all the things you've been missing out on," you reply with a wicked grin. "The fact that you're a virgin just makes this even hotter. I get to show you everything, explore every inch of this gorgeous body of yours until you're addicted to my touch."

Spencer blushes at your words, ducking his head shyly even as a spark of excitement lights up his eyes. "You… you don't mind? That I'm… that I haven't…"

He trails off, suddenly self-conscious, but you just laugh and capture his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, pouring your desire into it.

"Of course I don't mind," you assure him when you finally pull back. "It's incredible. And now, I'm going to fuck you so good, you'll never want anyone else but me."

With that promise, you reach down to unfasten your own pants, shoving them down just enough to pull out your hard, aching cock. Spencer's eyes widen as he takes in the size of you, a flicker of nervousness passing over his face before he nods jerkily, a silent permission.

You slick your fingers with spit and reach behind him, rubbing the pads of your fingers teasingly over his fluttering hole. Spencer gasps and shudders at the foreign sensation, instinctively clenching around the invading digits. You work a finger inside him, then two, stretching him gently as you prepare him for what's to come.

When you deem him ready, you line yourself up with his entrance and push forward, feeling his tight heat enveloping you inch by excruciating inch. Spencer's breath hitches, his back arching as he's filled and stretched in a way he's never been before. You give him a moment to adjust before starting to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, setting a deep, driving rhythm that has you both moaning and gasping.

You fuck him hard and fast against the door, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the apartment. Spencer meets each of your thrusts with a roll of his hips, his inexperience giving way to a natural, instinctive need to take you deeper, to feel you in every part of him.

"That's it, baby," you growl, your hand sliding around to stroke his cock in time with your thrusts. "Fuck, you feel so good around me. Gonna fill this tight little ass up so fucking good."

Spencer keens, his head falling back against the door as his second orgasm builds quickly at the base of his spine. You can feel your own release approaching, your thrusts growing erratic as you chase that ultimate pleasure. With a final, brutal slam of your hips, you bury yourself to the hilt in Spencer's ass and come, flooding his insides with your hot seed.

Spencer cries out, his own cock pulsing in your hand as he finds his second release, his body milking you for every last drop. You collapse against him, both of you panting and trembling in the aftermath, your releases slowly tapering off until you're left with the afterglow.

You press your forehead against his, smiling softly as you bask in the moment. "Welcome to the other side, baby," you murmur. "That was just the beginning. Wait until you see what else I can do to this sexy body of yours."

Spencer is still trembling against you, cheeks pink, lips kiss-bruised, when the words begin spilling out of him like a faucet he can’t shut off, eyes flicking away as his cheeks flush deeper. “Um, did you know—humans, uh, have about five million hairs on their bodies? Density varies, of course—scalp hair is the thickest—but, um, body hair is…” He swallows. “Also, some slugs are hermaphrodites, which makes their reproductive process—well, efficient. Not that I’m—” He winces. “Not that I’m comparing you to a slug."

You stare at him for a long second, chest still heaving from exertion. Then you laugh, a low rumble that makes his blush deepen. “Great. Now every time I look at you, I’m going to think of garden pests. Real mood-setter, Doc.”

It’s clear his brilliant mind is scrambling to find footing amidst the flood of unfamiliar feelings—intense intimacy has left him anxious and aroused, and he’s grasping at the only things familiar to him, those countless trivial details he clings to as a comfortable shield.

His hands twitch nervously in your hair. “I—I didn’t mean—”

You silence him with a slow, filthy kiss that leaves him dazed, murmuring against his lips, “Shut up, Reid. And keep talking like that and I’ll fuck you in the herb section of Home Depot just to commit to the theme.”

Your thumb grazes his swollen bottom lip, brushing it gently as a small, knowing smile tugs at your mouth’s corners.

“Spencer,” you murmur, voice low and rich with affection, “I define it. I still very much want to fuck you.” The bluntness of your words makes his pupils dilate, the heat blossoming anew across his cheeks. Beneath that flustered response, there’s something deeper—a spark of longing, a simmering desire just below the surface.

You study him closely, noticing the subtle signs—the quickening pulse at the base of his throat, the fleeting dart of his tongue to moisten those nervously bitten lips. “Don’t worry about the rambling,” you whisper with a teasing warmth. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss on his forehead, a tender promise. “You can tell me all about it once we’ve cleaned up, hm? As sexy as your body is, it’s your mind I fell in love with.”

His gaze flicks nervously to yours, still unsure how to process such blunt affection, but you don’t let him retreat. You grin, nipping lightly at his jaw. “Which is terrifying, by the way, because you can out-debate me on literally anything. I don’t usually date people smarter than me—it’s bad for my ego.”

Spencer lets out a startled laugh, cheeks heating again, though his shoulders relax into the bed. “You… you don’t really have to worry about that. I’m not very good at debating outside of statistics, probabilities, and… um… Doctor Who trivia.”

To Aaron Hotchner, all serial killers were monsters. But the ones who tore families apart? They were something far worse. So when his inbox pinged with an anonymous email, unease crept in. And when he opened the attached photo, dread turned instantly to horror.

The case had already been spiraling into familiar darkness — a string of victims killed in brutal reenactments of previous BAU cases, almost as if the unsub was replaying their greatest hits. Hotch had been clinical about it all, steady as always, until Garcia’s gasp shattered the quiet hum of the jet.

“Sir… you need to see this.”

Her voice had none of its usual lilt. Everyone turned, but Garcia’s wide eyes were only on Hotch as she pushed the laptop across the table.

Onscreen was a grainy photo attached to an anonymous email.

You.

Blood poured down the side of your face, streaking across your cheek and dripping into your collar. Your body was slumped in a chair, head tilted, eyes closed — motionless. Jack’s tiny face was red and wet from crying, his fists clinging desperately to your sleeve.

For a moment, Hotch froze. The world narrowed to that single frame, and his chest locked as if it had been crushed. Just this morning, he had kissed your temple while you slid a plate of eggs in front of him, your smile soft and steady as you cooed at Jack, spoon in hand, making silly airplane noises until the baby squealed with laughter. That warmth, that stability, had been his anchor in a life otherwise consumed by violence.

And now here you were, lying in a pool of your own blood.

His hands clenched into fists so tightly his nails bit into his palms. His heart screamed at him to break, to rage, to lose himself in the panic clawing at his chest. But he forced it all back behind steel, because you didn’t need a man unraveling — you needed Aaron Hotchner, the one who didn’t fail, the one who didn’t bend.

You were in danger, yes. But he swore that danger would only be temporary.

This time, no one was taking his family from him.

You hadn’t known that when you kissed Aaron’s cheek this morning, it might have been your last.

The memory burned through the fog of pain — sliding a plate across the counter, nudging it toward him with a smile you hoped would ease the lines in his face. Feeding Jack spoonfuls of mashed fruit, laughing when he smeared more of it onto your sleeve than into his mouth. Hugging your husband before he left for work, whispering into the fabric of his suit jacket the same reminder you always gave him: Stay safe.

Only this time, you were the one who should have listened.

The freezer room was merciless, air sharp and metallic against your skin. Every exhale turned to frost, every inhale scraped your lungs raw. You clutched Jack tighter, cradling him against your chest, desperate to keep some shred of warmth in his tiny body. His cries had gone weak, tired, and the sound was more terrifying than his screams had been.

You shifted, and the movement made the gash in your head throb, fresh warmth sliding sticky down your temple to meet the growing pool beneath you. The cold bit deep, but it was the blood that seared — the hottest thing about you in this frozen cage.

You weren’t praying for God. Not now.

You were praying for Aaron.

Praying for his steady hands and his sharp eyes, for the man who never faltered even when the world demanded it. For the promise in his kiss that morning, the silent vow in his embrace.

Please, Aaron. Find us.

You’d always told Aaron that hope was the one thing you could hold onto when everything else slipped away. That it was the fire in the dark, the anchor that kept you steady when the storm pressed too hard.

But sitting here now, Jack pressed to your chest as he whimpered into your shirt, that spark was flickering low, guttering in the wind. The cold was eating you alive, seeping bone-deep until even your heartbeat felt sluggish. Your blood, sticky and warm against your skin, was the only reminder that you hadn’t frozen completely.

And then there was him.

The unsub stood on the other side of the freezer door, his shadow stretching long across the frost-slick floor. His face pressed close to the tiny glass window, eyes roving over you like you were a painting he intended to deface. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, slow, deliberate, hungry — and you realized he wasn’t looking at you as a person at all.

He was watching prey.

Your lips trembled, but not just from the cold. He seemed to enjoy that most — the way your mouth turned blue as your breath stuttered, the way you shook under the weight of his gaze. You turned your head away, clutching Jack tighter, pressing a kiss into his fine hair even though your vision blurred.

You’d always told Aaron that hope was a fire. Right now, though, all you could do was whisper to yourself the words you had whispered to him every morning: Stay safe.

Except this time, it wasn’t for him.

This time, you were begging yourself.

And praying — with what little strength you had left — for Aaron.

Please, come before the fire goes out.

The air seemed to sink colder, crueler, as his hand wrapped around the rust-bitten handle. The metal groaned under his grip, ice cracking as the hinges gave way. The door creaked open, releasing a wave of bitter frost that licked over your skin.

Your body tensed, every muscle screaming to move, to run, but there was nowhere to go. Jack whimpered weakly against your chest, and all you could do was curl tighter around him, heart hammering so loud it drowned out thought.

The unsub’s boots scraped across the concrete as he stepped inside, his shadow falling heavy over you. His eyes glittered with delight at your fear, lips pulling back into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He reached for you—

And then he was gone.

The sound was sudden, violent: a roar of motion, the slam of bodies hitting the floor, the crunch of knuckles against flesh. He didn’t even have time to cry out before he was pinned, dragged down into the ice and beaten mercilessly.

You blinked, disoriented, the world a blur of noise and chaos. And then you saw him.

Aaron.

His fists drove into the unsub’s face with a ferocity you’d never seen, each strike fueled not by duty, but by something deeper, primal — the kind of rage that only came when family was threatened. His voice was a growl, low and trembling with fury, each word tearing through clenched teeth.

“You— don’t— touch— my— family.”

Your breath broke, relief flooding in so sharp it almost hurt. The unsub crumpled beneath him, dazed, broken, no longer a monster but just a pathetic man on the ground.

And in that moment, as Aaron’s dark eyes lifted to you, you knew your prayers had been answered.

Aaron’s eyes swept over you with a precision born of both training and sheer terror. Blood coated your fingers, smeared across your palms where you’d tried to press it away. It tangled in your hair, dark strands sticking to the wetness on your scalp. There were smears on your lips, a thin film along your jaw, and even on Jack’s tiny forehead, where the evidence of your protective kiss lingered.

It streaked along your collar, soaking the fabric, dripping onto the edge of the chair you’d slumped against. Tiny rivulets traced down your wrists, across your knuckles, and into the folds of your sleeve. Flecks spattered the concrete floor, some drying in tiny, jagged patterns like cruel punctuation. Aaron saw the faint crimson smudge along the bridge of Jack’s nose, where your thumb had brushed him while trying to soothe him. Every mark told the story of the struggle, every drop a reminder of how close he had come to losing you.

He didn’t see your smile this morning, the gentle teasing as you handed him his breakfast, the soft coos you made to Jack while making airplane noises with your spoon. Right now, all he saw was the fragility of you, half-breathing, half-alive, and bleeding in his arms.

His hands hovered for a moment, trembling but steady enough to cradle you, to hold you, as though sheer will could erase the horror that coated you both. And then, carefully, he lifted your bloodied arms, checking for additional cuts, running his fingers over bruised skin and matted hair.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, low and taut with fear. His thumb brushed the smear of blood from your cheek, and his lips pressed briefly to your temple, grounding himself in the reality that you were here, alive. “You hear me? I’ve got you. Stay with me.”

He adjusted Jack, pressing him closer to your chest, wrapping one arm around both of you. His other hand was steady on the side of your face, coaxing your eyes open, watching for signs of consciousness. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, but the raw edge of panic threaded through him, dangerous and sharp.

Aaron’s voice softened, almost unrecognizably tender. “You’re going to make it. I promise. Just… stay with me. Breathe for me. Stay with me.”

The world had narrowed to this: your shallow breaths, Jack’s tiny whimpers muffled against your chest, and Aaron’s unwavering vigilance. Every second stretched, every heartbeat an echo of relief, terror, and unyielding love.

Garcia let out a strangled sound—half sob, half war cry—and threw her hands up.

“Damn it!” she barked, chest heaving. “I miss JJ because I love her—but also because how did she do all this liaison work without catching fire?! I’ve got surveillance tags to scrub, and the facial recognition server is acting like a drunk Roomba with commitment issues!”

Reid opened his mouth, probably to explain that Roombas don’t get drunk. But before he could get a word out, Hotch’s voice cut through the room.

“Garcia.”

He stepped out of his office like the calm in the storm—dark suit sharp, expression unreadable. His tone was low and even, but it had that steel-threaded quality that snapped people to attention.

“We need you in the field.”

Garcia whirled in her chair, eyes wide like he’d just suggested she moonlight as a mime.

“In person?!” she gasped. “No. No! Aaron, sweet Hotchmallow, physically going places is your job. I am the Oracle of Quantico. I am remotely hot. You can’t just— send me places!”

She jabbed toward the screens as if they were her children. “Who’s gonna keep all this running? The comms, the satellite feeds, the report server that thinks it’s 2002? Who’s going to wrangle the murder-database when it tries to unionize?! Who’s going to get everything else taken care of, then?”

Hotch was already pulling his phone from his coat pocket, thumb poised to dial.

“I know a guy.”

A silence fell. Morgan blinked. Reid tilted his head.

Emily murmured, “That’s either very comforting or extremely ominous.”

A man stepped through the checkpoint, rain still drying on the shoulders of his long, charcoal coat. It clung to him in that cinematic way where you couldn’t tell if he belonged in a boardroom or a gothic thriller. He moved with a casual purpose, like someone who knew exactly where he was going—and had gotten there before.

The badge flashed smoothly from his inside pocket.

“Special Consultant,” the guard read. “Cyber Division. Clearance: Top Secret.”

The man's build was half-hidden beneath layers of dark greys and soft navy. His sweater was threadbare at the cuffs, blazer slightly rumpled like he’d pulled it from a desk chair on his way out. Wire-rimmed glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose, framing eyes still soft with sleep. His hair—unruly, and slightly damp—looked like it had lost a battle with the wind.

He smiled, wide and a little lopsided. “Thanks. I know the way.”

Garcia’s cave glowed in a soft rainbow hue—string lights, lava lamp, four screens angled like an altar. The clack of keys filled the space… until it didn’t.

She froze. Mid-type. Mid-breath. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard like she’d just spotted a ghost.

Her gaze lifted. Narrowed.

“You,” she said slowly, with the reverence and suspicion of someone confronting a mythical beast.

You gave her a lazy wave, already sliding into the chair beside hers like you’d been summoned from some secret federal batcave. Your voice was low and friendly, tinged with amusement.

“Hey, Penelope. Long time.”

She stabbed a manicured finger toward your chest.

“You’re him.”

You blinked innocently. “Probably.”

“The one who patched the DNS exploit from your phone while allegedly off-grid?”

“In my defense,” you said, crossing one leg over the other and pulling your laptop from your bag, “the market was boring. And I couldn’t find decent strawberries.”

Garcia leaned back slowly, horror and admiration wrestling for dominance. “You’re—digital Batman. I thought you were a myth. Like a ghost in the Wi-Fi. A cryptid sent to haunt corrupted logs with elegantly written syntax.”

You booted up your machine. Two keystrokes and your system synced seamlessly with hers. “I do try to stay off the grid. Also—” You pulled out a small bag and slid it over. “Gummy bears. And chocolate-covered espresso beans. I come in peace.”

She gasped, snatching the bag like it was sacred treasure. “You do understand me.”

Across the bullpen, the rest of the team stared like a meteor had landed on Garcia’s keyboard.

Hotch reappeared in the doorway, hands behind his back. “He’ll assist while you’re in the field.”

Morgan frowned. “You know him?”

Hotch didn’t even blink. “You’ve all worked with him before. You just didn’t know it.”

Rossi raised an eyebrow over the rim of his coffee. “You really know him, don’t you?”

Emily leaned in to Reid. “Ten bucks says they’re dating.”

Garcia’s eyes suddenly widened like she’d just connected the final line of red string on a murder board. “Oh my God. You’re the guy. The one he mentioned in Denver! The mysterious ‘consultant’ who ‘doesn’t like crowds’ but sends him Excel macros that make the after-action reports sort themselves!”

Hotch didn’t move. “He's okay,” he said, dry and unapologetic. “Because he’s efficient.”

You glanced up, grinning. “Efficient, house-trained, and I alphabetize the spice rack. He’s spoiled and he knows it.”

Garcia made an inhuman noise and chucked a plush octopus at Hotch’s chest. “You’re dating a federal cryptid!”

Reid was already edging closer, eyes alight. “Wait—did you rewrite the entire D.C. Municipal database backend last August?”

You perked up. “Yes! You actually read that?”

Reid looked thrilled. “That recursive structure—beautiful. It handled dynamic queries like—like it was alive.”

“Thank you!” you beamed. “It was supposed to be semi-intuitive. Like predictive logic, but cozy.”

By now, the team had fully swarmed. Emily dropped into the chair across from you like she was settling in for storytime. Reid had a notebook in his hands. Garcia was already pulling up server logs labeled things like “Mystery Wizard??” and “Possibly Supernatural???”

You caught Hotch’s gaze across the room. Amid all the chaos, his expression softened, barely—but it was there. The corner of his mouth lifted, the tiniest ghost of a smile just for you.

You mouthed: You okay?

It had been that way since the surgery. The one that was supposed to help. To relieve some of the agony. The nerve pain, the mobility issues, the exhausting battle you fought every day just to exist without screaming. Hotch had done the research, stayed up nights reading medical papers with a highlighter and a stiff drink in hand. He knew the risks. The long recovery. The odds that it might help—but never cure.

And now you were home, post-op, battered and nauseous and hurting in ways that made your eyes dull and your smile ghost-thin. Trying not to cry when you shifted in bed. Trying to act like it was okay that he couldn’t stay.

“You need to go,” you’d told him, hoarse, hours after you’d been discharged. “They need you.”

The same refrain. The one that used to comfort him. Now it just felt like another nail.

He hadn’t responded—just kissed your forehead, tucked the blanket around your legs, and stood in the hallway longer than necessary, coat clenched in his fist.

Now he was here. Back in the bullpen. Working a case that wouldn’t crack. Watching minutes tick by like they were knives.

Garcia strolled in with her usual glittery confidence, heels clacking cheerfully against tile. “Okay, my crime-solving cupcakes, I’ve got a match on our weird-face man from the gas station. Not a squirrel, tragically, but definitely a nut. I’ll take what I can get.”

No one laughed.

Hotch barely looked up. “Garcia.”

Her name came out like a reprimand. Terse. Impatient. She froze mid-step, faltering just enough for Rossi to glance up from his file.

“…Okay then,” Garcia muttered, retreating toward her screens like a cat with its tail stepped on.

Spencer, trying to soften the air, offered a stat. “Given the spatial distribution of the crime scenes, we might be looking at a comfort zone model—if we overlay a standard deviation grid, we can triangulate—”

“Not now,” Hotch interrupted, snapping the folder shut with unnecessary force.

Reid blinked. His fingers stilled. He said nothing else.

I’m supposed to be calm. In control. The voice in the storm. But they’re lying in bed right now, unable to even make tea without Jack’s help, and I’m thirty miles away trying to profile a sadist instead of being what they need.

Hotch sat down too hard in his chair. The sudden creak echoed.

Emily narrowed her eyes at him. Her hands stilled on the case file, watching him like she’d been waiting for this moment.

Garcia glanced at her, eyebrows raised. Reid glanced between them, sensing the tension but not quite sure how to name it.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. “You’re not yourself,” he said quietly.

Hotch didn’t answer. He rubbed a hand over his face, then down his jaw. He could feel the pressure building behind his temples—another headache on the horizon.

They’re home. Drugged up on post-op pain meds. Hurting. Alone. And I left them with a list of instructions and a kiss on the forehead like that made up for the fact that they can’t even get out of bed without wincing.

God.

His phone buzzed again. This time, real. A text from Jack.

Reader’s sleepy. I gave them the tea you made. Can I heat up the soup? PS. I think I’m a nurse now. :)

Hotch’s eyes burned. He looked away.

“Aaron,” Rossi said, stepping close, lowering his voice, “Strauss asked for a signature on that personnel realignment thing. Some admin nonsense. Thought you’d want to handle it personally.”

Hotch barely looked up. “That thing from last month?”

“Apparently she wants a new copy for the records. You know Strauss—every paper trail’s a ten-mile hike.”

Hotch sighed like he had knives under his ribs and stood without another word. Paperwork, at least, he could deal with. Something concrete. Something that didn’t feel like failing.

He followed Rossi down the hall, ignoring how Prentiss glanced up from her desk with something almost like relief in her eyes.

The office door shut behind them with a soft click.

Rossi didn’t go for the file cabinet. Didn’t pull out anything from his briefcase.

Instead, he turned, took one long look at Hotch’s face—the creases deeper than usual, the skin under his eyes grey with exhaustion—and motioned toward the office couch.

“Sit down.”

Hotch’s brows knit. “What?”

“Sit,” Rossi repeated, this time gentler. Less commanding. Like he wasn’t asking as a colleague. Like he was asking as a friend. As family.

Hotch hesitated. Then, slowly, he sat. The cushion dipped beneath him like it was waiting for this moment.

Rossi took the chair across from him, hands steepled, elbows on his knees.

“There’s no paperwork,” he said plainly. “Strauss doesn’t need anything.”

Hotch’s jaw flexed. A quiet beat passed.

“…You lied to get me in here.”

“I did.” Rossi leaned forward slightly, voice calm. “Because if I’d said this out there, in front of the others, you would’ve locked it down. Shut me out. And this conversation needs to happen.”

Hotch looked away, fingers curling against his knee.

Rossi didn’t push yet. Just watched. Waited. He’d known Aaron long enough to recognize when the armor was cracking, even if Aaron hadn’t yet.

“I’ve known them for, what—five years now?” Rossi started softly. “Since the wedding. Hell, even before that. You remember the dinner party? They were walking with a cane, barely out of a flare-up, and still insisted on helping clean the dishes afterward.”

Hotch’s lip twitched. A breath almost turned into a laugh. Didn’t make it.

“They’re strong,” Rossi said. “Too strong for their own good sometimes. Just like you.”

Silence.

Hotch rubbed a hand over his face, then down the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle like he could squeeze the tension out.

“They told me to go,” he muttered. “They always tell me to go.”

“Of course they do,” Rossi said. “Because they know how much this means to you. But come on, Aaron. You really think they want to be alone right now?”

Hotch didn’t answer.

Rossi went on. “They’re recovering from surgery. You said the pain’s been worse than expected. You’ve been checking your phone like you’re waiting for a call from God. You haven’t slept. You’re making mistakes.”

Hotch’s voice was tight when he finally spoke again. “I just… I hate not being able to fix it. I hate that I left them there like that.”

“And you think staying here, running yourself into the ground, is going to help?” Rossi’s voice was soft, but firm now. “You’re no use to this case like this. You’re not helping them. You’re not helping us. And you’re definitely not helping yourself.”

A long silence.

Hotch stared at the floor. Then the edge of his desk. Then the couch cushion beneath his hands. Finally, he looked up. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Voice small.

“What if something happens while I’m gone?”

Rossi stood. Walked over. Placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Then you’ll be there,” he said. “Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Hotch didn’t move for a long time. But when he stood, it was quieter. Less brittle.

And when he left the office—coat in hand, phone already buzzing—he walked just a little faster.

The house was quiet when Hotch stepped inside. Not silent—there was a faint hum of something bubbling on the stove, and he could hear the soft murmur of a child’s voice drifting from the living room—but it was the kind of quiet that pressed on your ribs. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

He hung up his coat and dropped his keys onto the entryway table, already loosening his tie. His chest felt too tight, like he hadn’t taken a full breath in days. Maybe weeks.

The living room light was low—sun filtering in through slatted blinds, warm and gold across the floor. You were curled up on the couch in oversized sweats, two pillows under your knees, a blanket haphazardly wrapped around your shoulders like armor.

Pale. Tired. Eyes glassy with the dull sheen of leftover painkillers. But trying—God, you were trying—to look okay.

You even smiled when you saw him. Small. A little lopsided. But it hit him in the chest like a freight train.

“Hey,” you rasped, voice raw from sleep or pain or both. “Didn’t think you’d be back so early.”

“I wasn’t,” Hotch said softly, eyes already misting. “But I came anyway.”

Before you could answer, Jack’s voice came from the kitchen: “Wait! Don’t sit yet! The soup’s almost ready!”

Hotch blinked, startled, as Jack—armed with a wooden spoon and a very stained oven mitt—peeked out from around the corner.

“I made it myself,” Jack said proudly. “Well, kind of. I had to Google what bay leaves look like.”

Reader chuckled—then winced, hand ghosting toward your side. The movement was small, but Hotch saw it. And it shattered him.

He crossed the room in two long strides and knelt beside you. His hands found your face gently, cradling your cheeks as if he thought you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

“I should’ve come home sooner,” he whispered.

You leaned into his palm, fingers resting lightly over his wrist. Your eyes fluttered half-closed.

“But you’re here now,” you murmured.

And that was enough.

Hotch pressed his forehead to yours, just breathing you in, grounding himself in the smell of your shampoo and the warmth of your skin.

“Soup’s ready!” Jack announced from the kitchen, carrying the bowl like a sacred object. He beamed. “It’s only a little crunchy.”

Hotch pulled back just enough to give him a small smile. “That sounds… perfect.”

Jack placed it on the coffee table beside the tea he’d already brewed—lukewarm, probably over-steeped, but lovingly prepared.

Hotch sat beside you, arm around your shoulders, tucking the blanket more securely around you as he helped guide the tea to your lips. He brushed your hair back behind your ear with the same hand, fingertips feather-light.

You leaned against him, finally letting your body relax.

“Jack’s been reading to me,” you mumbled sleepily.

Jack perked up. “Yeah! I picked your favorite. The one with the lighthouse.” He retrieved the book from the armrest and held it up proudly. “I think it helps.”

Hotch’s throat caught again. He nodded. “Why don’t you start from where you left off?”

Jack did. He perched at the end of the couch, reading aloud with a kind of deliberate concentration that made Hotch’s chest ache. You blinked slowly, slipping in and out of consciousness, your hand tucked into Hotch’s like it belonged there.

When your breathing evened out and the book slid gently from Jack’s hands to the cushion, Hotch pressed a soft kiss to your temple and whispered, “Rest. We’ve got you.”

You didn’t answer, but your hand tightened just a little in his.

Later, in the kitchen, Jack stood on a stool washing a pot that still had traces of scorched something clinging to its sides.

Hotch leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him.

“I told them not to worry,” Jack said quietly, without turning around. “I said we got this.”

Hotch swallowed. His voice was rough with emotion. “You did good, buddy.”

Jack turned, eyes uncertain but proud. “You’re not mad I tried to cook?”

Hotch stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, one hand cradling the back of Jack’s head. He held him there for a long moment.

“I’m not mad. You’re the best nurse anyone could ask for.”

Jack beamed into his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stood like that in the kitchen’s golden hush.

And when Hotch finally went back to the living room and sat down beside you again—blanket still warm, tea still unfinished—he let his hand rest over yours.

You stirred slightly. Eyes fluttered.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice like velvet through fog.

He smiled. Soft. Real.

But then came the diagnoses. ADHD. Panic disorder. Depression. Things with names and pamphlets and matching pills. For a while, it got easier. Not easy, never that—but quieter.

Until the quiet started to feel... hollow. Like your thoughts had been put in a straightjacket. The chaos was gone, sure—but so was the color. The joy. The part of you that made midnight playlists and scribbled quotes on receipts and got lost in stupid internet rabbit holes about 14th-century execution methods. The part of you that laughed too hard and talked too fast.

On the meds, you just stared at your coffee until it got cold.

People called it peace. It felt like being wrapped in gauze.

So you stopped. And then you started again. And then stopped. Again.

It was always like this. A tug-of-war between clarity and comfort, energy and exhaustion. You told yourself it was choice. Freedom. Autonomy.

But it never really felt like that. It felt like throwing a coin every morning and praying the side it landed on wouldn’t ruin your whole day.

The case in Utah had been brutal.

Forty-eight hours of chasing leads, dodging press, and walking through someone else’s worst day.

Sleep was a joke. The team had split into pairs, burned through every contact and detail trying to find a pattern. You hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Or maybe the day before.

And there was a toddler’s shoe. That’s what broke you.

Not the body. Not the suspect. The tiny, mud-caked shoe left in a field, barely visible under frost. You hadn’t been able to stop seeing it. Even when you blinked, even when you slept standing up with your eyes open.

Now, at last, it was over. The unsub was in custody. The press had been deflected. The parents would get closure. Technically, this was a win.

You didn’t feel it.

The scene was winding down. Evidence techs zipped bags and packed up, voices fading beneath the pulse of red-blue strobes. A detective clapped Hotch on the shoulder, murmuring thanks. You didn’t really hear it. Couldn’t.

You stood off to the side, still and glassy-eyed, like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that the danger was over. You were supposed to be helping with final checks—God knows you tried—but something in you had unspooled.

Static filled your chest. Your fingers twitched. Your eyes tracked motion but didn’t see it.

Okay. Just… do something simple. Something tactile.

You reached into your jacket pocket.

Keys. Pen cap. Crumpled receipt.

No pill case.

Your chest tightened.

You patted yourself down again—rough, urgent.

Still nothing.

A cold ripple of dread started at the base of your spine.

No. No, no, no.

You yanked your satchel off your shoulder, fingers diving in like they could undo time. Papers crinkled. A flashlight clattered against the asphalt. You couldn’t focus—just grabbed and searched and fumbled.

But you already knew.

Your emergency meds—the ones you always brought on field assignments—were still sitting on your dresser. In Virginia. You’d seen them. Even told yourself, “Grab that before you go.”

You didn’t.

And the realization opened a sinkhole in your gut.

You forgot. Again. You always forget. You’re slipping. Spiraling. Useless like this.

Your thoughts started to spin. Faster. Louder. Each one crashing into the next before it could even finish forming.

You forgot. You forgot. You forgot—

Your breath hitched. Then caught. Then took off, jagged and sharp like barbed wire in your throat. You didn’t even feel your knees give out until you were bracing against the bumper of the nearest SUV.

The tunnel came quick.

Sound distorted. Time fractured. Air became a rumor.

You couldn’t breathe.

You were going under.

“Aaron—”

Someone said it. Maybe Morgan. Maybe Reid.

Didn’t matter.

Because he heard it.

Hotch turned instantly, like someone pulled a string in his spine. His gaze snapped to you, narrowed, locked. He was already moving before anyone else could react.

You didn’t see him approach. But suddenly, he was there.

“Hey,” came the voice—low, calm, sure. “Look at me.”

You couldn’t. Your hands were clawing at your jacket, desperate to do something, fix it, make it stop—

But then his hand touched your forearm. Warm. Gentle. Present.

Not grabbing. Not guiding. Just... there.

“Breathe,” he said again. “I’ve got you.”

You tried. You really did. But it came out a strangled inhale and a broken rasp:

“I forgot them,” you managed. “I—I left them at home, I was fine, I thought I was fine, and now I—”

“Okay,” he said. Not dismissive. Not panicked. Just calm. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

You shook your head, heart galloping into your throat. “No, you don’t get it, I—I can’t breathe, I can’t fix it this time—”

“Stop,” he said gently, lowering into your line of sight. “You can. Just look at me.”

You did.

Barely.

Your eyes were glassy. Your whole body trembled.

And then—quietly, like it was nothing—Hotch reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a small plastic container. Travel-size. Familiar.

Inside: two pills. Yours.

You blinked. Couldn’t speak.

He pressed it into your palm. His hand covered yours like a promise.

“I’ve been keeping a backup,” he murmured. “Just in case.”

Your throat burned. Your chest cracked open.

“Since when?” you whispered.

“Dallas.”

You stared. That had been three months ago. The hotel bathroom. Cold tiles. A panic spiral so bad you couldn’t even turn the tap. You thought he’d forgotten.

You hoped he had.

But of course he hadn’t.

Of course he noticed.

Hotch didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t dramatize. He just carried people quietly—filed their needs away like case notes and recalled them with unshakable precision.

“You noticed?” you asked, hoarse.

“I always notice,” he said.

And it wasn’t proud. It wasn’t pity.

It was just the truth.

He handed you a sealed bottle of water. Waited.

You took the pill. Sipped the water.

Pressed your sleeve to your face.

And then… sat.

Right there on the SUV bumper, shoulder to shoulder with him. You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

His hand stayed on your back, patient and warm. His presence was steady, like gravity. Like you could orbit around it and know you wouldn’t float away.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t apologize.

You just breathed.

“I’m not good at this,” you said after a while, voice raw.

“You’re doing fine,” he replied, without hesitation.

You looked at him.

He was already looking at you.

And in that look, there was no shame. No disappointment. Just a quiet steadiness. A kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

Like this wasn’t a burden. Like you weren’t too much. Like this moment wasn’t a failure—it was just another part of being human.

You weren’t broken.

You were just… you.

And he remembered that.