—Hotch’s sister graduates college, and Spencer is immediately smitten. fem, 1.6k

“She’s pregnant.” Emily shakes her bag of chips around. “But it’s not his baby.” 

Spencer frowns down at his sandwich. Rye bread is hard to cut, and the plastic knife isn’t putting up a good fight. “That’s awful,” he says. “He must be heartbroken.” 

“He’s distraught. Now he can’t decide if he wants to stay and raise the new baby with their first, or leave her and have split custody.” 

“What channel did you say it was on?” 

“It’s on NightDrama. I’ll find out the number.” 

Emily folds the empty packet of chips into a rectangle, then that rectangle into a triangle, folding the edges inside of a fold to create a parcel perfect for flicking at him. Spencer waits for it, tensing, but what he sees behind Emily steals his attention. 

She whips her head to follow him. 

You are, as Spencer watches you walk in, without a doubt one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen. And it’s not like you’re a model, you don’t walk with any such confidence, but it strikes him immediately. You’re pretty. And he’s never seen you in the office before. 

They get visitors occasionally but the majority of people so deep into this office would've been checked at security and cleared to come up here. You hold a visitors badge in your hand, which you promptly clip onto your shirt when you see people looking at you. Your frown makes you prettier. Something about the way you stand seems familiar, but Spencer can’t put his finger on what it is. 

“Should we go help?” Emily asks. 

“Who do you think she’s for?” Spencer asks back. He’s thinking you’re here to speak to JJ. They have people like this occasionally who JJ knows from past cases, drifting in on a hope that there’s more detail to be found. 

Emily stands up from her chair. Spencer follows suit. When you see her facing toward you, some of your apprehension melts into relief. 

“Hi,” you say breathily, summoning a smile that, again, seems familiar. Not in looks, but practise, maybe. 

“Hi there, can we help? You look lost,” Emily says. 

She sounds more friendly than Spencer could’ve hoped to achieve. He doesn’t even wanna think about it, from how pretty you are he would’ve stumbled over even the most basic hello. 

eddie and roan — eddie remembers the early days

“She doesn't want her.”  

“What do you mean, she doesn't want her?”   

“That's all she said, Wayne. She doesn't want her. I can have her. Can I have her?” 

Eddie thinks you're sleeping until you stroke his arm gently. “What are you thinking about?” you whisper. 

Roan doesn't stir. She falls asleep in his arms less and less now, but there were days where it was the only place she'd rest. The curve of his arm is deformed, he says, fit to her body. Or, reformed. Made how it was meant to be, to hold her near.

“Nothing,” he whispers back. 

“Liar. I know you're thinking about something, Munson. Is it the campaign?” 

He shakes his head. 

Wayne just looks at him. Really looks at him, the longest they've ever been in silence with one another since Eddie's dad dumped him and left. “Kid…” Wayne shakes his head. “Eddie. This is your life.” 

“But I can't just–”

Wayne holds up his hand. Not high, but enough to make Eddie stop. “You have to live with every decision you make…” 

Eddie squirms. Doesn't know what to say, or do, all he can think about is his baby in a bassinet waiting for someone to pick her up. “She's mine, right?” he asks. 

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

Eddie shifts the weight of his girl off of his chest and offers you a smile he knows from experience will reassure you, one parts living, three parts teasing. “What're you worrying about?” 

hope this is okay!! —you have big news for your small family. 1.5k pregnant!mom!reader

When you first married his father, you weren't expecting Jack Hotchner to like you very much. Losing his mom so young, you wouldn't have blamed him for resenting you, or even hating you. You were like a stranger in his home. 

Things are different now. Jack lays in your lap with his head on your shoulder, and maybe he's a little too old for such a coddling cuddle, but who really cares? You love him and you love holding him, and if he wants some extra comfort tonight you're happy to give it. Plus, you have something you've been meaning to tell him.

“He doesn't have real headlights, did you know?” Jack asks. “They're just stickers.” 

You raise your brows at the car on screen. “No kidding.” You brush your fingers through his hair. He's blonde like his mom, though that blonde has turned brown the older he gets. 

“Race cars don't have headlights.”

“They don't need them,” you say. Jack smiles at you shyly and leans into your neck, clearly pleased. 

You're very, very glad that you ended up being someone he loved. It's a privilege to get to look after him, and to be his step mom. In the same way you're lucky to be Aaron's partner and Jane's mom, too. 

“Think dad's made dinner?” you ask. 

“No, he's probably just talking to your sister.” 

Yes, well. You can't blame him, nor would you want him to stop. He talks to Jane like she understands, and Jane, not even two years old, nearly brand new to the world, soaks him in. You can hear him if you strain, the dulcet cadence of his voice under the steady hum of the dishwasher. 

“That's okay, sweetheart, don't get upset,” he's saying, “it's okay. Come here, I've got you.” 

Jane starts to cry. You and Jack give one another the look, apprehensive in hoping it won't turn into a full blown melt down. 

“Honey?” Aaron calls. “Sorry, where did you put her other pacifier?” 

thank u for requesting! ♡ fem, 1.5k

cw mentioned past domestic/workplace abuse, unhealthy eating habits

Someone broke into my apartment. 9:14AM

Spencer reads the message under the table but forgoes discretion when he registers what it says and who it's from. He excuses himself from the round table, something he isn't even sure he's allowed to do, and hurries out onto the landing. 

You answer on the second dial. "Hey, did you see my text?" you ask. 

"Are you okay?" He squeezes his phone. 

"I'm not sure. I'm fine, but my lock is busted and the door won't stay shut." 

"Where are you?" 

If you're surprised that he's steamrolling, you don't show it. Spencer leaves work to meet you at the coffee shop you've chosen for refuge, your eyes tired, a small bag of your most important possessions hanging on a slumped shoulder. He hugs you straight away. 

"I'm fine," you say into his neck. 

He hugs you tighter. "That's good," he says, feeling useless, fingers stroking little paths into your shoulders. He pictured the worst from your text, and seeing you in person is the only true mitigator. You'll talk down bruises and black eyes —you have in the past. 

He pulls the story from you as you walk back to his apartment, shoulder to shoulder in the cold street. "It was open when I got home, the door, but I did what you asked me to." 

"You didn't go in?" he confirms proudly. 

"Not at first." 

"You really won't call the police?" 

"I texted you." 

Spencer takes the strap of your bag from you and throws it over his own. "I'm not that kind of cop. I'm not really a cop at all." 

"No, you're a fed, which is worse. The girls at work told me to stay away from you." You wipe under your eyes sluggishly. Sleep clings to you like a shadow trailing behind you, ever-present. 

dad's way

please 😭 and the way i literally had a hot cocoa candle burning as i worked on this cw; fem!reader, food descriptions, brief picky eater talk, girl dad!aaron <333333

"hi sweetheart-"

the shriek on the other end immediately caused him to hold his phone an inch or two away. it was piercing and loud, even for his bad ear.

concern had already swarmed his chest before the cry had ceased, and the room suddenly felt a bit hotter. "honey? is everything alright?"

there was a brief rustling sound, a small clattering of what he assumed was dishes, the close of a cabinet following after. "how do you make your hot chocolate?"

"why-"

"how, do you make your hot chocolate." you interrupted him, your voice distancing a bit for a moment, "dada's on the phone, it's okay."

"oh." aaron chuckled softly as realization hit, his voice filled with a tinge of pity. "someone's upset."

"tell me about it." you sighed in defeat, exasperation clear. "apparently, whatever i make isn't good enough. i've given her three different cups already. three. well, given the third was a reattempt of number one. but with whipped cream and sprinkles. jack too tried to persuade her, but nope. it's daddy's hot chocolate and daddy's hot chocolate only."

"is it in the right mug?"

"the one with all the little ladybugs? yup."

ty for requesting ♡ eddie and roan fem!reader, 1.7k

cw grief

It's a bad idea, but Eddie opens the photo frame on the sill. He moves the small metal holdings aside, peeling away the velvet back to reveal the hidden photograph waiting beneath.

His hands are trembling as he picks it up. The edges are soft but the photo itself is pristine, a perfect polaroid taken from her waist height, angled up as she smiled down. 

Eddie puts it back. Closes the frame, sets the photograph right side up on the sill next to your vase. His hands shake as he stuffs them in his pockets, a hard lump aching in his throat. I shouldn't have looked, he thinks to himself, sitting down at the dining table freshly cleared after dinner. 

He couldn't not look. As he washed the dishes after dinner, he'd found his gaze drifting. The photo framed is a simple close up of Roan at her last birthday, her face painted pink, purple, and white in the shape of a butterfly with silver glitter accents. The secret photograph is stupid to keep secret, he should put in pride of place, he should be a fucking man about it—

If you could hear his thoughts you'd frown. Maybe do that silly sweet thing with your hand on his cheek and your soft eyes imploring as they look into his. God, Eddie would give you anything you asked for when you look at him like that. But he doesn't tell you about the photograph, how could he? It's his. It's the last bit of her. 

He looks down at the wooden grain of the dining room table. Without thinking, he springs to his feet, removes the frames backing, and takes the photograph of his mom into his hand a second time. 

She looks so young. Younger than Eddie is now. He must have been a really little kid when he took the photo, old enough to have worked the camera but young enough that he can't remember the moment. Can't remember what she said, what she was laughing about, how that sounded. He can't remember her smell. 

How could I forget that? he thinks, stricken. 

hi lovely ily, ty for requesting ♡ 1.2k

cw reader has postpartum depression

"Aw, sweetheart," Eddie mumbles. 

You hear it through your tired haze, rubbing sleep from your eyes as your turn toward him and his shuffling. He's unexpectedly on the bedroom floor, the baby laid out on a changing matt. Your lips quirk into a smile as you watch him button a fresh baby grow closed around your son's tiny tummy. 

"You're so well behaved," Eddie continues, still mumbling, hand careful as it slides behind the baby's head. "There we go. Fresh as a daisy." 

You clear your throat and stretch against a cruel knot hiding between shoulder blades. "You okay?" you ask. 

Eddie looks at you like you've just asked him to marry you, love lining every feature. "I'm okay, are you okay? You were frowning in your sleep. Bad dreams?" 

"I can't remember." You try not to lose your small smile as you hold out your hands for the baby. 

You love your baby. That's not up for debate. But whenever you hold him, you feel like you should be happier. That turns to guilt, self-loathing —this has all been so hard. You knew it would be, but it doesn't matter how prepared you are. This is brain chemistry you can't fight. 

Eddie sits on the side of the bed and passes the baby to you carefully. You're relieved to find you missed him, tucking him with love against your chest. "Hi, beautiful. Hi." 

He's still so small, shiny with newness, his lips parted to show the pink of his tongue. You laugh under your breath, brushing the side of your hand along his cheek. 

"Did you, um… did you put the ointment on his rash?" you ask, leaning down to kiss the baby's forehead. "On his tummy?"