okay so this may be very weird….? but like i have this EXACT IDEA but i can’t seem to write it out, so..

like imagine sitting next to hotch on the plane ride home from a v/ tiring case and falling asleep on his shoulder or something really sweet and everyone sees it but hotch just covers her up and stuff and then like it’s super cute and soft and akjeiwwbjrrnb yk?

It's not weird that Aaron is listening to your breathing more than he's paying attention to the papers in his hands. Okay? It's normal. Because- because the slow rise and fall of your chest while you melt like putty into the seat behind you is soothing, and the soft puffs of air that hit his arm are a constant reminder that you're safe, that you made it out alive.

Sometimes he needs to be reminded of the simple things in life, like sleepy sighs and fluttering lashes.

As his eyes scan a particular line three times over, taking in a few disjointed words each time, there's an uptick in your breathing. You inhale, slow and long, muscles tensing as you shift in your seat. Apparently the awkward angle that your neck was bent at became uncomfortable for you, and Aaron's shoulder seems like the better alternative.

Without ever opening your eyes you tip sideways, your subconscious seeking warmth and stability. When your head lands on Aaron's shoulder you let out another one of your snoozy sighs, that has Aaron's heart liquifying in his chest and dripping down through his ribs, insides all gooey and warm.

Derek snickers, whipping out his phone, "Busted. Think she'll pay me to delete this?"

"At least twenty bucks," Rossi nods, eyes glimmering with amusement, "But send a copy to Penelope first, she'll back it up."

"Blackmail," JJ chimes, sing-song-y from her seat, and Aaron is quick to move before the shutter of Derek's camera snaps.

"Don't take pictures of her while she's sleeping," He hovers a large, rough hand over your face, shielding your serene expression from their prying eyes, "That's what stalkers do."

"I'm not a stalker," Derek groans, "I'm an opportunist. I see good blackmail material, I take it."

"Leave her alone." Aaron tries shifting his focus back to his work, but his hand still hovers over your face, "She's resting. And you should, too, I need you in an hour early tomorrow to sign off on paperwork from the Mayberry case."

"Oh, now that's not cool." Derek frowns at Aaron, "I take a quick pic of you and your lil' work wife, and you make me come in early?"

"Hardass," Rossi laments, sipping from his glass.

"Quiet," Aaron commands, brow dipping in worry when you begin shifting against him from all of the noise, "If you wake her up, that's two hours early, both of you."

Jake seresin doing that bathroom door thing to a sweet shy reader would be so cute😭😭

that bathroom door thing - i changed it up just a bit for the plot's sake! i hope you still enjoy it <3

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Jake's forever grateful that Penny bought the Hard Deck, because it brought about changes that have only ever benefitted him. She's begrudgingly fond of him, so he drinks whenever he wants and pays his tab in grunt muscle when new shipments of booze are delivered and need to be hauled in. He also drives Amelia around to various after school activities, so Penny's rewarded him with his own personal set of keys in case she's waiting for pickup in the bar and can't lock up behind herself.

The bar is cleaner now than it was under previous management, which means more women are willing to set foot inside; something about the earlier gunk and grime drove them away. It's no longer a place for aviators to drink their sorrows away- it's fun, it's full, and it's family, something Jake cherishes more than he'll ever admit.

Those keys feel especially important in his pocket now as he watches you try the handle of the bathroom door, clearly in a rush. Jake's surprised that the bathroom isn't constantly occupied, what with the amount of liquor that gets consumed on a nightly basis, but some people might just be better at regulating themselves than others.

Apparently you're not one of them as you find the door locked, your face contorting into clear displeasure.

You scan the bar for Penny but- Jake realizes with a jolt down his spine, she's not here. She'd stepped out, and he'd been casually monitoring the counter to ensure that no one started touching anything that didn't belong to them.

"Coyote," Jake calls, catching his friend's attention from where he's crouched over the pool table, "Cover for Penny."

Usually the team would be annoyed at being interrupted, but Coyote is just as fond of Penny as Jake is, and he nods once, passing his cue over to Rooster. He takes up a seat opposite Jake, giving the man the chance to stand and make his way over to you.

"Hey there, darlin'," He greets, digging the keys out of his pocket, "You need'a get in there?"

"Uh, yeah, I do," You laugh sheepishly, watching intently as he slides the key into the door, "Oh my god, thank you, I couldn't find the bartender and I thought I was shit outta luck."

"I gotcha, honey," Jake grins, bicep flexing as he pushes open the door for you, "Come get me when you're done so I can lock back up, okay?"

"Alright," You agree, slipping into the bathroom and peeking through the door to call after him, "Thank you again!"

Jake beelines for the bar, reaching around the countertop to grab two bottles of beer. They're stored in an ice bucket, but he prefers them to the tap because they're quicker and easier.

"Hey!" Coyote barks, mad dogging him playfully, "You gonna pay for those, sir?"

"If these help me get that lady's number," Jake rushes back to the tables near the bathroom, sitting at one and setting the other bottle across from him, "I'll give Penny my life savings."

i was thinking about roommate!spencer going home after a week off working on a case and finding reader sleeping on the couch waiting for him to get home

Spencer cringes as his nails scratch the paint around the doorknob. He’s a tepid mixture of tired and sad, demotivated from another bad case, the subway home, the too many steps to the apartment. He hopes the BAU has better pay after his probation is over. He’d get a new apartment, fix up his shitty old car, maybe even get a haircut. 

For now, it’s just him, his tired feet, the threadbare couch, and you. 

You’re snoring with your face crushed to the armrest, hand tucked under your chest. You’ve started sitting and ended twisted to one side. Your back will ache when you wake up, but you’re blissfully unaware of it while you sleep. Spencer has half a mind to let you sleep undisturbed. 

He steps over your book of crosswords on the floor and the pencil waiting beside it, bending over to pat your arm. When that doesn’t rouse you, he grabs your shoulder, about to shake you awake when you sigh in your sleep, a simple, sugary sound that sends heat to his cheeks instantaneously. You’re often innocuously lovely, at least in his eyes. 

Spencer frowns and goes to make you a glass of sweet tea to wake up to. He’s secretly hoping you’ll wake up before he returns, but you’re still snoring, your face crushed, pressure on your neck. 

He wonders if you sleep on the couch often. He’s never caught you sleeping in the living room when he’s home, but this is the third time now he’s texted you that he’s coming back and walked in to find you waiting…

Are you waiting for him? 

Spencer can profile you. It doesn’t feel right, he tries not to be invasive, but he can work this out. It’s his job. 

First, the text you sent that read, Can’t wait for you to come home, I’m making chicken noodle soup for us 

Neither indicative nor exclusionary of his theory. You could mean can’t wait as the metaphor it tends to be. 

Your crossword book. Upon further inspection, he realises the pages are bent on one side, and the tent of it has landed where your hand curls toward your chest. Alright, it fell. You stayed up until you were so tired you dropped your book. 

But… you could’ve been watching TV. He turns to analyse the TV set. The standby light turns orange when it’s been left on for eight hours at a time, and you and Spencer are kind of broke, so you don’t leave anything running on purpose. You’ve never fallen asleep watching TV while he was home— 

All these reasons. 

He could just ask. He turns back to you with lips already parted, prepared to try again to wake you and slip it in casually, Shit, you weren’t waiting for me, were you? 

You’re already awake. 

Tired, you smile at him like you’re not surprised he’s kneeling at the foot of your seat. Like you’re glad he’s home. “Spencer,” you say, voice etched with the last dregs of sleep as you turn onto your side completely, giving a little wince at the stretch. 

“Hey, you okay? Why are you sleeping on the couch again?” 

You roll your eyes for what he’s not sure and reach down blindly for the crossword book by his knee, your fingertips brushing his thigh and leaving lightness in their wake. “I'm glad you’re home. Need your help, m’stuck on my puzzle.” 

“That’s what you’re sleeping here for?” 

“What?” Your eyes slip closed and then flutter open. “Mm, no, was just waiting for you to get home. How was Santa Monica?” 

Spencer has to force himself to answer around the pretzel of nerves tied in his throat, because it’s what he’d wanted, but he wasn’t ready. “It was great! I mean– I mean, it was awful, and three people died and–” He breathes in wrong. “It was fine.” 

You curl your book on the right page, blinking heavily at an unsolved row. “Oh, good. Um. Okay, ‘to carry a torch for someone’. Eight letters, not obsessed. Doesn’t fit.” 

Spencer traces the soft shudder of your lashes where they’re desperate to kiss the skin below your eye. “Besotted,” he says quietly. 

You gasp happily. “Besotted. Perfect! I missed you, genius, you always know the answer.”

He hands you your fallen pencil. “I missed you, too.” 

ah okay wait i could kinda see hopper with like a younger ish reader and he’s all like grumbly old man about it and doesn’t get why r likes him and reader is just like calm down lets go get ice cream

Your boyfriend has anger issues. Seriously, he’s easy to rile, easier to complain, and he doesn’t like doing things he doesn’t wanna do, which is lots of things, but thankfully isn’t you. 

You offer your hand, butterflies in your stomach squeezing up into your chest when he takes it, his eyes dark with his squared brow. You love being with him in part because he intimidates you, what with his frowning, his uniform, his arguable silly hate. He suits the hat. He pulls it down over his eyes when it rains, a cigarette between his teeth like he’s in a noir film.

“Where’s your hat today, Chief?” you ask. 

He nods toward the backseat. “Why, you like it?” 

“You know I like the hat. It’s a great hat. It makes you look like the Lone Ranger.” 

“I’m never wearing it again,” he says severely. 

“Come on, Hopper, don’t be like that,” you tease back, back of your head dipping back to brush the headrest, your hand right in his. Hopper had this way of making you feel pretty, or cared for? It’s definitely something. He holds your hand and rubs your knuckles and your hand feels pretty, or fine. Not delicate, but held. “I really like it. I meant it as a compliment.” 

“You mean everything as a compliment.” 

You side-eye his muttering. “You know you’re my boyfriend, right?” 

“Doesn’t make any sense.” 

“What, that you’d ever go out with me?” 

“That you’d be with me,” he corrects. 

“That’s really…” You bite your tongue. Perturbed, you crane your neck, kissing the back of his hand softly. Barely a kiss, no smack nor pressure, just a soft brush of your lips. “Hop, I don’t get you sometimes.” 

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he insists. 

“You act like we’re worlds apart. I like you. I don’t get why you don’t get it.” 

He sighs at your small tone. “Don’t take it the wrong way.” 

“Then don’t mean it that way.” 

He glares at the road outside, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He stays rubbing soft lines with his thumb on your skin, the car speeding fast toward his cabin, snow falling in chunky flakes against the windows. You tuck your other hand over your twined fingers, thinking. What’s the right thing to say? He’s clearly upset believing that he’s not good enough for you, or not right for you, something. 

“Okay,” you say, “alright, here’s what’s gonna happen, handsome,” —he snorts— “we’re gonna go for milkshakes, you’re gonna kiss me up against the car, and I’m gonna tell you how much I like being with you, because it’s true.” 

“In that order?” 

“In that order.” 

Hopper steers the car into a u-turn. “Fucking. Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get you a milkshake.” 

Bombshell r loosing her mind when Spence walks into work late that one day and he has the “boy band” haircut

“What’s with the face?” 

Morgan raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for an answer you don’t have. 

“What’s wrong with my face?” you ask. 

“Nothing–”

“Clearly.” 

“You look way too happy, considering.” He gestures to the board currently displaying a grisly crime scene photo and the empty seat across from you. “Another case, and a severe lack of your favourite toy.” 

“Spencer isn’t my toy, he’s my sweetheart, and I’m gutted he’s running late but I’m toughing it out.” 

Being on the team is all you’ve ever wanted. With Gideon long gone and enough time elapsed between Strauss’ political push for Emily, you’re here permanently, where you’ve always wanted to be. It’s been the best few months of your life. A lot of that due to Spencer’s unfailing friendship. He’s so kind to you. You’re really getting along. 

“Let’s focus in,” Hotch says. 

You bridle with excitement, poorly contained. You don’t get very far into spitballing when JJ’s lips part in bemusement.

“Well, hello,” she says. 

You turn in your chair away from JJ and Penelope where they’re giving the presentation to the door, where Spencer is smiling genially. He sits down with his bag still on his shoulder, a heavy silence having fallen over the room. 

Spencer has cut his hair. Gone is the long, mostly straight lengths of his hair. Did he get a perm? You’re shell-shocked. “Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself. 

“What, did you join a boyband?” Hotch asks, frowning. 

His lips part in small offence. “No,” he says. 

Emily and Morgan laugh. Spencer tucks his chair in, and you don’t know who wants to say what or how quickly you’re supposed to pretend to get over this, but you don’t care. “Spencer!” you say, “Spencer!” 

“L/N, please don’t start.” 

Hotch is only saying please because he knows he had his own reaction he could’ve kept internal, how can he ask you to smother your own. You lean hard across the table and gaze at him lovingly —startled but inarguably infatuated.

“You’ve never, ever looked this handsome before,” you say, true and not true, “ever. I gotta–” Your hand reaches out at the same moment your legs decide to stand. “Can I touch it?” 

Hotch sighs with disappointment. 

You pass behind your teammates' chairs to look at him. 

“Stop,” he says immediately, his palm to your stomach. “You’re being mean.” 

“I’m being mean? You didn’t even consult me.” 

“It’s my hair.” 

“Spencer, you’re gorgeous no matter what, but I need some warning if you don’t want me to do this.” 

“Sit back down,” Morgan says, rolling his eyes. 

You tuck one lovely curl behind Spencer’s ear carefully. “I love it so much, I can’t believe it. This is the best thing that’s happened to me since I joined the BAU.”