halloweekend is starting early here and i’m dressed as a slutty nun, has me thinking what would hotch think seeing you in a sexy (perhaps taboo) halloween costume?? maybe he had to work late so he came to the halloween party straight from the office so you met there, and he’s holding himself back bc you look sooooo good….
cw suggestive mdni
Hotch grew up in a time full to bursting with slut-shaming and self-expression alike. Women wore tiny dresses as they wear now, and he never thought himself a sexist —he never had a problem with a slip of skin.
But this is… Well, he's ashamed of himself for wanting to wrap you up in his suit jacket and ferry you home.
"Handsome!" you yell, jumping off of the garden seat you'd been sitting in with a drink slipping down your fingers. "You actually came! You're here!"
He's thinking and thank God I did, because he trusts you, and he doesn't think for a second you'd entertain other people, but he can't imagine missing out on this. This is a lot.
"You're drinking?" he asks, not scornful, just surprised.
"I didn't know you were coming and I'm bored out of my mind! But this is my first, sweetheart." You offer it to him. "So no, I wouldn't say I'm drinking."
He takes your drink, his head racing with thoughts of your naked arms and legs, your sheer white babydoll dress. "Is this lingerie?"
"It's my costume," you whine gently. "Why do people keep asking me that?"
Hotch slides his empty hand down the length of your side, the tulle of your baby doll soft as down on his palm. "And you're a… angel?"
"Duh. You can't see my halo, but it's there."
Your waist in his hand, the warmth of your skin seeping slow in his, Hotch can almost ignore the surrounding party goers and all their noise, until a friend comes forward demanding an introduction, and another. We've been waiting to meet her oh-so-intimidating beau. Hotch suffers it with his hand behind your shoulders, but eventually it's too much, his hand is sliding under your babydoll's fabric to grab at the small of your back indulgently. His pinky finger flirts with the band of your 'shorts'.
"What are you doing?" you whisper through a laugh.
"I'm embarrassed. I'm not even in costume."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe we should just go home."
Your laughter is a shriek as he pulls you into his side. He's kidding, he'll stay at your party tonight for as long as you want to stay like a fish out of water, but he can't be expected to not flirt with you.
"You're getting antsy, Hotchner," you say, like it's the best thing a man can be.
"This is ridiculous."
"I picked it out with you in mind." You lift your chin, words spoken warmly into the shell of his ear. "It might look like underwear to you, but there's something underneath it that says otherwise. So play nice and I'll give you a behind the scenes of how I chose my costume."
"I'm always nice," he says.
"No," you say, your smile mock-demure, your hand on his abdomen, just a little too low, "you're not. That's why…" You turn on the spot to your bag resting on the table and pull out a pair of red-horns on a headband. "I got you these. But once you put them on you have to keep them on."
"Is that the rule for this?" he asks, tugging on your babydoll.
You only hum. Hotch loses his mind one song at a time until you let him take you home, devil horns intact.
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aaron who has been in high paying jobs for a long time falling in love with someone who’s never had real money. aaron not realising what it is about his paying for everything that makes you so squirmy. dinner, movies, dates to fancy places, vacations, he just sees it all as the gentlemanly thing to do, and once’s he enamoured with you, like, in love with you—second date, tipsy, kissing his cheek telling him he smells nice as he tries to get you home in one piece—it’s his desire to pay for everything regardless. he doesn’t even like seeing your purse on the table, it gives him the heebies.
aaron who asks you to move in without any real hesitation at the eight month mark. knows it’s early for some, feels late for you, god, what would he have given somewhere in that three months dating period to get to keep you every day? when he was laying awake at night thinking of excuses to text you, call you, and invite you over. he would’ve asked you then if he hadn’t known it was taboo. so eight months was him trying his very hardest to be good.
aaron who stares at you in confusion when you ask him, a little nervously across the dinner table, how much your half of the rent would be. and then aaron who leans over to kiss you square on the tip of the nose before he stands without answering, because what can he even really say? he rounds the table to lean down for a hug, squeezes you so tightly you groan as he murmurs, honey, why would i ever make you pay rent when im already doing it alone? sharing rent is perfectly fine when its a necessity, but aaron genuinely doesn’t need your help.
the ensuing disagreements on fairness and trust, on not wanting to be made homeless on short notice if you break up, and the follow up conversation a week later where he’s put your name on the mortgage and handed you a little business card for one of JJ’s lawyer friends in case you actually worry you’ll need it. then your sniffly giggles as you ask him if you can repaint the bedroom, and his elation at getting to keep you. your little flush of delight when he gives you his credit card and tells you to go get whatever you want. you see it as a generosity, and he sees it like this: when a woman takes half of your heart for herself, and holds it in two soft hands, when she looks at you like you’re everything and trusts you to take care of her, money is inconsequential. (and he likes it when you let him treat you, but that’s an adjacent topic.)
so you get to learn what it’s like to be taken care of in a very specific way. a very American way, maybe, that almost nuclear arrangement, except aaron doesn’t make you stay at home if it’s not what you want, and you aren’t expected to do the majority of the chores, or handle the mental load, or cook dinner every night. you’re an equal, just a spoiled one. you’re genuinely and wholeheartedly a treasure to him. it’s why he does it all, chivalry yes, but devotion. he just loves you in a way that means he feels like looking after you is the least he can do, because you love him so well. if he had nothing, he’d still want to give you everything, because if he had nothing you’d still love him to death.
could you pleaseee do more hotch x bombshell reader
cw suggestive —you and Hotch have a shared secret you’re hiding from the rest of the team. fem, 1k
“He’s too old for you, you know.”
You give Elle a charmed smile. “He is not.”
“Is too.”
“How old do you think I am, Greenaway?” you tease. “I know I look good for my age, but I’m fully developed. He is not too old for me.”
“Who?” Spencer asks, placing down his dinner tray with a smile.
“Gideon,” you say. “What do you think, babe, do I have a chance with our great leader?”
“No,” Spencer says, giggling as he spears a dehydrated looking green bean with his fork. He’s getting good at recognising jokes for what they are.
As the younger (but, despite Elle’s insistence, not young) crowd, you have complimentary avoiding of work to do, free with your employment. You spend your lunch hour trying to stretch it into two, driving Gideon insane, and prompting Hotch to come and find you. He hasn’t appeared yet, but when you check your watch you’ve got about ten minutes left until you need to get back.
“The line was so long,” Spencer says. “They could reduce the foot traffic in here by half if they had two people working the register.”
“Maybe if we had our own offices we could eat our lunch alone from a brown paper bag like everybody else does, and we wouldn’t need to line up,” Elle says wryly.
“You don’t like lining up like middle schoolers?” you ask in feigned shock.
“I don’t,” Spencer says earnestly.
“She’s being sarcastic,” Elle says. “You couldn’t tell?” She looks over your shoulder suddenly, but there’s a velvet voice in your ear before you can turn around.
“Can I borrow you?”
You smile because he can’t see it. “That depends, Agent Hotchner, will I get to finish my lunch?”
You don’t have a tray in front of you. It clearly doesn’t matter to Hotch. “I’ll take care of it.”
You’d let him drag you around by the collar, but that’s none of his business. You turn to meet his eyes over your shoulder, disappointed that he’s already a few steps back waiting for you to stand up.
What Elle doesn’t get, what nobody seems to see but you, is that Hotch had no need to lean in and talk so close to your ear. He could have sent you an email, paged you, and he’s here in the cafeteria waiting for you to follow him out.
You send both Elle and Spencer a suggestive look and climb off of the bench. Hotch senses when you’re near rather than looking, starting out of the cafeteria and down the hall to the elevator bank. He does a sharp turn you aren’t expecting to the photocopying rooms, where you refuse to go, lest you get killed by a falling stack of printer paper. One minute you’re walking together and the next he’s taken your hand and pulling you into an alcove, suddenly sliding his hand behind your back.
“Aaron–”
He dips his face down and kisses you. It’s surprising and not, one slight nipping kiss before he looks you in the eyes. He’s asking if you’re alright to be kissed, and if it’s him, he can shove you up against a wall —you lift your head and he pulls you right back up to be kissed again. His hands slide over the tight fabric of your blazer and hold you chest to chest, his nose crushing yours, his lips unwavering. Pinpricks of heat ricochet from your mouth to your neck, a shudder he feels that has him laughing hot against your lips.
“That’s not very gentlemanly,” you say, weaving your fingers into the soft crop of hair behind his ears.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He lifts his hand, cleaning the smudge of your lipstick with his pinky finger, before stroking your cheek with his knuckle. “What sort of note was that, this afternoon? Why do you think that’s alright to leave at my desk?”
“How’d you know it was me?” you ask, dropping your hands from his hair to poke at his waist.
“I hoped it was you,” he admits. He looks like he might say something else, but he steals a rough kiss instead, and then another.
“Okay,” you say, pleased to be kissed like this by him, “it was me. And you deserved it.”
“Did I?” He takes your face into two hands. “Did I?”
You stutter momentarily at his repeated question. “You– yeah, Hotchner, you did. It was supposed to be nice, like a promise.”
“Are you promising?” he asks, giving your cheek a sweet, gentle stroke with his thumb.
You kiss his nice jaw, ruffle the hair that curls over his forehead playfully, and laugh as he catches your hand. He doesn’t grab. Hotch isn’t ever aggressive with you (though he can get a little excited).
“Decide what you want for dinner tonight, and we’ll go after work,” he says, returning your hand gently to your side.
“Another kiss?” you ask.
Hotch kisses you sweetly. “Come on, honey, lunch is over.”
“Just one more?” you ask.
He falls for it every time. You must harvest half a dozen extra kisses, incensed because it’s him, because nobody thought for a minute he’d bend to your whims.
Hotch doesn’t bend. He just wants you like you want him.
“One more,” he says as you pull away. “Just one.”
It tickles your lips. You curl your arms behind his neck and try to make it one that’ll linger, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp as he presses your back to the cold wall. You yelp a laugh and he covers your back with big hands, mumbling a sorry that gets completely lost.
You don’t know how he’s going to explain this to Gideon.
aaron who has been in high paying jobs for a long time falling in love with someone who’s never had real money. aaron not realising what it is about his paying for everything that makes you so squirmy. dinner, movies, dates to fancy places, vacations, he just sees it all as the gentlemanly thing to do, and once’s he enamoured with you, like, in love with you—second date, tipsy, kissing his cheek telling him he smells nice as he tries to get you home in one piece—it’s his desire to pay for everything regardless. he doesn’t even like seeing your purse on the table, it gives him the heebies.
aaron who asks you to move in without any real hesitation at the eight month mark. knows it’s early for some, feels late for you, god, what would he have given somewhere in that three months dating period to get to keep you every day? when he was laying awake at night thinking of excuses to text you, call you, and invite you over. he would’ve asked you then if he hadn’t known it was taboo. so eight months was him trying his very hardest to be good.
aaron who stares at you in confusion when you ask him, a little nervously across the dinner table, how much your half of the rent would be. and then aaron who leans over to kiss you square on the tip of the nose before he stands without answering, because what can he even really say? he rounds the table to lean down for a hug, squeezes you so tightly you groan as he murmurs, honey, why would i ever make you pay rent when im already doing it alone? sharing rent is perfectly fine when its a necessity, but aaron genuinely doesn’t need your help.
the ensuing disagreements on fairness and trust, on not wanting to be made homeless on short notice if you break up, and the follow up conversation a week later where he’s put your name on the mortgage and handed you a little business card for one of JJ’s lawyer friends in case you actually worry you’ll need it. then your sniffly giggles as you ask him if you can repaint the bedroom, and his elation at getting to keep you. your little flush of delight when he gives you his credit card and tells you to go get whatever you want. you see it as a generosity, and he sees it like this: when a woman takes half of your heart for herself, and holds it in two soft hands, when she looks at you like you’re everything and trusts you to take care of her, money is inconsequential. (and he likes it when you let him treat you, but that’s an adjacent topic.)
so you get to learn what it’s like to be taken care of in a very specific way. a very American way, maybe, that almost nuclear arrangement, except aaron doesn’t make you stay at home if it’s not what you want, and you aren’t expected to do the majority of the chores, or handle the mental load, or cook dinner every night. you’re an equal, just a spoiled one. you’re genuinely and wholeheartedly a treasure to him. it’s why he does it all, chivalry yes, but devotion. he just loves you in a way that means he feels like looking after you is the least he can do, because you love him so well. if he had nothing, he’d still want to give you everything, because if he had nothing you’d still love him to death.
Your Jason fic was the best thing ever Oml I LOVED it so much
I have a request
Jason Todd’s secret girlfriend (I’m obsessed with that troupe ) and Jason and dick are on patrol and something happened to them and dick is in bad shape and Jason can’t get him to the cave fast enough so he take him home and it’s just a whole thing where all the bats show up and see Jason’s HOT gf just standing there looking hot
a/n: thank u for the request!!! there isn't a lot of backstory for reader here, (besides being hot) so if you think this wouldn't apply to you, you're wrong!! YOU'RE ALL HOT AND THE BATBOYS WOULD AGREE. also…OBVIOUSLY jason isn’t ugly, but y’all have a brother before? those are the ugliest folks around (trust me i was shocked when my brother (WHO I RAISED!!!) pulled a cute alt girlie)
tw: mention of stabbing, and a knife, patching up of wounds.
wc: 3.8k (not beta read lol)
jason todd x fem!reader
It's suppose to a boring night of patrol. Jason's pretty sure he jinxed it when he kissed you goodbye and said he'd be home before 4am. Typically he doesn't join in for patrol, he waved Bruce off once and they simply figured he'd be "patrolling" near the narrows all the time. But Dick had asked nice enough (and Bruce was out of town), so Jason had agreed to patrol with Dick. Given Dick's current state, Jason reluctantly feels glad it's him and not Tim, or god forbid Damian. He can't imagine either of them would have a way to lug dick around the way he is now. Jason clenches his jaw at the shallow breath Dick gives.
"Oracle, I need a safe place to patch Nightwing up," Jason grits through his teeth.
Oracle is tapping away through the comms as she speaks. "You're twenty minutes out from the Cave, there's a emergency box ten blocks away,"
"Not gonna work for us," Jason grumbles a little as he pats Dick's cheek twice, tapping to get his attention.
"Whassnotgonnaworkforus" Dick slurs, head slumping towards Jason's shoulder, it's exhausting to get the words out.
"Don't worry bout it," Jason grunts and pulls him up a little. Barbara is saying something in his comms but he's lost in his own problem solving. He knows what part of town they're in, even in the damp dark nook they had hidden away in. He had spent enough Saturday mornings at the farmer market hosted a block away from here. Has picked up your favorite curry two blocks away from here. He knows you're only in the next building over, fast asleep. His hand is still pressed against Dick's ribs and he feels the heat of his blood spreading even with the glove on. It makes Jason's decision for him. Barbara is saying something in his ear but Jason had stopped listening.
"Alright bud, let's move" Jason is huffing a little as he takes most of Dick's weight and starts moving as quickly as he can through the streets. Dick sucks in a breath at the shifting, Jason can feel it against his own hand. It makes him start to move a little quicker his heart clinching in his chest a little. Your building is visible from where he's standing and it makes him stutter in his steps. You're asleep anyways, it's not like Dick will see you. And even if he did, what the hell is Jason suppose to do? Let Dick die because he's being a little bit of a wimp? Jason's guilt is heavy enough.
Jason stops and slips into a shadow with Dick, leaving him against the wall. "Can't drag us both up the fire escape, so I need you to stay here and stay awake just for a few minutes" Jason looks up towards the third floor and looks back at Dick. He's pale, it's unnatural and it has Jason clenching his fists. Jason takes a knife out of a sheave and flips it to point the handle towards Dick. Dick moves a little unsteady as he grips the knife and nods at Jason's words. Dick is bracing himself against the wall, one hand pressing against the leaking wound, the other now holding the knife. He nods as firmly as he can muster. Jason pats his cheek and is scaling up the fire escape. It's muscle memory to shimmy the window open and slip into the living room without causing any real fuss. Jason flips on the lamp set close to the window for moments like this. He takes less than a second to glance around the apartment. You had flipped all the lights off, cleaned off the counters and folded his favorite blanket on the end of the couch. Jason's stopped in his steps when he notices a note you left on the side table, a cup of water holding it down with a bottle of aspirin. For a moment, his heart slows and all he wants is to crawl into the bed down the hall with you. Instead he kicks himself into gear, pulling the bedroom door all the way shut, making sure the hallway light is off and pulling some old sheets he can lay across the couch for Dick.
___
Dick knows he's losing a lot of blood, which means he must be losing time as well. There's no way Jason managed to crawl up the fire escape, picked an apartment to break into and came down to get him in the seconds he thinks passed. He loses more before he's suddenly in a room he'd never seen before, being dumped onto some poorly covered couch.
It seems the change of scenery shocked some live, quite literally, into Dick. Jason pulling his helmet off and tossing it aside makes him nearly jump off the couch Jason had settled him onto. Jason is shuffling through the place pulling together the pieces he needs.
"Red Hood" Dick tries to sound stern. It's not like Jason to leave himself quite literally exposed. It registers that maybe Dick is worse off than he feels (that might be a huge problem.)
"Keep your voice down," Jason mumbles. He's kneeling next to Dick in an instant, dropping all the pieces of medical equipment. Oracle crackles out faintly from his helmet.
"Update, Red Hood?"
Jason is soaking a bunch of gauze with disinfect as he moves to speak into the helmet.
"At a safehouse, patching up Nightwing,"
"Backup?" Oracle barely gets the question out before Jason is moving. He's picking up the helmet after forcing Dick to hold the gauze to his wound.
"No" Jason paused trying to steady his quick answer, "No backup. We're going offline for now, the location pin you have now is where we'll be," Jason is dropping the helmet and is focused back on Dick before Barbara can argue.
"Where are we?" Dick's words are slow, but less slurred, it makes Jason unclench his jaw a little. The bleeding had stopped, Dick knows he's somewhere he's never been before, Jason had made the right choice, even if he's still shooting looks at the dark hallway.
"Safehouse," Jason tucks a needle into his mouth and starts to prep the needle of numbing agent he has for Dick. He's sure he doesn't need it, but Jason also knows that the sound of someone in pain would bring you out into the living room faster than anything else.
"Safehouse?" Dick mumbles and is letting his head lull back and forth against the cushion as he takes in the apartment. It's well lit by a few lamps Jason had tossed on. The coffee table held a laptop, some remotes, even a glass of water. This was lived in space, Dick tries to crane his head to see behind him, Jason pokes him with the needle catching his attention. Dick pulls his gaze back to Jason, hair matted against his forehead, his eyes shoot from Dick's gaze back to his wound.
"You can't break into random civilian's apartment and call them safehouses," Dick is reaching towards Jason's helmet at the other end of the couch. Jason grunts and lightly pulls on Dick's arm to get him to stop moving.
"Knock it off, I'm trying to do something here,"
Dick ignores Jason and barely pulls his helmet from the other side of the couch and shoves it towards Jason's face. Jason grunts and pulls the helmet from Dick's grip.
"You're a terrible patient, next time I'll let you bleed out in the alleyway" Jason puts the helmet back down next to him on the floor this time. Dick admits the defeat and lets himself slump against the couch and watches Jason crowd his wound. It's silent for the next few minutes as Jason focuses in and starts to stitch Dick up. Even in the unknown space, Dick finds the whole situation typical for the two of them. Jason's shoulder hold the typical amount of tension, Dick takes it as a good sign.
It isn't until Jason finishes up and fully wraps the wound that Dick speaks up again.
"You know Babs sent back up, right?" Dick pulls himself up more on the couch and can't help the groan that slips out when he realizes the adrenaline seeped out of him already. You think he'd be use to the pain by now.
Jason huffs and finally lets himself fully sit on his butt, knees bent up. He rests his forearms on top of his knees and lets his head hang between his own turned legs for a moment. He closes his eyes and debates if he can meet whatever back up Babs had sent before they get into the apartment. He clenches his jaw when he hears Dick try to stand up, a decently loud groan slips out of him and Jason goes to shush him when he hears it. Dick huffs and ends up slumping on the couch again, a groan coming from both him and the furniture.
A door creaks and Jason is up on his feet. Dick puts more energy into trying to stumble up but is stopped by Jason's hand pushing him down by the shoulder.
"Jay?" A voice floats out from the dark hallway, soft, obviously someone who just woke up. Dick pauses to try to figure out what their next move should be. Jason seems to have his own plan.
"Hey," Jason says in a voice that Dick has never heard from him before, "Hey baby, sorry had to drop in with someone,"
Dick twists as much as he can from his spot on the couch and immediately pulls himself up. Jason is standing in the dark hallway with his back towards the living room. Dick knows he's talking to someone but he can't catch the sight of the person completely blocked by Jason.
"'re you okay?" You say, still in that same soft sleepy tone. Dick has to really focus to hear you. Maybe he had lost too much blood, maybe he's hallucinating again, but typically that means actually seeing the figure, and not having people interact with them and it seems like Jason is interacting with the figure. Dick focuses his gaze and sees a hand slide down Jason's arm, stopping at his hand to hold it.
"'m all good," Jason whispers again and shuffles enough that Dick catches a glimpse of legs. Dick raises his eyebrow a little at the bare sight of them. Dick notices the smallest shift on the fire escape. A shift so small he only sees because he had been trained, had trained others, to move that way. Dick stares at the dimly lit window and nods just slightly. Tim slides the window open, triggering Jason to turn quickly on his feet, still standing in front of someone.
"I told Babs we didn't need back up" Jason huffs and glares at Tim standing, in his gear at the window. Not even a second later, Damian slips in. Dick is still staring at Jason, he notices a hand is still behind him, he can't see it, but behind Jason, you stand, confused at the sudden full apartment. His hand is intertwined with yours regardless, his thumb running over your knuckle. It's enough of a motion to clue you in that he's nervous, but not in any real way, nothing is dangerous, simply not going to the plan Jason always has forming in my own head. You press your cheek against his back, giving yourself time to wake up.
"Oracle did not like your tone. She sent us in spite of you." Damian answers and before anyone else can say anything he is looking over at Dick.
"All patched up," Dick answers the question in Damian's gaze. Damian nods once before narrowing his gaze back at Jason, who hasn't moved.
"This is a very nice safehouse.." Tim deadpans as he crosses his arms. Jason can hear the suspicion in the words, can tell Tim is letting him know he's not buying it.
"Oh!" You seemed to have finally put together what was happening. Jason is nervous, but not afraid, he brought someone to the apartment. You knew Jason had brothers, knew they did the same thing as he did, and now you're getting the chance to meet them, the excitement fully wakes you up. Your voice causes Tim and Damian to tense, hands at the ready for combat.
Jason doesn't stop you as you move yourself out of the dark hallway dropping his hand. You're in front of Jason so you can meet his brothers without a second thought. You're standing in front of them in your summer pajamas. Summers in Gotham are damp, hot, and sweaty, it makes sense to wear shorts and a snug work out tank top (you bought work out clothes, might as well use them) to sleep. Jason clenches his fist a little when he notices Dick clock the sliver of skin you have exposed in your mid drift. Damian doesn't move, noticing the lack of any sort of weapon, any sort of fighting stance, you're just a civilian from what he can tell. Tim takes a moment, looks at your bare legs and then feels the urge to let his eyes scan up, he doesn't mean to. It feels like a natural reaction to someone like you standing in front of him. He adjusts his stance a little to seem less threatening, but not childlike.
"I'm Jason's girlfriend," You start to speak but you're stopped when you hear a muffled sound from Jason's open helmet on the ground near the couch.
"Robin, update?" Barbara is huffing over the coms once again. It's a trick that works only when Bruce is out of town, a call for Robin typically meant Damian nowadays, but when they're all together, Barbara knows they'll mostly all answer to it. She can get someone, anyone to say something. Dick presses his finger against his ear.
"Jason's girlfriend's hot" Dick can't help but answer. It slips out and if it was just Jason and Dick, it wouldn't be shocking, but Tim and Damian are more shocked at Dick's blunt words, it almost makes Jason want to laugh. Almost.
"Hey!" Jason glares at Dick. Tim focuses back on the situation at hand.
"He's not wrong," Tim shrugs and his gaze matches yours, "I mean, respectfully."
"Jason's what?!" Barbara is so shocked she doesn't scold Dick for the use of Jason's name over the coms.
You laugh and Jason can't help but notice the pride in Tim's stance at being able to make you laugh. Damian is the only one not staring at you, instead taking in the environment. It's lived in, like Dick noticed, but Damian can spot the things Dick wasn't looking for. Jason's items are throughout the apartment, always coupled with something that so obviously wasn't his. Two books, both with two different colored pens rest on the kitchen table. Multiple pairs of shoes near the doorway that are, without a doubt not Jason's. Damian narrows his eyes and notices a photo-booth strip on the fridge, although he can't make out the people in the photo.
"Alright enough," Jason is pulling you back towards him, away from the eyes of his brothers, "She's my hot girlfriend"
"My name is (Y/N)" You playfully roll your eyes and hold your hand out towards the three boys to shake their hand, although you don't move from the spot against Jason's chest. Dick steps forward to grab your hand and before he can get a hold of your hand, Jason is reaching out and holding your hand instead bringing it towards his face.
"Not a chance, Dickiebird" Jason is pressing a kiss against the palm of your hand as he speaks. His eyes don't leave Dick. Dick doesn't look at Jason, instead keeping his gaze on yours. You smile a little at him. Dick can't help but grin back, bloody suit and hole in his ribs be damned.
"If this is a cover, it is a poor one," Damian finally speaks, "The environment is well crafted, personnel unlikely, causes suspension."
"You're Damian, right?" You speak before Jason can snark at him. Damian shuts his mouth and narrows his eyes to glare at Jason behind you.
"Do not speak of me to make your cover more realistic," Damian is speaking to Jason. You huff a little and pull away from Jason's chest. Jason's hand follow you but lets you move away from him.
"Why would Jason need a cover?" You cross your arms and Tim's eyes float a little towards your chest as he notices the way your crossed arms shape your body a little differently. He makes a mental note to apologize directly to you, eventually, when he finally schools his own wandering eyes.
"Well you're.." Tim tries to explain but when he realizes your gaze has been turned on him he lets out a small laugh,
"Gorgeous," Dick pulls your attention again and you furrow your brows a little confused at how that answers your question, "Jason isn't very well verse in.." Dick pauses to find his words. "Well, women really,"
It clicks suddenly and you laugh again, this time a little more full. It feels silly, even outdated, the notion that you're too good looking for Jason. But also, is that not exactly what you'd expect from Jason's brother given the stories you had heard. It makes you slightly angry, not that it doesn't feel nice to have their attention, but the implication that somehow you and Jason don't belong together makes you want to defend yourself, the relationship in general.
"Jay?" You hum a little. Jason is moving towards you without a second thought, his hand out towards you before you even get the chance to ask.
He opens his mouth to ask what you need, but instead of taking his hand, you let your hand grab onto a strap of his gear and tug on him gently. Jason bends without any fight, he'd go wherever you take him really. You press onto your tippy toes and latch your lips onto his.
Jason moves subconsciously, screw his brothers being here, screw Dick's blood on his hands. This was his favorite thing to do when he first got off patrol and he hadn't gotten the chance to do it yet. His hands comes to rest on your hips, one sliding a little more up, skimming the exposed section of your middrift, before floating towards the small of your back and slipping under the tank top fabric to press you closer to him. You sigh a little and melt into his chest, a natural reaction to kissing him. Your hand wrapped around the strap of his gear loosens its hold and instead is simply pressed against his check, your thumb making soothing circles out of habit. You other hand rested on his shoulder, traveling up to be able to feel the closest skin, the juncture of his neck, against your fingers. You go to deepen the kiss, whatever you were trying to prove has been pushed aside in your mind, instead just focused on enjoying the kiss. Jason tightens his grip just slightly before pulling away. He can feel eyes on him and he can't stand it much longer. This isn't a show for them, even if you had been trying to prove something. Jason's jaw is clenched as he takes in Tim and Dicks shocked gaze, Damian had looked away unable to hide his reaction.
You're still gazing at Jason's face, you press forward a little to try and get him to kiss you again. Jason presses a mindless kiss against the side of your temple to try and satiate you, and you pout a little at being denied an actual kiss again. Dick whistles and suddenly you're reminded beyond the obvious, why you kissed Jason.
"Are we all on the same page now?" You try to stand your ground but Jason is bringing his hand up to pull some hair from your face and it makes you lean towards him. Tim nods, Dick opens his mouth but Jason stops him from speaking.
"Dick is going to stay on the couch, fresh stitches and all" Jason explains as he looks at you. It's an explanation for them all, but still, somewhat asking if that's okay. You hum a little and nod at him.
"Tim and Damian are going to leave," Jason seethes this towards them.
"Where are you gonna stay?" Dick smirks a little, finding it easy to push Jason's buttons.
Jason glares at Dick and doesn't say anything.
"Our bedroom" you answer motioning towards the hallway, your own voice a little snarky when you recognize the teasing, "Why you want an invite?"
"Please?"
"Absolutely not"
Dick and Jason both speak at the same time. You roll your eyes at both of them and press up again before kissing Jason on the corner of his mouth. Jason lets himself lean down a little and catches you before you leave to give you another kiss.
"Don't be long, missed you" you whisper before waving a little towards the other boys in the room, "Nice to unofficially meet you all," you sing a little before slipping into the hallway towards the bedroom.
You ignore the quick whispers you hear start up behind you.
extra +++
"I looked her up, at least I think I found her," Barbara says as she spins a little in her wheelchair to face Dick, "Found the name of the person leasing the apartment and it was all simple from there," She explains despite Dick having not asked.
"And?" Dick raises his eyebrow.
"She's hot" Barbara emphasizes, nodding her head, "I thought I found the wrong person,"
"If you're talking about my girlfriend, I'm gonna fake my death on purpose this time just to get away from you all" Jason grumbles from his spot on the bench he had taken up to nap in.
"Well, if she's gonna go to the funeral, I might be able to make it this time" Dick snips back without looking away from the screen.
"Steph is going to love this, I have to text her" Babs gasps a little excited, ignoring Jason's loud groan.
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pairings | platonic! bruce wayne, barry allen, hal jordan, oliver queen x fem! reader. ex bf! dick grayson, wally west, kyle rayner, roy harper x fem! reader. + surprise pairing at the end
summary | your ex’s father/mentor begs you to take his miserable mentee back
a/n | crack. ngl i really lost the plot in kyle's part.
WALLY WEST & BARRY ALLEN
Three days. That's how long you managed to avoid Barry Allen following the end of your relationship with Wally. A bit pathetic, really, but you're not sure what else you expected trying to avoid a man that could move faster than light.
Why had you been avoiding Barry?
Because, simply put, even before your relationship with Wally evolved into something more romantic in nature, there was nothing worse than disappointing him.
You'd always adored Barry. He was smart, and kind, and in little you's eyes, the coolest hero ever! He'd always been so supportive of you, and a small part of you even believed that Barry had been nearly as ecstatic as Wally was when you'd started dating. He certainly acted like it sometimes.
The familiar soft call of your name and a warmer-than-average hand on your shoulder have you stopping in your tracks. Shit! You were so close! The zeta was literally within steps' reach, but Barry Allen was just too goddamn fast.
Mentally bracing yourself, you turn to meet Barry's gaze, face devoid of his cowl, leaving you to read every ounce of concern with perfect clarity.
"Barry," you sigh, traitorous voice already a little wobbly as you valiantly tried to keep the tears at bay.
For Fuck's sake! He hadn't even said anything yet, and already you were crumbling under the weight of his stare.
"Hey, kiddo. Heard you'd hit a bit of a rough patch with Wally, wanna talk about it?"
"No." Though you try to remain strong, to sound disinterested, your traitorous voice cracks, lower lip wobbling pathetically. You maybe could have played it off, if it weren't for the sudden onslaught of tears spilling down your cheeks.
"Oh, sweetheart," Barry murmurs, already pulling you in for a hug, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. "Let's get you somewhere more private, yeah?"
Barry doesn't wait for an answer before the world is blurring around you, and within a blink, you're in a different room. It's modest, bare bones, with a small desk and bed, and you realise this must be Barry's room on the watchtower. You doubt he'd ever even used it. Why would he, when he had Iris waiting for him at home?
The thought sends a pang through your chest, a harsh reminder that your once shared space with Wally is now barren of his presence, bereft of his warmth, leaving you cold and alone.
Abruptly, the tears start anew, loud and gut-wrenching sobs filling the silence as Barry pulls you in for another hug.
"Let it out, kiddo." Barry hums, rubbing comforting circles on your back as you soak his shoulder.
"He's such an idiot!" You wail.
"Boys usually are."
"I just don't understand, why would he even—"
"I don't know, you'll have to ask him that, but I know Wally regrets the things he said." At that you pull back a little, an unimpressed scowl covering your face.
"I'm not just taking his side. You're both miserable, and I know Wally's a stupid idiot boy, but do you think maybe there could be a conversation?"
"Only if you're there to back me up." You mumble, averting your gaze from Barry's deadly earnest gaze.
"Course, kiddo." The warmth in his tone nearly makes you cry anew because for as much as you'd missed Wally, you'd nearly missed Barry just as much.
If you're being honest with yourself, you were always going to fold the second Barry turned those big blue eyes of his on you.
As if on cue, the door slides open and a dishevelled Wally stumbles in. There's a brief moment of satisfaction as you notice that Wally looks worse than you do before you betrayal shoots down your spine.
"You set me up!"
"Sorry kiddo, would it help if I said it was only because I missed you?"
Before you can respond, a pair of arms wrap around your waist, as Wally looks up at you like a pitiful puppy as Barry stifles a laugh.
"Please, baby, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it, I'm a mess without you, I can't do this without you. I'll do whatever you want, please—" The words come out rapid fire as mortification floods your veins.
"Oh my God, yes fine! Just get up!" You practically shout, accutely aware of Barry watching the scene.
"Yes! Thank you! I won't let you down!" Wally celebrates like he's been chosen to be team leader instead of you giving his pathetic ass a second chance and it's nearly enough to make you take it back.
But then he looks at you with with such adoration in those wide, watery green eyes of his and you know you never truly stood a chance against him either.
KYLE RAYNER & HAL JORDAN
You were being hunted.
Donna called you paranoid. Kori tried to reassure you that no, Hal Jordan wasn't staring at you ominously across the watchtower, plotting your death. (Though Gar insisted he was, little shithead.)
It only worsened in the week following your fight with Kyle, the feeling of being constantly watched. Everywhere you went, there was suddenly a Green Lantern staring intently.
John, to his credit, did his best to give you space, throwing you somewhat pitiful glances. Likely just checking in on you, a little embarrassing but kinda sweet. Guy just leered but had yet to try and approach you, annoying, but ultimately harmless.
It was Hal who was the problem. Hal, who suddenly stared with the intensity of a horror villain. Hal, who you swore nearly vaulted the table after a mission debrief, in his quest to get to you.
Hal, who was now chasing you through the streets of your hometown, desperately calling your name, "Why are you running?"
"Why are you chasing me?" You yelled back, stopping only momentarily to wave off a few concerned citizens with a strained smile. It's in the midst of one of these reassurances when a large green hand scoops you up and into the air.
"Hal, what the hell! Put me down!"
"No can do, little lady." His voice is a little hysterical, and it's enough to make you stop squirming and really look at him. Hal's normally perfect hair is in disarray, his skin a little paler than usual, and though you can't see his eyes behind the mask, you can practically see the widened, manic irises.
"Hal... are you okay?" You ask, suddenly a little concerned for his mental state.
"Am I—Am I okay?" He repeated shrilly, reaching out to place his hands on your shoulders, making you freeze as he suddenly leaned in as if to deliver a secret.
"You need to take Kyle back."
"Hal—"
"No, no, listen to me! He's been crashing at my apartment, figured it couldn't be that bad, help him get back on his feet, right?"
"Right?" You agreed, only to instantly feel like you'd chosen wrong.
"Wrong! At first, he was just depressed, you know how sensitive he is, but then I tried to get him to take a shower, and you know what he said? He said he couldn't even shower because it reminded him of you! I don't care what kind of sex life you two had, but the man needs to shower!"
"That's—"
"I'm not finished!" He burst, "He won't stop painting you! Everywhere I turn, there you are! I'm running out of space in my shitty apartment!"
Before you can even think to respond, a secondary green blur appears, knocking Hal away from you and disrupting the construct keeping you afloat.
A scream tears from your throat as you suddenly free-fall, heart hammering frantically against your chest until another pair of arms catches you.
"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?" Kyle's voice is frantic, one of his hands cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him.
"Hurt me? Kyle? What are you— Did you just bulldoze Hal?!" You yell in disbelief, attempting to turn in his arms to find the other Lantern.
"Hurt him?" It's Kyle's turn to be confused, "Why are you concerned about him? He kidnapped you!"
"Hal didn't kidnap me. Why would you even think that?"
"Because it's all over the news—Wait, Hal?"
"Yes, Hal!" An irritated voice snaps, as a scowling Hal Jordan flies toward you and Kyle, "What the hell, man, I'm on your side!"
"Hal?"
"Is there an echo in here or something? Yes Kyle! It's me, Hal, the guy whose couch you've been soaking with your tears for the past week."
"I thought—the news said you'd kidnapped her." Kyle stammered, voice suddenly a little quieter, "I thought maybe Parallax had gotten to you again."
The absurdity of the situation settles over you amidst the stunned silence, and it's not long before the silent giggles you'd attempted to hide erupt into full-blown laughter. Tears slide down your cheeks as you hold your aching side.
"Ok, well, it wasn't that funny." Hal grumps, which of course, makes you laugh harder.
And maybe, you lean a little further into Kyle's touch, a move he accommodates easily. And maybe, you don't hate the way he still feels like home.
ROY HARPER & OLIVER QUEEN
You wake to a persistent knocking on your front door, pulling you from the few hours of sleep you had managed to get. Fury and irritation flood your veins as you wrench the door open with a snarl. "Oh my god, Roy, go home alrea—" You trailed off, blinking at the sight of a dishevelled Oliver Queen instead of the ex-boyfriend you'd been expecting, "—dy"
You go to slam the door closed, but Oliver's faster, jamming his foot in the threshold, only to yelp when you nearly crush the appendage. One of your neighbours even pokes their head out at all the noise, to which you nervously laugh him off before pulling Ollie inside.
"Oliver, what the hell are you doing here?" You seethe, patience already frayed from Roy's constant attempts to contact you, raging from lengthy voice messages, to sleeping outside your door.
"Please take him back." Oliver barely waits a second before he's pleading with you.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, not you too." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Please! I know he can be an idiot sometimes—"
"Wonder who he gets that from?" You murmured, but Oliver ignored you, continuing his pitch.
"But Roy's a good kid, and he loves you! You're the best thing that's ever happened to him!"
"Yeah, and now he's sending you to fight his battles, huh?" You remained unimpressed, even if internally your heart ached with longing for Roy.
"No, Roy doesn't know I'm here; he'd probably kill me for interfering," Oliver admitted, running a hand through his hair before coming to sit next to you on the couch you'd collapsed into.
"Look, I made a lot of mistakes with Roy. Lord knows I haven't always been there for him, but somehow, despite me, he's turned into someone to be proud of. I just, I want you to remember that. To remember how much he loves you. Trughtfully, I think Roy's loved you since before he even realised what love was."
"Oliver..."
"I have to admit part of this is a selfish venture. I've always hoped I could one day officially call you my daughter."
Oliver's words bring tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and the man's face suddenly becomes comically panicked at the sight of your tears.
"Wait, no, if Roy finds out I made you cry, it's game over for me." He fretted.
"I won't tell if you won't." You laugh through the tears.
"Sounds like a deal to me."
Of course, Roy chooses that exact moment to crawl through your window, blasting Haddaway's What Is Love' through a shitty speaker.
DICK GRAYSON & BRUCE WAYNE
Of all the places you'd ever thought you'd meet your end, an elevator had never made the list. You'd forever curse yourself for allowing Batman to corner you like this, but in your defence, you hadn't expected him to launch through the closing doors like a missile as you frantically shoved the 'close door' button.
Batman hits the emergency stop button without a word, and your stomach sinks. He really is going to kill you. You broke his son's heart, and now he's here to enact parental vengeance on behalf of his beloved eldest son.
He reaches toward you, and you, highly trained vigilante that you are, freeze like a deer in headlights. Batman's hands clasp firmly on your shoulder, eyes wide behind the cowl as he looks at you with the intensity of 1000 suns. "Please take my son back."
You blink, flabbergasted as the words sink in, the dread in your gut morphing into something near incredulous. Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham and scourge to petty criminals and villains alike, was begging.
Barreling over your confused silence, he keeps going, "He got a haircut. It looks atrocious. I'm told this is a result of extreme emotional distress caused by your breakup."
Were you hallucinating? Was this some sort of alternate reality? Too dazed to even begin to formulate a response, you simply blink, gaping like a fish.
"I don't know what he did, but I'm sure it was stupid, and I will personally ensure it never happens again."
"I don't think—"
The elevator moves, and the doors fling open as a concerned-looking Superman peers inside, "You two ok?"
"Fine." Batman saunters out, not even sparing you a backward glance, no indication of the near manic energy he'd just unleashed upon you.
"Sweetheart?!" Nightwing barrels past Superman, reaching for you instinctively, only to freeze at the last second.
Despite yourself, fondness fills your heart at the sight of him, even as you cup your hand to your mouth to hide the gasp.
It truly was a horrendous haircut.
MICHAEL CARTER & J'ONN J'ONZZ
You could safely say that you liked most of your colleagues, closer to friends, really, on the Justice League. Even Guy Gardner had squirmed his way into your heart, though he still tended to piss you off most days of the week.
J'onn, though, had always secretly been your favourite. Not a fact you hid from him, it would be pretty difficult to, given his set of powers, but more so, Bea and Tora didn't pout over it.
So it wasn't exactly a surprise when J'onn sought you out almost as soon as you boarded the watchtower after a personal weekend away. What was a surprise, however, was the slight furrow to his brow and the palatable concern that seemed to be floating off him in waves.
"J'onn, is everything ok?" You mentally asked, unsure if this was a conversation to be had around prying ears.
J'onns' telepathy had never bothered you the way it still did for many others, likely what had contributed so greatly to your close friendship over the years.
"Yes, I am fine, Booster, however..." He trailed off, an interesting experience during a telepathic conversation.
"Oh, you heard about the breakup then?" You outwardly cringed before projecting a sense of gratitude that he'd thought to check up on you.
"Yes, I... heard. Loudly." J'onn spoke, horror threatening to overwhelm you as he realised his meaning. "I've done my best to maintain his, and your, privacy, but he is quite...sad."
A polite way of putting pathetic.
"Are you talking about the boss? He's been crying into tubs of ice cream all weekend."
"Skeets!" You scolded the little robot, gaze swivelling to see if there were any eavesdroppers.
"You wanna see videos?" Skeets buzzed, almost excitedly.
Yes.
"No! Skeets, that's horrible!" You tried to maintain the outraged facade, but one look from J'onn let you know your performance was weak at best.
"Not even the one where he compares your smile to the 'dawn's morning rays, chasing away the frost and bitterness of the night?'"
That's— "He said that?" You fiddle nervously with your necklace, something you just now realise Michael had bought for you.
"You dumping him has created a poet, it seems."
"What," you cough, pretending to be nonchalant, "what else has he said?"
"That you were his only reason for living and he couldn't bear to face the cold, cruel world without you."
"What?" You gasp, "Skeets, that's legitimately concerning!" Hurriedly pushing past the now seemingly callous little robot. Suddenly desperate to see the man you never stopped loving.
"Too far?" Skeets questioned the Martian as they both watched you frantically scurry to find Michael. Neither seemed too concerned.
"Not if it stops the constant barrage of sadness against my mental shields, my little friend." J'onn hummed with a commiserating glance at his unintentional companion to Michael's misery.
"Wait, I need to film this!" Skeets suddenly flew after you, leaving J'onn alone in blessed silence.
For approximately two minutes, before Michael's joyous proclamations of devotion and never-ending love breached his senses. Maybe it was time for a holiday, he decided. One far, far away from Booster Gold.
the car that pulls up next to you in traffic is bumping music. you look over from the passenger seat, happily summer-evening tipsy. the car next to you is two young men, side by side in a convertible mazda that has seen better days.
the driver, a pink haired man, glances over at you and then double takes. you lower your sunglasses.
“you’re hot!” he calls across the lanes. “i’ve got to get to know you.”
smiling, you turn to lean out the window as much as the seatbelt will allow you. your bangles clink against each other.
“yeah? how you gonna get to know me?” you ask, smile on your lips.
“shit, any way i can,” he says with a smile. then, he grabs his phone out the console and pulls up his contact. “my name is yuuji! follow me to main street!”
he holds out his phone. “megs will hang with your friend!”
you laugh, and unbuckle. you lean out the car, giving this yuuji a good look down your low cut shirt. snapping a pic of his contact, you grin at him.
“megs?”
yuuji grins, “megumi!” he claps a hand on his friends shoulder. “drinks at bird on main for us! on me!”
you laugh. how summertime.
“i love megan thee stallion!” you call over the sound of both your friend and his music.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
can you do a yandere smut inspired by obsession? But the wish was done upon the yandere by the reader? :3
Im gonna be honest, the whole "cursed by a supernatural force to want to eat your pussy and kill your other hoes" isn't a super compelling plot to me for a fic because I like to write about genuinely crazy men. The movie was great, don't get me wrong, but I'm not interested in rewriting it in this medium because I don't have anything to add.
that being said, i think the idea of reader teasing/leading on a yandere who they know has feelings for them for shits and giggles /entertaining a puppy crush with no intention of it getting too serious and then getting a whole lot more than they bargained for is a compelling plot line.... this would work very well for someone who's generally well liked/respected but also unfathomably stubborn like dick grayson methinks.
DICK GRAYSON FICLET UNDA THE CUT (i got carried away)
Maybe you flirt back a little with that beat cop who stops into the coffee shop you work every morning, who throws you a wink and says he's keeping the city safe for you, even though you know you shouldn't. Maybe you even agree to go out with him for a drink and let him take you on a ride to the docks on his bike afterward. Maybe even more than once. He's handsome, charismatic. Probably would make a good boyfriend. It's a shame you have a roster of other men in your phone who would too.
But dick is sweet, and hot, and you don't have it in you to let him go, or maybe you just don't want to give up the attention he gives you. So when he sends you "good morning, beautiful ;)" texts, you leave a couple extra heart emojis at the end of your reply.
The texts get more frequent, a touch more invasive. He asks you where you're going whenever you tell him you can't hang out, and if it's anywhere farther than the corner store at the end of your block (and even then sometimes) he'll pester you to let him walk you there because "he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if you got hurt."
You always politely decline, of course, because nine times out of ten you're actually going to see another man, and he's never pressed you more than a couple of times. Still, you keep getting this creepy feeling that keeps you looking over your shoulder as you walk, keep catching flashes of blue in your periphery that make you think it's time for another eye exam.
Things get weirder still when you find out a week later that a few of the guys you had been seeing were actually in cahoots with one another in a drug-selling scheme. That nightwing guy had caught them selling to a group of teens and dutifully turned them in, answering questions on the news with that award winning smile of his.
His smile is kind of familiar, though you can't place from where.
None of it makes much sense, and frankly, it's all kind of upsetting. Dick contacts you a few times, but you ignore him. Not because he did anything wrong per se, but because you don't want to talk to any men right now, really. You ask your manager to be switched to the day shift at work so you won't have to explain yourself to him and assume that will be that.
Unfortunately, it is not the last you hear from him, because a few days later you get a knock on your door, and it's him in uniform. You freeze at the deadpanned way he looks at you. You try to explain yourself to him after a beat of silence, stumbling over words as you try to apologize, but after about a minute of painful dialogue, he cracks a smile and tells you not to worry about it. He's just here to get testimony from you since you were recently in contact with the subjects of the recent arrest.
You ask if you have to, he says that you do.
So you let him in, get him a glass of water and squirm as he asks you questions about the men you were seeing, the types of relationships you had with them, how long you'd been seeing them, if there were any others.
Dick, for the most part, is professional. Keeps that golden boy smile plastered on his face the whole time, though you see it waver for just a second when you explain that you'd been seeing more men. The interview is over in about thirty minutes, and he asks to use the bathroom before he leaves. Soon enough, he's walking out your door and you pray to every god you can think of that you never see him again.
A few days later, while you're taking a shower, you think about texting him. Not to start anything up again, but maybe to clear up any negative feelings. The last thing you wanted was for any bad blood between you to lead to you getting more roped into this legal mess. You move to grab your razor but catch something in your periphery as you do. A little black dot in the corner across the room. At first you shudder, thinking maybe the roach problem you had a few months ago was coming back, but the more you look at it, the clearer it becomes that it's not a roach. In fact it's not a bug at all, because bugs aren't reflective.
It's a camera.
Panic sets in immediately. You throw a towel over yourself and run into your room, locking the door behind you before rifling through your closet to find the baggiest clothes you own and putting them on. You search the bedroom top to bottom for any cameras. Pulling out drawers, ripping off covers, knocking trinkets off shelves. Only once you’ve absolutely wrecked the room do you calm down, panting on the floor, more confident - but not certain - you aren’t being watched.
You think back to who could have planted it there. Obviously it was Dick. Probably for the investigation. But why would he put it in your bathroom? Why not your bedroom or kitchen? Wouldn’t that make more sense for a crime investigation?
Suddenly, a deep wave of unease washes over you. This wasn’t for the crime investigation. Dick had been way too nice to you when you talked, you should have known there was an ulterior motive. You weren’t sure if this was a sick joke or if Dick had actual problems, all you knew was that having a stalker was one thing, but having a stalker who's a cop is another.
You wrack your brain for what to do. It’s not like you could turn him in to the police. You could move, maybe, but with what money? Dick knows where you work, where you live, and now after that interview, copious amounts of other personal information on the people you care about. You need a neutral party, someone who isn’t connected to the justice system but still has some kind of authority.
And in Bludhaven, there's only one person who comes to mind.
You read on an internet forum that people often spot him getting food at a shop on the north side of town when he’s working, so you hunker down there. You bring a book to read while you wait, but can’t focus enough to absorb any of it, so you pass the time watching the dim, flickering tv at the corner of the store playing local news and worrying yourself sick.
At around 1 AM, the door chimes and there he is. Nightwing. He laughs at a joke the shop owner makes to him and you try and fail again to place his smile. For some reason, it makes your stomach roll.
Just as he’s about to walk out the door, you finally muster your courage and tap him on the shoulder.
“Nightwing, sir, I um... I'm sorry, I just-” You stumble on your words.
He smiles warmly at you, “You want an autograph? I’d be happy too,” he looks down, searching the pant legs of his suit, “I just don’t have a pen on me-”
“No!” you interrupt, blushing at your own rudeness as he glances back up at you “I’m sorry, I just… I need your help. I don’t know who else to go to.”
You tell him about Dick, about his interview and about the camera you found in your bathroom, how it made you scared. He listens with a frown until you’re finished before speaking. “That does sound scary. But don’t worry, I think I can help you.”
Your face lights up as a wave of relief floods over you. “Really?” you ask.
He nods and leads you outside, helping you onto his bike. You thank him profusely as he gets on himself, wrapping your arms around his torso and revving the engine. “Hold on tight.” he says, flashing that eerily familiar smile at you, all teeth, “I promise, I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you ever again.
Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k
c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here
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“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”
You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks.
“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.”
“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out.
“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”
You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask.
“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says.
They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world.
There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.
Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation.
You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person.
Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about.
“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.”
Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.
“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him.
“He was nice,” you murmur.
“Yeah, he’s okay.”
“How come you fell out of touch?”
“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?”
“You’ll be alright?”
“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”
You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands.
You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare.
What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought.
The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.
Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage.
Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little.
“Darling.”
You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand.
“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says.
Me, you think.
“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.”
“You didn’t,” the woman says.
“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.”
Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense.
“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says.
Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.”
“Hardy-har.”
“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks.
“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”
“But?”
“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.”
“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”
“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.”
“Gentleman and the tramp.”
“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.”
You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape.
You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth.
You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water.
What the fuck?
You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down.
Your head races with hurt feelings.
You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman.
You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees.
What had they meant by usual woman?
Mismatched?
It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is.
“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.”
You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky.
He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“
You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in.
Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal.
Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing.
Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse.
She was unbelievable.
“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?”
“What?”
“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.”
You startle at his scolding. “I–”
“You should feel my heart.”
“I didn’t mean to come out here.”
“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks.
“Sorry.”
His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.”
“That’s romantic.”
He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?”
“Scavenging for food.”
That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.”
—
Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?
You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…”
After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones.
“I love you, too,” you say.
His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”
“Mm.”
“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…”
You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable.
You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it.
“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath.
You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands.
“These aren’t good tears,” he says.
He’d know. They’re not.
Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out.
“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not you.”
“But something does hurt?”
“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs.
“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.”
It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not.
He looks sick.
“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage.
For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring.
“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly.
“It’s so stupid.”
“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?”
You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.”
You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin.
He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.”
He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs.
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.”
You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.
“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.”
You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh.
“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble.
“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.”
“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.”
“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says.
You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying.
“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.”
“Aaron.”
“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.”
You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.”
“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown.
You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.”
His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.”
“Aaron!” you laugh.
“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.”
“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased.
“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.”
“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.
“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips.
“I don’t know.”
“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.”
“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.”
You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask.
He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.”
“You said you weren’t getting any younger.”
“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze.
”You said it.”
“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.”
“I’m glad you asked me.”
You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now.
“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders.
He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress.
“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.”
“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.”
He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”
You shush him quickly.
He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.”
“And you can make me feel even better.”
His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear.
—
Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast.
The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast.
Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind.
“Are you eating that one?” you ask.
Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?”
“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”
“You could’ve made dad cook.”
“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?”
“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?”
“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.”
Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.”
“Did you eat?” you ask.
He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.”
“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says.
He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour.
“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.”
“I thought Miss Jareau went?”
“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.”
“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks.
You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.
“Hey,” Aaron says.
You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw.
“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe.
Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?”
“I didn’t take any, sorry.”
“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says.
“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.
“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.”
He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text.
Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal
Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding?
Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that
Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless.
Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette
Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right?
Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online.
Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D
The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆
thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️
also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake
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he’s so your older brothers best friend who is always sleeping over. he comes over in plaid pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt with slippers to finish it off. he throws a “mrs” before your moms first name always. he does backflips into the pool during pool days and does the same trick on the trampoline, never tiring of the one skill he knows. he offers to teach you how to do a flip and you agree to learn just so you can feel his hands on you.
jason is about to start going on his diet to reveal the muscles he’d been meticulously building for months. just hiding beneath a layer of delicious pudge you loved dearly.
but secretly, you don’t want him to.
you’d miss the warmth that his body radiates off of him and how secure you felt in his arms at night. how soft his chest was with the extra cushion he’d had, though you loved how strong he felt beneath it all too. or how good he looked in the morning when he’d stretch, and his shirt would raise enough for you to get a look of his abdomen and the happy trail leading to—
“you’re staring again,” he says, snapping you out of it.
“sorry, can’t help it,” sighing as you sit up on your bed, comforter gripped tight in your hands. “i am enjoying the show.”
he makes the same face he always makes, the one that pretends that he’s annoyed but you both know he’s not.
slowly, his resolve crumbles and a smirk emerges as he walks back towards the bed. his hand extends towards you to catch your wrist, fingers wrapping effortlessly around and tugging it up toward his lips. he kisses the back of your hand and stares at you through his half lidded eyes, the whole time.
when you decide you wanted to go to the gym with him, you end up gawking at him the whole time. jason’s got the barbell over his head and benching at least six plates on either side. groaning at the last couple reps while you stand by the mirror ahead of him, dumbbell in your hand doing the worlds slowest bulgarian split squats.
after he wiped his sweat, you notice his gaze on you this time. he moves closer with some of his own dumbbells and his presence looms over you like a protective shield. it wasn’t even leg day for him, but he always stays near you like a human barrier. jason starts to work in with you, the weight in his arms a ridiculous size and amount that it looked difficult to carry. but jason didn’t look like he was struggling at all.
“hmm, like this baby.” he coos from behind you. one of his hands slipping to your thigh and the other beneath your elbow. “breathe a little deeper and drive your knees out.”
then he sets up the smith machine with no hesitation, lifting up the plates and putting them on the bar for you. he encourages you to lift heavier, says he knows you can do a little more than that. from behind you, his hard body was unmistakable, pressing against your ass. he groans when you make a movement. his warm breath by your ear was entirely distracting but you did your reps, finished your sets, and stole glances at him through the mirror only to find him already staring. you bite your lip to contain yourself, but what the fuck is the use anyway?
“see something you like?” he asks when he catches you for the nth time, shit eating grin plastered on his perfect face.
you barely make it to the change room.
tugging on the drawstrings of his sweatpants while he moans lowly into your mouth. he shuts the door with one arm while the other holds you up against him. he knows you don’t like to touch communal spaces, no matter how clean your gym may be. so jason holds you up against him, pulling your weight back into him over and over. moving your hips until you’re grinding back against him while his hands on your hips keep you firmly planted there. though he second guesses himself still and he watches you intensely.
“are you sure you’re good ma? we can go home.”
you shake your head vigorously, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck to bring his mouth closer to yours. “i’m not waiting jay.”
when you fucked like this, it was an out of body experience.
mostly because jason held your weight and his own like no problem and there was nothing to dwell on but how it felt. he places a large palm over your mouth when he guides his length through your soaked folds. dragging it up and teasing before pushing inside like he belonged. he let you moan into his hand and watched your eyes roll back in your skull. he shushes you by your ear.
“i know baby, i know.” groaning out quietly as he prods to fit himself in. “fuck— you’re so tight.”
tears prickling at your eyes already, you shake your head slowly while his hips make slow circling movements. “it’s cause you’re so big.”
jason smiles wide, hips thrusting a little meaner as he watches you try grind back against him, but still not to the hilt yet. “yeah? i’m big? but you like that shit don’t you?”
you’re nodding through the haze of pleasure, nails gripping his back as he continue fucking you through it slowly. not even fully inside, giving half just to pull it away. like being manhandled in the gentlest way possible. his strength unmatched and his body intentional, grinding his hips back into you over and over just feeding a few inches before taking it away. waiting to see you whisper in his ear that you need more, desperation evident.
then he waits until he sees the tears by your eyes start to dissipate before he gives you anymore. feeding another inch inside, his eyes drop to watch him split you open. though even after taking him before this, you weren’t used to his size.
“jay, it’s too much.” you gasp out, the feeling overwhelming. “it won’t fit.” too much and not enough at the same time.
“you’ve done this before ma.” jason tsks, “and said you could handle it. so you can take it hmm?”
his voice deliciously sensual already. you cave immediately. your lip trembles and you nod to let him continue. immediately you moan out loud enough for someone to hear and jason clasps his palm right over your mouth again. but he doesn’t coo you through it, his eyes stay piercing yours while his rhythm picks up and he pushes himself deeper. choking on his own spit at how you felt around him, his hold on you remained tight. he stays buried for a minute to stare at you, watch you catch your breath and adjust to his size.
“can you move please?” you’ll ask breathlessly and he’ll shake his head.
“remember what i said baby. deep breaths.” mimicking what he meant, he watches you. breathing deep and letting it out harshly. when you copy him he smiles. “there you go ma.”
then he shifts his hips again and you lose your train of thought. more intense than it usually is, every movement he makes feels like it drags through you. like you’re pulsating around him and he purposefully continues. but his hands still on your mouth when he realizes that you’re close and he pushes further like he could reach the depths of you. kissing your cervix effortlessly while he turns your head to bite at his shoulder. cause it only felt like the good kind of pain, he’d say.
jason would feel his high approaching and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, reminding you how much he loves you like he wasn’t taking you apart without breaking a sweat, yet. his flush tip with the perfect curve, hitting sweet spots everytime. it was a good idea to make you bite down on something.
groaning into your hair, he lifts you sloppily up and down on him, creating the perfect friction. he almost whines when you clamp around him and whisper that you can’t hold on.
he pants by your ear and his voice is huskier than when he’s not like this. “gonna fuck you so full. take you again when we’re home.”
entirely feral just as you are for him, jason caves and sputters when you wrap your legs around him tighter. he’s just as gone as you and you’re practically begging him to follow through on his words. when you finally let go, that’s when he does too. shooting rope after rope and painting you deep from the inside. like the most beautiful and precious thing he’d ever held, he holds you through it.
his hips with a mind of his own, continuing to thrust up into even when your legs wobble around him. he keeps one arm around your waist, firm and stable while the other rests on the wall to keep him upright as he loses himself completely. still sloppily pushing back into you when you whimper and drop your head against his. that’s when he finally stills and pulls your hair gently, just enough to see your face again.
then he kisses you with all the sweetness the world has to offer. he deepens it as he eases you with both arms now, and keeps your legs around him so you don’t fall. letting lips trail down to your neck to leave gentle bites.
when the door gets knocked on hard, the voice that followed made both of your faces burn. suddenly it occurs to both of you that anyone could’ve heard you. roy’s voice is whisper yelling but you’re sure anyone could’ve heard him with how thin the walls are.
“please stop fucking so i can change outta my trunks. i’m chafing over here.”
an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐
-
It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing.
“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth.
You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”
“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”
You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”
Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”
You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile.
He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”
The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.
Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”
“Is it?” Rossi questions.
Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction.
JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”
“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two.
Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”
“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.
“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”
“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”
You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes.
“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”
“Garcia!” Hotch warns.
She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.”
“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”
“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states.
Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes.
“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”
“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.
Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”
“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”
Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”
You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely.
“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out.
No denial. Just silence.
Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail.
“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now.
You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.”
“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals.
Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”
Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”
“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”
“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.
You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.”
“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out.
Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement.
“Yes.”
Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.”
“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?”
You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”
“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states.
“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.
You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns.
Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.
-
Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.
The elevator dings.
JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”
Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you.
You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug.
“Hi.”
You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”
Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees.
JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”
Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”
He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”
“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand.
“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
The bullpen goes totally silent.
You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”
“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”
“Jack…” Hotch warns.
You can tell he’s just getting started.
“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.
“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”
He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.
“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Always ask the child.” JJ nods.
“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug.
“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures.
“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.”
Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”
You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.”
You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes.
Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”
Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”
“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”
Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”
“Jack.”
Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.
“What? Honesty matters.”
“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues.
You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”
Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you.
summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him?
word count: 7 K 🌵
-
“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.”
Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality.
You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it.
“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.”
“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file.
Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”
“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.”
Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”
Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.”
Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.”
“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”
You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.”
Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.”
“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.”
All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch.
“Theft of youth.”
Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”
“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes.
“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.”
Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.”
You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch.
Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.”
It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup.
“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”
“No.”
Hotch’s answer immediate.
You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.”
His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.”
“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”
JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”
“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment.
“Which means?” Garcia questions.
“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”
More eyes fall back to you.
You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”
Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.”
“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins.
You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.”
“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?”
The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow.
“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh.
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.”
The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work.
“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”
“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense.
“Somehow I’m still offended.”
Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.
“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team. Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan.
“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.”
“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly.
“Immensly.” She continues to beam.
A long pause.
Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”
He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod.
“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”
You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.”
“Yes,” He said flatly.
You grin wider, “Then I’m in.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”
Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.
This is going to get complicated.
-
The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful.
“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.”
Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”
“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help.
“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”
He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.
“Progress.” You bite your cheek.
“Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.”
“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.”
His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.”
“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.”
Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”
“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”
“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly.
You beam, “Exactly.”
His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”
“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.”
He exhales quietly.
“I want to add something else.”
He looks back up.
“Power.”
He frowns, “Explain.”
“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”
He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”
The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea.
“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.”
“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.”
The silence stretches back over the jet.
“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.”
“That’s the point.”
He stares for a long moment, “Fine.”
You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”
“A conference.”
“Boring. Try again.”
He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.”
“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”
Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it.
“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”
“Why twice?”
“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.”
Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.”
“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”
Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.”
You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you.
The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family.
As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second.
“Breathe. Like you like me.”
“I don’t-”
“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”
Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun.
You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches.
“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck.
You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.
“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.”
He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” You tease.
They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease.
“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.
You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!”
Hotch blinks, looking back down at you.
You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.
When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you.
“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.”
His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.”
You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.”
You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism.
-
The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside.
Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts.
She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.”
You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”
You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."
”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.
Word spreads fast in this neighborhood.
The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.
You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.”
Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.”
“I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.”
He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.”
“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”
You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.
“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face.
“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”
The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him.
“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room.
By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right.
“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.”
He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too.
“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.
You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross.
The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.”
You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.”
He exhales slowly, “Understood.”
You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt.
You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department.
He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real.
You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence.
You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open.
You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him.
“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep.
He freezes for half a second.
Then recovers, “Sleep well?”
You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good.
“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows.
You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support.
By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be.
Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”
“Tell me about it.” Emily whined.
Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub.
Neighbors slow as they pass.
A man across the street checks his mail. Twice.
You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned.
It’s bait.
And it’s effective.
Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.
“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!”
You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”
Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does.
“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s.
It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response.
“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”
Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house.
“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”
“What-”
“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”
His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.
“Forty-five minutes.” She answers.
“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face.
“I’ll work on it.”
He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow.
-
Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story.
“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”
Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.”
“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.”
Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”
“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.”
Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear.
“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.”
He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled.
“Understood.”
The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic.
An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space.
A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter.
Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view.
“You good?” You ask quietly.
“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”
You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”
His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No, but it gets the job done.”
You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back.
“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral.
“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.”
You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now.
Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”
Garcia typing away furiously.
“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.”
Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”
Garcia hesitates before answering.
“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.”
“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron.
“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”
“Let’s give him a show.”
You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him.
He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard.
“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips.
Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.
You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera.
“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel.
“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”
There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.”
Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.”
Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity.
“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia.
“Mhm.”
You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.
“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps.
It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off.
-
You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once.
All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display.
“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil.
Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.
You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.”
He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over.
Too many faces.
You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves.
He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable.
From the street, it’s enviable.
From the cameras, he’s raging.
“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece.
JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur. Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.
You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food.
“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”
“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”
Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”
Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”
Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.
“I know,” he says. “I really do.”
The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.
From just behind her.
A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.
Too still.
You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too.
“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.”
She then turns where the other boy still watches.
“And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.”
Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens.
You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia.
“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”
There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece.
“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together.
You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.
“So, how long have you guys lived here?”
“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him.
“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”
Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch.
Sharp. Hurt. Furious.
Hotch squeezes a warning.
His eyes flick up to your face for the first time.
You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.
Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.
“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.”
“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds.
“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-”
“Garcia.”
“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”
Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear.
“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.”
Bingo.
You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too.
“Does anyone have eyes on him?”
No answer.
You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless.
The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.
-
Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells.
“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously.
“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.
“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds.
“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.”
-
Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.
“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door.
His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast.
He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.
“On your knees.”
Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet.
Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time.
“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”
You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?”
You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.
“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”
“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs.
“Correcting my theft of youth?”
Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes.
“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”
Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone.
“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.
You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”
Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.”
The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake.
“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.”
Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill.
“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.”
You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”
His head bobs.
“Then put the gun down.”
He hesitates.
Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”
The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready.
“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.”
Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols.
-
The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.
“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.
“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?”
“No ma’am!”
“We’re going!”
“Okay, okay!”
Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings.
“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.”
You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror.
Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”
He matches your lean, a step closer.
“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”
The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.”
“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”
A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now.
“Do you regret it?” he asks.
You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.”
Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle.
“Neither do I.”
-
The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins.
For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing.
“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”
You close your eyes.
Hotch exhales through his nose.
JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”
Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-
“Garcia.” Hotch warns.
You groan, “Oh my god.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.”
Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.”
Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”
“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.”
“That was tactical.”
You snort loudly before you can even stop it.
Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”
Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”
You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”
“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”
“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.
JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab.
Hotch’s ears turn red.
“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.
“Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face.
“I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees.
Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch.
“It was part of the profile.” He reminds.
Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”
Silence.
Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”
His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”
Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”
You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.”
“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”
Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”
"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"
“You’re welcome, you pervs!”
You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold.
Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac.
“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.”
The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase.
“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open.
He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.
“Probably not.”
extra of the team finding out here!
an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!
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//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.
"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.
matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.
matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.
matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.
matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.
matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.
matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.
matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)
matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.
matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.
matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.
matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.
matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.
and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.
get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.
Daryl tells you "I love you. I'm sorry." because he truly thinks that his love and loving him is something to feel bad for, that he's not enough.
You make him see otherwise.
The first time Daryl Dixon tells you he loves you, he apologizes for it.
Not because he doesn’t mean it.
Because he does.
Completely.
And somewhere deep down, in all the scar tissue his father left behind and all the years the world spent teaching him he was too rough, too angry, too broken to be wanted gently, Daryl honestly believes loving him is a burden you shouldn’t have to carry.
The prison had been quiet that night.
Not silent—nothing was ever silent anymore. Walkers groaned somewhere beyond the fences, the generators hummed low, somebody coughed in the cellblock two rows down—but quiet enough that people had started sleeping through the night again.
You’d been sitting on the floor of your cell reading an old paperback by flashlight when Daryl appeared in the doorway.
He didn’t knock.
He never did.
He just leaned one shoulder against the frame, crossbow hanging from his back, curls damp from a late watch shift.
“You still awake?”
You looked up immediately, smiling before you could stop yourself.
“Obviously.”
His eyes flicked away.
That should’ve been your first clue something was wrong.
Daryl usually looked at you like he couldn’t help it. Like his gaze gravitated toward you against his will. Like every room naturally rearranged itself around wherever you stood.
Tonight he looked nervous.
Daryl Dixon nervous was subtle.
A tighter jaw.
Restless fingers.
A refusal to stay still longer than half a second.
You closed the book carefully. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.”
“Daryl.”
He sighed through his nose, pushing off the frame to pace two steps into the room before stopping again.
“I got somethin’ for ya.”
That surprised you enough to blink.
“You… what?”
From his vest pocket, he pulled a little piece of faded blue fabric.
A handkerchief.
Clean.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
“It ain’t much,” he muttered quickly, already defensive. “Found it on a run. Thought maybe you could use it or somethin’. Ain’t dirty.”
The thing about Daryl was that people who didn’t know him thought kindness came hard to him.
They were wrong.
Kindness came naturally to Daryl.
What came hard was letting anyone see it.
You took the handkerchief like it was made of glass.
“It’s pretty.”
His ears immediately went red.
“Yeah, well.”
You smiled softly. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, but his shoulders loosened slightly.
You folded the fabric carefully. “Sit down.”
“Nah.”
“Daryl.”
Another sigh.
Then he finally lowered himself beside you against the wall, close enough that your knees brushed.
Neither of you moved away.
That part had become normal months ago.
The lingering.
The touches that lasted too long.
The way everyone else already looked at the two of you like the answer was obvious while the two of you danced endlessly around saying it aloud.
You rested your head lightly against the concrete wall.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
“Tired.”
“You punched that walker so hard this morning Rick thought you broke your hand.”
“M’fine.”
“You’re impossible.”
A tiny twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Victory.
You’d learned to treasure every small smile Daryl gave you because each one felt earned.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You listened to the prison breathe around you.
Then quietly, Daryl said, “Merle used to say people like me ain’t built for this kinda thing.”
You turned your head slightly. “What kind of thing?”
He picked at a loose thread on his jeans.
“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Caring ‘bout people. Stayin’. Bein’… good to somebody.”
Your chest tightened instantly.
Because Daryl only talked about himself like this when something was eating him alive.
“Merle said a lot of things.”
“Wasn’t wrong ‘bout all of ‘em.”
“Yes, he was.”
He shook his head.
“You dun’t know what I was like before.”
“Then tell me.”
That made him freeze.
You saw it happen—the immediate instinct to retreat.
Daryl had spent his whole life surviving by keeping pieces of himself buried where nobody could touch them.
Carefully, you nudged his shoulder with yours.
“You don’t have to tell me tonight,” you said gently. “But one day, maybe.”
His throat worked.
“You make it sound easy.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why d’you keep tryin’?”
The question came out rougher than he intended.
More vulnerable, too.
Like he genuinely didn’t understand.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Because there it was again.
That terrible, heartbreaking confusion Daryl carried whenever someone cared about him too openly.
As if affection was a language everyone else understood except him.
“Because you matter to me,” you said simply.
He stared straight ahead after that.
Didn’t answer.
But his hand shifted against the floor until his pinky brushed yours.
And stayed there.
The problem with loving Daryl Dixon was that he loved like a starving man.
Quietly.
Desperately.
Like he was afraid someone would realize they’d made a mistake and take it back.
You noticed it in pieces.
The way he always made sure your gas tank on runs stayed full before his own bike.
The way he stood between you and every threat without thinking.
The way he remembered tiny things you mentioned once months ago.
You mentioned missing strawberries one evening.
Three weeks later he handed you a crushed container he’d found on a run like it was treasure.
You got cold during winter patrols.
Suddenly there was always an extra blanket appearing near your bunk.
You had nightmares.
Daryl started lingering outside your cell at night pretending he “couldn’t sleep neither.”
He loved in actions because words frightened him.
Words could be rejected.
Actions could pretend to mean less.
But sometimes you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
And those moments gave him away completely.
Like now.
You were crouched in the courtyard helping Hershel sort medical supplies while afternoon sunlight spilled warm across the concrete.
You laughed at something Glenn said.
Across the yard, Daryl looked up from sharpening a knife.
And just… stared.
Not lust.
Not fleeting interest.
Something deeper.
Softer.
The kind of look people wrote poetry about before the world ended.
Carol noticed it too.
Of course she did.
Carol noticed everything.
She smirked as she walked past him.
“You gonna tell her before the apocalypse ends or what?”
Daryl nearly dropped the knife.
“Shut up.”
“She already loves you, you know.”
That hit him like a physical blow.
You saw it from across the yard—the immediate panic in his face.
Because Daryl didn’t think people loved him permanently.
He thought they tolerated him until they came to their senses.
Carol’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He looked away immediately.
And that was the first moment she realized just how deep the damage went.
The fight happened three weeks later.
Not between you and Daryl.
Between Daryl and himself.
Though you ended up caught in the crossfire anyway.
A supply run went bad.
Walkers poured into an abandoned grocery store faster than expected, and in the chaos, you got separated.
By the time Daryl found you outside, you had blood soaking through your sleeve from a deep gash in your arm.
Not fatal.
But enough to scare him.
You’d never seen Daryl angry like that before.
Not at you.
At himself.
“What the hell were ya thinkin’?!” he snapped while wrapping your arm back at the prison infirmary.
“I was trying not to die.”
“You shouldn’ta been alone!”
“And whose fault is that?”
His hands stilled.
Immediately, guilt crashed over your irritation.
Because his face—
God.
Like you’d confirmed every terrible thing he already believed about himself.
You exhaled shakily. “Daryl…”
“Nah.” He stood abruptly, backing away. “You’re right.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Always happens.”
His voice sounded distant suddenly.
Cold in the way Daryl only got when he was trying not to feel anything at all.
“People get hurt around me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“You saved me.”
“Too damn late.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You think this changes how I feel about you?”
He laughed once.
A hollow, ugly sound.
“You shouldn’t feel nothin’ for me.”
Anger sparked hot in your chest then.
Not because he was hurting.
Because he genuinely believed it.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His jaw clenched.
“You dun’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
He shook his head violently.
“No.”
“Daryl—”
“No!” His voice cracked hard enough to silence the room. “You got any idea what happens to people who get close to me?!”
You stood slowly despite the pain in your arm.
“Nothing happened to me.”
“You almost died!”
“But I didn’t!”
His breathing turned ragged.
Like panic and fury were tearing him apart from the inside.
“You deserve somebody better.”
There it was.
The real wound.
Not the walkers.
Not the blood.
That.
You stepped closer.
“I don’t want somebody better.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean it.”
His eyes finally met yours then.
And the devastation inside them nearly shattered you.
Years of abuse.
Neglect.
Being treated like he was less than human until he started believing it too.
“You dun’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
“I’m asking for you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I am.”
Daryl backed away again like your words physically hurt him.
Then finally, quietly, brokenly, he said:
“I love you.”
Your breath caught.
He swallowed hard.
“I love you,” he repeated, voice trembling now. “An’ I’m sorry.”
The apology destroyed you.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because he meant it.
Entirely.
Like loving him was something you’d eventually regret.
Like he was apologizing in advance for disappointing you.
Your eyes burned instantly.
“Daryl…”
“I tried not to,” he whispered. “God, I tried.”
He looked terrified.
Actually terrified.
Like this confession was the worst thing he could’ve handed you.
“You make me…” He dragged a hand over his face roughly. “Make me wanna be somethin’ better than what I am.”
“You are good.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You dun’t know half the things I done.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
His voice broke completely then.
“You should,” he repeated weakly.
You crossed the room before he could retreat again.
Daryl stiffened when you grabbed his face.
Not because he didn’t want you touching him.
Because tenderness still startled him.
You held him there firmly until he finally looked at you.
“You listen to me,” you said softly. “Loving is not something to apologise for.”
His eyes flooded instantly.
You kept going.
“You are not a burden. You are not poison. You are not too broken to be loved.”
He shook his head automatically.
You tightened your hold slightly.
“Yes, you are loved.”
A tear escaped before he could stop it.
Daryl looked horrified by it.
You brushed it away gently.
“I love the way you protect people even when you’re scared. I love the way you act like kindness embarrasses you. I love that you feed Judith before yourself. I love that you pretend you hate people while spending every second keeping them alive.”
His breathing hitched.
“I love you,” you whispered. “And I am not sorry.”
That broke him.
Not loudly.
Daryl Dixon didn’t break loudly.
He just folded suddenly, forehead dropping against yours with a shattered sound caught somewhere deep in his throat.
You wrapped your arms around him carefully.
And after one long second of hesitation—
He held you back.
Like he’d been starving for it.
Like he’d spent his whole life waiting for someone to say stay.
“I ain’t good at this,” he admitted against your shoulder.
“You don’t have to be.”
“What if I screw it up?”
“You will.”
That startled a breath of laughter out of him.
You smiled through tears.
“So will I.”
His arms tightened.
“You really mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Even me?”
Especially him.
You kissed him before you could say it.
Soft.
Slow.
Certain.
Daryl made a wounded sound into your mouth like he couldn’t believe this was real.
His hands shook against your back.
Nobody had ever kissed him like they intended to stay afterward.
When you pulled away, he looked dazed.
“You didn’t have to pity me.”
And there it was again.
That reflexive self-hatred.
You cupped his face harder this time.
“Daryl Dixon, if you apologize for loving me one more time, I’m going to kiss you until you shut up.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Daryl laughed fully.
Real laughter.
Warm and rough and beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A small smile lingered on his mouth afterward.
Fragile.
But real.
Then he leaned down carefully, touching his forehead to yours again.
And quietly, like he was trying the words on for the first time in his life, he whispered:
“I love you.”
No apology this time.
Only truth.
You smiled instantly.
“I love you too.”
Outside, the dead still walked.
The world was still broken.
Tomorrow would still be dangerous.
But Daryl held you like he was finally beginning to understand something enormous:
That being loved did not require him to become someone else first.
And for the first time in a very long time, Daryl Dixon believed he might actually deserve to stay alive long enough to be happy.
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