Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 2.9k
Warnings: Lil angst, mentions of sex
A/N: Guys this was so hard to write, I almost gave up bc I honestly didnât know where I would take this chapter.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.Â
Word count: 4.4k
Warnings: Aaron being a teeny tiny bit of an Alpha. Unprotected sex (Reader is on the pill though).
A/N: This chapter made me cry so many times while writing it
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings: Gun shots, loneliness and kind of angst in general at the end of the chapter.
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings: nothing really, itâs a slow chapter
A/N:Â I honestly had no idea what to write for this chapter, which is why itâs so short ;) Also feel like I mightâve used this gif before for this fic, but I donât care.
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 2.8k
Warnings: This is a sappy one, angst and mentions of Haley and Jackâs death + readerâs mental struggle with her upbringing
A/N: I honestly have had no motivation to write this story for the past week, maybe it mightâve been because of the angst that I had to write and how âslowâ the story is in this chapter. BUT HERE IT IS, and Iâm satisfied with how it turned out
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: Kissing, spit kink, oral m. receiving, degrading, name calling, kind of non-con, p in the v, praise kink, hate fucking, multiple orgasms, Sir kink, Dom/sub.Â
A/N: I think we all needed for this chapter to happen :))
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 3.1k
Warnings: None really, except the usual ping pong between Hotch and Reader.
A/N:Â I feel like this is short although itâs no shorter than some of the other chapters Iâve written. And I definitely didnât intend to add so much of Jerry in this chapter, but who cares. Itâs Jerry, we love Jerry ;))
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 3.1k
Warnings: A little intimacy
A/N: Honestly, this chapter was written during my âI canât write shitâ slump, but that being said, it has every aspect of the story that I wanted in it. Iâm just being too hard on myself lately
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings:Alcohol, mentions of both Haley and Jack being killed by Foyet.
A/N: I feel the need to explain what a recovery brew is, because I donât think most of you actually know what it is, since itâs Danish beer slang. But⌠Itâs a term that we use for a beer the morning after youâve been out drinking, and itâs supposed to help you recover from your hangover (which it actually does :))
Summary: In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: Angst, mentioning of childhood neglect.Â
A/N: Goodnight Iâm going to bed now. I finally managed to write this chapter after my body not wanting to make words.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary:Â In an upper-class residential Virginian neighborhood, monogamous values rarely get broken. A dangerous serial killer chooses to lay into dormancy exactly there for the next five years with his latest victim. Or for as long as it takes to catch him. Two highly trained and widely different agents go undercover, posing as a married couple to scope him out and make the arrest. Theyâll be nothing more than professional for months, working under the same roof.
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: Mentions of stabbings and abuse
A/N: Iâm so excited for you guys to follow along in this story. Also what the fuck, tumblr fucked up the quality of the banner, ugh smh!!
Masterlist
Gif credit: @dudeitiskarevâ I believe, but correct me if Iâm wrong.
May I please request an imagine where the reader (female) introduces her boyfriend Hotch to the Resident Evil series, especially by cosplaying as various characters?
Raccoon City | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader
CW: Fluff, despite trying to do research I still have no knowledge of the game.
WC: 0.5k
You had been planning this for a while - a surprise for Hotch after a particularly long week of work. He needed a distraction, something to pull him away from the constant pressure of the BAU, and you had just the thing in mind: introducing him to one of your favorite video game series, Resident Evil. But it wasnât going to be just any introduction. You decided to make it special by cosplaying as one of the strongest, most badass characters in the series.
Hotch sat on the couch, already looking intrigued when you mentioned the game earlier. He wasnât one for video games, but he respected your interests and was open to anything that might help him relax.
You disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes, changing into the outfit youâd carefully pieced together: a sky-blue tube top, black mini-skirt, combat boots, and fingerless gloves. To complete the look, you strapped a plastic replica of Jill Valentineâs gun holster around your leg and even added the S.T.A.R.S. badge to your arm. You checked yourself in the mirror once, adjusting your ponytail and the cap to make sure it was perfect before stepping out.
As soon as you walked into the living room, Hotchâs eyes widened slightly, his posture straightening. He took in the sight of you. A small smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest as he admired your dedication.
âWell,â he began, his voice low and amused, âthis is certainly a unique way to introduce me to a video game.â
You gave him a playful smirk, striking a pose just like Jill would, standing strong and confident with your hand on your hip. âI thought you might appreciate a little bit of immersion.â
Hotch chuckled, but there was a spark of genuine appreciation in his eyes. âI have to admit, itâs working. You look incredible.â
You walked over to him, handing him the controller as you settled beside him. âOkay, so hereâs the deal,â you began, your tone more serious now as you explained the gameâs premise. âYouâre about to enter Raccoon City, a town infested with zombies and other terrifying creatures. Jill Valentine - me - has to survive and stop Umbrellaâs bioweapons from spreading.â
Hotch raised a brow, glancing at you in your attire. âAnd you just happen to look this good while doing it?â
âOf course,â you teased, leaning in closer. âJillâs a pro. Nothing phases her. Plus, I thought you might need a little encouragement to stick with it.â
He smiled, his thumb brushing against the controller as he adjusted it in his hands. âI think Iâll manage just fine. As long as youâre guiding me.â
The evening went on, the two of you alternating between playing and laughing as you coached Hotch through the game. But you noticed how, every so often, his gaze would drift away from the screen to take you in, his appreciation for your dedication clear. It wasnât long before Hotch paused the game, setting the controller down.
âYou know,â he began, his voice soft but intense as he looked at you, âIâm starting to think this game isnât the only thing youâre trying to distract me with.â
You grinned, tilting your head as you leaned closer to him. âMaybe⌠but is it working?â
Hotch reached out, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb tracing soft circles over the fabric of your mini-skirt. âOh, itâs definitely working.â
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Fluff, mention of stakeout
A/N: I'm trying to clean out my old drafts ;)
The clock on the dinerâs wall read just past two in the morning, the minute hand ticking forward lazily in the quiet space. Outside, the world was asleep, the hum of engines moving on the highway was faintly audible through the thin glass windows. You pulled your jacket tighter around you as the chill of the night still lingered in the air, even here inside. Across from you, Hotch nursed a steaming mug of coffee, his usually sharp eyes softened by the late hour and the comfort of a rare peaceful moment, even if it had to be in the middle of the night.
It had been a long stakeout, hours of quiet observation, whispering theories, and sharing stories to pass the time as you sat still in a car as dark as the night. The case had finally broken just as the cityâs lights dimmed, and the dispatch team had been called in to take over. Hotch had glanced at you then, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as heâd asked, "Hungry?". You had just nodded, not realizing how hungry you'd become during the night until you were finally released from the spot you'd been parked in.
The diner had been his idea. Off a quiet highway and open 24/7, it had a nostalgic charm to it, all faded red booths and the faint smell of syrup in the air.
"Youâre staring," you teased softly, a small grin playing on your lips as you placed your own coffee cup down on the table.
Hotch blinked, his expression melting into a sheepish smile. "Am I?"
You nodded, leaning back into the boothâs cushion and feeling the dayâs exhaustion seep away with each sip of coffee. "You were. But I donât mind."
He chuckled under his breath, his voice quiet but warm. "I suppose Iâm just not used to seeing you like this."
"Like what?"
"Relaxed." He met your gaze, his eyes reflecting the soft yellow glow of the overhead lights. "Peaceful."
You bit your lip to keep the grin from spreading too wide, your cheeks warming at his words. "You know I should be saying that to you. Mr. I never know that I'm allowed to take a break," you grinned. "You should take me out for midnight coffee more often, then."
Hotch tilted his head slightly, considering. "I might."
The waitress approached then, putting down a small plate of pie between the two of you with a knowing smile. "On the house," she said, her Southern drawl thick with kindness. "You two look like youâve earned it."
Hotch thanked her politely, and as she walked away, he slid the plate toward you. "You first."
You broke off a piece of the crust with your fork, holding it out to him instead. "Weâre sharing."
He smiled again, a rare sight that always made your heart skip. "If you insist."
As the night wore on, the conversation drifted from work to anything and everything else. You talked about books you hadnât finished, movies you wanted to see, and places you dreamed of visiting, yet your work never allowed that to happen. Hotch listened, offering his own musings in return, his voice low and soothing against the quiet hum of the diner.
Eventually, the fatigue caught up with you, and you leaned your chin into your palm, blinking slowly at the man across from you. "Youâre not tired?"
Hotch shook his head slightly, though the lines of exhaustion were evident on his face. "Iâll sleep later."
"Do you ever let yourself rest, Aaron?" you asked softly, your voice carrying a hint of concern. Knowing that he pushed himself way too hard.
For a moment, he didnât answer. Then, he reached across the table, his hand brushing yours. "Moments like this help," he admitted, his thumb grazing your knuckles.
Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his words, and you turned your hand over, threading your fingers with his. The simple touch felt grounding, and intimate in a way that words couldnât replicate.
The dinerâs clock ticked onward, but neither of you cared. The world outside could wait. For now, it was just you, Aaron, and the warm glow of a sleepy diner at the end of a long day.
The world wasnât ready for the sight of Aaron Hotchner in a tuxedo. No, scratch that, they weren't ready for the sight of Aaron Hotchner with his hand resting on the small of your back as you walked down the red carpet.
Cameras flashed in rapidly as they spotted you with the mystery man by your side, reporters scrambled to identify him, and fans glued to their screens flooded social media with theories and questions.
âWho is he?â
âIsnât he a government agent or something, I feel like I've seen him on the news?â
âI need to know how they met, like, yesterday.â
For weeks leading up to the award show, the buzz surrounding your personal life had been relentless. Whispers of a new love interest had floated around since a blurry photo of you leaving a D.C. coffee shop surfaced online. But this? This was confirmation.
Aaron was calm despite the chaos surrounding you, his stoic demeanor making him even more intriguing. He leaned close to your ear, his deep voice barely audible over the noise. âYou okay?â
You smiled a small but genuine expression that only he could draw from you in moments like these. âPerfect. I should be the one asking you that.â
You paused for photos at the iconic step-and-repeat. You beamed as Aaron stayed slightly behind you, he wasnât here for the glitz or the glamour; he was here for you, to support you.
Inside, the night unfolded with Hollywoodâs elite coming to greet youâand by extension, him. There was no escaping the barrage of curious glances and polite inquiries.
âHow long have you two been together?â someone asked during a lull in the evening.
Aaronâs lips twitched. âLong enough to know Iâm the lucky one.â
It wasnât until after you won your awardâa standing ovation accompanying your name being calledâthat the internet exploded. The camera caught you returning to your seat, your hand naturally seeking his for a celebratory squeeze. It was a small, intimate gesture, but it spoke volumes to the people watching at home.
By the end of the night, hashtags about you both trended worldwide.
#WhoIsAgentHotchner?
#HotchnerAndHollywood
#LoveInTheLimelight
The press dissected every detail of his life within days: FBI Unit Chief, widower, father of one. It was a whirlwind of attention that would overwhelm anyone elseâbut not Aaron.
In your private moments, when the cameras were off and the designer clothes were replaced by sweatpants, he reminded you why this worked.
âI didnât sign up for this to be your publicist,â he teased one evening, his hand slipping around your waist as you both watched late-night coverage of the Oscars from the couch.
âYou signed up to be my partner,â you countered, resting your head against his shoulder. âAnd youâre doing a great job.â
He pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice low and full of affection. âYou make it easy.â
may i bring up the idea of hotch x jealous!reader đ¤
Jealous Wife 1 â UnSub 0 | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Wife!Reader
WC: 2.4kÂ
Warnings: Fluffy ish? Jealous!reader, smutty language, club setting in latter half, threat of death + attempted murder (Hotch nearly has his throat slit), drugging mentioned and nearly happens to Hotch, alcohol consumed, 1 singular L/N.
Summary: Hotch fits the unsub's victimology to a tee and goes undercover in her hunting grounds to lure her into an ambush. And you get jealous as you see him dressed for a night out, but you refuse to admit it, even after you take the unsub down.
A/N: I had so so so much fun writing this!!!! And also look, a cameo from Morgan's favorite Chicago captain hehe đ¤
Chicago, 12th Precinct Â
Conference Room 3BÂ Â
Saturday, 9:42 p.m.
The air in the room was thick with the scent of too many bodies crammed into too small a space.
Captain Gordinski leaned against the back wall, arms folded, eye twitching every time another crime-scene photo flashed onto the screen from the string of murders he and his detectives hadn't been able to solve yet.
His detectives filled the chairs, some sitting forward, some slouched, all of them watching the BAU like they were a traveling circus that had just rolled into town.
Hotch stood at the head of the table, posture rigid. He didnât pace. He never paced when he delivered the profile. He just let the words fall like they were actual evidence in the case, and not just a preliminary profile.
âWhite female,â he began, voice low and precise. âLate twenties to mid-thirties. Intelligent, socially adept, highly organized. This is not impulse. This is predation.â
Rossi picked up without missing a beat, leaning one hip against the tableâs edge, the way he always did when he wanted the locals to feel like he was talking to them, not at them.
âSheâs insecure-avoidant with strong narcissistic traits,â he said. âNeeds to be wanted, needs to be in control, but the second she senses rejection, real or imagined, her entire sense of self collapses. That collapse is what makes her kill.â
Prentiss clicked the remote. A close-up of ligature marks on the first victim filled the screen.
âManual strangulation after chemical submission,â she continued. âVictims were dosed with a fast-acting benzo slipped into their drink while they were still at the bar. Once they were compliant, she finished it face-to-face. No hesitation marks. She watches them die after she stabs them. Thatâs not just personal. Thatâs intimate.â
JJâs voice was softer.
âAll four victims were last seen at Luxe Noir, downtown. Same club, same VIP section. Sheâs not cruising random bars in the Downtown area. This is her hunting ground. Sheâs comfortable there. Possibly a regular. Bartenders might recognize her face, but she pays cash mostly and never uses the same card twice, nor does she check a coat.â
Reid didnât look up from the geographic map glowing on his tablet.
âComfort zone is a six-mile radius centered on the club,â he said, rapid-fire. âVictimology is⌠unusually specific. Caucasian males, thirty-five to fifty. Dark hair, above average height, physically fit. All divorced or recently separated. All dominant personality types, lawyers, surgeons, CFOs, et cetera. Friends and colleagues uniformly describe them as serious, intense, natural leaders.â
Morgan let out a low huff that might have been a laugh if the room hadnât been so quiet. He tipped his chin toward Hotch.
âWhich means the single best piece of bait we have in this building is already wearing a suit.â
Every head in the room swiveled to Hotch. A couple of the younger detectives did obvious double-takes, like they were only just noticing the resemblance to the victim board behind him.
Captain Gordinski cleared his throat. âYouâre telling me you want to put your unit chief on the menu?â
Hotch didnât blink.
âI will enter Luxe Noir tonight as a patron,â he said, as if reading from a mission brief heâd already memorized. âMan in a high position in Chicago on a consulting trip. Drinking with a friend and projecting availability, but emotional distance. Itâs the exact profile sheâs killed four times already.â
Rossi folded his arms. âI will be that friend. The rest of us will be inside, dressed for the occasion, staggered positions. Agent L/N and Agent Morgan on the dance floor, Dr. Reid and Agent Jareau covering exits, Agent Prentiss at the bar. And me and Agent Hotchner up in the VIP mezzanine. Weâll have eyes on him the whole time. She makes contact, we move.â
Hotchâs gaze swept the room, settling on Gordinski.
âWe need CPD to maintain a three-block perimeter. Unmarked units only. No uniforms inside the club, no marked cars on the same block. If sheâs spooked even once, she vanishes, and we start over with victim number five. If we need immediate extraction or additional manpower, weâll call it on the tactical channel. Clear?â
Gordinski exhaled hard through his nose, eyes flicking from Hotch to the victim photos and back again. The resemblance was uncanny, same jawline, same dark eyes, same look of authority that made people listen when he spoke.
âYou sure sheâll bite?â the captain asked.
Hotchâs answer came flat and immediate.
âShe already has a type,â he said. âIâm just making sure she doesnât have to look far to find it.â
Hotch stood under the harsh locker-room fluorescents, rolling the sleeves of a black dress shirt that cost more than most of the uniforms hanging on the hooks behind him. No suit jacket tonight. No tie. Just the tailored shirt tucked into dark jeans and the top two buttons deliberately undone, revealing a tuft of chest hair.
He looked like the kind of man who could ruin your credit score and your life in the same evening.
He slid a thin wallet with a fake ID, cash, and one black Amex with a name that wasnât his, into his back pocket when the side door that connected to the temporary womenâs changing area opened.
You never knocked anymore when it was just the two of you.
He turned, and whatever smart remark heâd had ready died in his throat.
The dress was black. Backless. Front⌠negotiable. Thin straps crisscrossed over skin that had no business being on display in a police station.
The hem barely qualified as decent, and the heels, strappy, vicious-looking, and fire-engine red at the bottom, made your legs look longer.
Your hair was down, tousled as if youâd just come from someoneâs bed.
Lips painted a red so dark it looked like youâd bitten someone and enjoyed it a little too much.
You looked like sin with a badge.
And you were glaring at him as if heâd personally offended you by existing.
Hotch arched a brow. âProblem, honey?â
You shut the door with a soft click that somehow echoed louder than the slam you clearly wanted to give it.
âIâm fine,â you said, folding your arms over your chest, which only made the neckline plummet further into criminal territory. âJust admiring how dedicated you are to the whole brooding-divorcĂŠ-in-distress aesthetic. Really committing to the open-collar, fuck-boy-on-a-mission vibe.â
He leaned back against the lockers, lips twitching.
âYouâre jealous.â
You stepped closer, heels clicking on the tile.
âExcuse me if I donât love watching my husband get dolled up like a high-end escort so some serial killer can try to roofie him in a nightclub,â you hissed. âHonestly, Aaron, two buttons? You might as well wear a sign that says âPlease drug me, Iâm emotionally fragile but great in bed.ââ
He pushed off the lockers and closed the distance in two strides. His hands found your bare waist, thumbs tracing the warm skin just above where the fabric dared to start again.
âYouâre wearing a dress that would get you dress-coded at a rave party,â he murmured, voice low and fond, boarding a chuckle, âand youâre giving me grief about two buttons?â
âIâm giving you grief,â you muttered, jabbing a finger into his chest, âbecause every woman in that club is going to picture riding your dick like they're bouncing on an exercise ball. Including the one who wants to murder you. It's the efficiency I donât support.â
His laugh was soft as he dipped his head until his lips brushed your ear.
âFor the record,â he whispered, âthe only person dragging me anywhere to bounce on my dick tonight is currently glaring at me in four-inch heels and a very healthy sense of ownership.â He grabbed your hand and rotated your wedding ring slightly on your finger to get his point across.
Your glare lasted one more second before it cracked. He felt the moment you softened.
âShut up,â you grumbled, but your hands were already sliding up his chest, fingers curling possessively into his open collar.
He kissed you right at the corner of your mouth so he wouldnât ruin the perfect red of your lips, and when he pulled back, your eyes were still narrowed, but the possessiveness had warmed into something dangerously close to pride.
A sharp knock rattled the door, and Morganâs voice, dripping with amusement, filled the room. âI swear to God, if I walk in there and you two are defiling a Chicago PD locker room, Iâm telling Garcia, and sheâll find a way to live-stream it to the entirety of the Bureau. Wheels up in three, lovebirds!â
You flipped the door the finger even though Morgan couldnât see it.
Hotch pressed one last kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger.
âCome on, wife,â he murmured. âLetâs go catch a serial killer before you decide to cuff me for disturbing your peace.â
He laced his fingers through yours and tugged you toward the hallway.
Luxe Noir
VIP Mezzanine Booth
12:42 a.m.
The bass thudded through the floorboards and up into Hotchâs ribcage. He sat with his back to the wall, one arm draped casually along the top of the leather booth, the other nursing a glass of bourbon he hadnât touched in twenty minutes. Â
Rossi sat opposite him, pretending to scroll through his phone while actually watching every reflection in the mirrored wall behind Hotch.
On the dance floor below, you were a weapon in motion. Â
Morganâs hands rested on your hips, guiding the slow, filthy roll of your body against his. Your back pressed to his chest, one of your arms hooked up and around his neck, the other braced against his thigh as you dropped low and ground back up. Red soles flashed every time the strobes hit. Â
You looked both like a sex goddess on the dance floor and a murderous wife in equal measure as you moved to the music. Â
And every thirty seconds, your eyes cut to the booth he sat in.
Morgan leaned down, mouth near your ear, grin audible even over the music. âDamn, mama, if you glare at your husband any harder, youâre gonna set his shirt on fire. Jealous looks real good on you, by the way.â
You bared your teeth in something that was definitely not a smile. âIâm not jealous.â
âSure,â he laughed, spinning you so you faced him, hands still respectfully low on your waist. âAnd Iâm the Queen of England.â
You opened your mouth to hiss something venomous when movement at the booth caught your eye. Â
She was here.
Sleek auburn hair, black dress that looked like it cost more than most peopleâs rent, smile sharp enough to cut glass.
She slid into the booth next to Hotch like she belonged there, one manicured hand already resting on his forearm. Hotch turned that slow, charmed smile on her, and your stomach knotted so hard you almost forgot how to breathe.
Morgan felt you go rigid against him. âEasy, tiger. Thatâs the job.â
She leaned in, said something that made Hotch laugh, and although you knew he was faking it from the way his head tilted slightly back, your vision still tunneled with red-hot rage.
Ten minutes. That was all it took. Ten minutes of her touching his sleeve, his knee, leaning in to whisper against his ear, before Hotch threw down a stack of bills, offered her his hand, and led her toward the back exit like a perfect gentleman.
You'd seen her drug his drink, seen the two notice and quietly switch drinks when her attention got caught by something across the room.
Morganâs grip tightened on your waist. âWe wait for the signalââ
But his words were too late; you were already moving.
You tore out of his arms and cut through the crowd like a shark through water. Morganâs curse was lost behind you. You hit the back hallway, heels silent on the rubberized floor, and shouldered the emergency exit open.
And stepped into the alley five minutes too late.
The unsub had Hotch against the brick wall, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt, the other pressing a thin, wicked blade to the hollow of his throat. A bead of blood had already bloomed where the edge kissed skin.
Hotchâs hands hung loose at his sides. He was letting her, you could tell by his posture.
He was waiting for the team.
Waiting for you.
Because he knew you would be the one to take this killer down from the pure reaction you'd had to him dressed like a man whoreâin your own words.
Your Glock came up before the door even finished swinging shut.
âFBI! Drop the knife!â
The woman startled, pressed harder.
The blade bit, but didn't cut.
You didnât hesitate.
The shot cracked through the alley like lightning. Her right arm jerked back, the knife clattering to the wet pavement as she screamed and clutched the blooming red hole in her bicep.
Hotch moved in one swift motion, one second pinned, the next he had spun her, slammed her chest-first into the wall, knee in the back of her thigh, cuffs ratcheting tight around her wrists.
âAva Rollins,â he said, voice calm, âyou are under arrest for the murders of Daniel Whitford, Marcus Lange, Patrick Brennan, and Richard Callahan. You have the right to remain silent.â
Chicago uniforms flooded the alley, red and blue lights painting the bricks. Someone took the sobbing, bleeding woman off his hands.
Hotch turned to you, breathing steady, one hand absently touching the thin surface wound at his throat.
You still had your gun up, chest heaving.
He walked over slowly, plucked it from your fingers, and holstered it for you.
âReally?â he asked. âFive minutes. You couldnât give me five whole minutes before you came storming out here like a one-woman SWAT team?â
âI wasnâtââ
âJealous?â He stepped closer, voice dropping to that low register that always unraveled you. âBaby, you shot a serial killer because another woman had her hand on my chest. Thatâs the textbook definition.â
You folded your arms tight across your chest. âIâm not jealous.â
âUh-huh.â He brushed a thumb over your lower lip, smudging the red just enough to make you crazy. âRemind me to wear this shirt more often. Clearly, it drives my wife insane.â
"How did you know her name?"
Hotch shrugged. "She introduced herself."
âI hate you.â You glared up at him.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. âLiar,â he whispered. âYou really, really donât.â
Behind you, Morgan finally caught up, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
âTold you,â he wheezed. âQueen of England. My ass.â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: "The 'pet' dad told you definitely wasn't his." You work for a wildlife rescue center and end up bringing your work home with you much to Hotch's protests.
You hit send on the text before you'd even mulled the idea over twice.
Youâd just come off the worst intake shift of the season, three opossums with mange, a red-tailed hawk with a broken wing, and now this: a four-week-old raccoon kit no bigger than a burrito, swaddled in someoneâs ratty sweatshirt.
The finder had heard it screaming for its mother from inside their shed for two straight days; mom never showed. Eyes still sealed shut two days ago, now barely cracked open like little black buttons. Pink nose running, belly empty, hypothermia already creeping in.
He was so small that your entire hand swallowed him.
You dried the formula off your fingers, snapped the photo, his tiny masked face, fluffy little ears, delicate paws curled against your scrub top, and sent it to Hotch, who was away on a case, with zero preamble.
You: Orphan raccoon. Needs bottles every 3h or he wonât make it through the night. Iâm bringing him home.
The three dots appeared almost instantly, his reply coming faster than you thought a federal agent in the middle of a case could type. You could practically hear the deep, exasperated inhale through the screen
Hotch: Absolutely not. Â
Hotch: Under no circumstances is that animal coming into the house.
Hotch: Iâm serious. We are not doing this. That is a wild animal.
You grinned, already halfway to the car with the warmed carrier.
You: Already in the passenger seat. Seatbelt on. See you in a couple of days đ
A solid minute of nothing passed while you were strapping yourself in and then making sure the tiny baby was okay. Then:
Hotch: We are discussing this when I get home.
Which, translated from Hotch-speak, meant: I know I already lost this war, and I hate that I know it and have no control over the situation whatsoever.
Two Days Later, the front door opened at 11:17 p.m. precisely; youâd recognize the quiet snick of his key anywhere, carefully letting himself into the house, trying his best not to make a sound.
Jack was asleep on the couch, head in your lap, one protective arm flung over the fleece-lined nest youâd built out of an old laundry basket. Inside, the raccoon, now dubbed âBanditâ because Jack had insisted that he needed a name and you had been too tired to fight it, despite trying to explain that naming him creates attachments, and that the little guy needed to be rehabilitated and go back into the wild, was in the middle of a milk coma, little pink tongue still half-out, paws twitching from whatever baby raccoons dream about.
Empty bottle number 3 of the evening lay discarded on the coffee table next to a pile of burp cloths that definitely hadnât been there yesterday.
Hotch stopped dead in the doorway, briefcase still in hand.
He took in the scene like he was profiling a crime scene, which if you asked him, he definitely was: the dim lamp light, the scattered formula tins, Jackâs abandoned Xbox controller, your unbrushed hair, the fact you were wearing his stretched out and faded law school hoodie like a dress⌠and then, finally, the actual masked bandit snoozing happily on a heating pad.
He blinked once. Twice. A third time for good measure, because clearly he was imagining the scene he had been met with.
âNo,â he said, voice low and dangerously calm, maybe a little too calm given the wild animal in his living room. âNo. This is not happening.â
Jack stirred at the sound of his dadâs voice, sat upright, and beamed, still half asleep, like Christmas had come early. âDad! Look! He likes belly rubs!â
Hotch's gaze flicked from his sonâs pure joy to the raccoon to you, and you watched the internal battle play out in real time behind those dark eyes.
You offered the tiniest, most innocent smile you could muster. âHeâs had three perfect feeds, two poops, and zero bites. Weâre basically pros.â
âThat,â Hotch said, pointing one accusatory finger, âis a North American rabies vector with opposable thumbs and his mother probably has a history of property damage.â
âHeâs twelve ounces, Aaron. His crimes are limited to spilling formula on my bra and wetting his bed.â
Jack giggled at your comeback. Bandit, sensing new attention, gave a sleepy chirp and stretched, revealing the white milk mustache on his snout.
Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose so hard you worried for the cartilage. âGuest bathroom. Heating pad. Laundry basket with the mesh lid. And the moment heâs weaned, heâs going to the outdoor enclosure at the rescue. Are we clear?â He countered, trying his hardest to get the animal out of his house.
It wasn't that he was totally against you bringing clients home, but when you'd bought the house and discussed the possibilities, he'd meant a dog or a cat, even a parrot would've been better than this.
âCrystal,â you said sweetly.
He knew you were lying. You both knew.
Four Nights Later, youâd finally crashed hard around 3 a.m. after the midnight and 3 a.m. bottles, positive that the 6 a.m. feed was a problem for Future You. Except when you shuffled downstairs, bleary-eyed and already dreading the syringe of kitten milk replacer, you froze on the bottom step.
Hotch: Unit Chief, permanent frown on his face, the man who once stared down the barrel of a serial killer's gun without flinching, was perched at the kitchen table in the low light of the rising sun, still in his boxers and an old t-shirt.
Bandit was cradled in the crook of his left arm like heâd done this a thousand times, which he kind of had when Jack had been a baby.
A clean tea towel was draped over his shoulder. The bottle, warmed to exactly 100°F, because of course heâd checked, was angled perfectly, and he was swirling it gently between sips to keep air bubbles down, the way the rescueâs vet techs had taught you when you started working there. You'd come home excited that day, telling him every little detail from your first day.
His voice was barely audible as he spoke to the raccoon, that soft murmur he used when Jack had nightmares.
âEasy, little man. Youâll hiccup again⌠there you go. Good job.â
Banditâs tiny black hands clutched Hotch's thumb. His little tail flicked happily as he gulped down the milk.
You must have made some sound, half laugh, half sob, because Hotch's head snapped up. For one glorious second, his face was completely open: soft, rumpled, and utterly besotted. Then horror crashed over it like a wave.
âThis isnâtââ he started.
âOh, it one thousand percent is,â you whispered, padding closer.
âHe was crying,â he said defensively, shifting the kit higher against his chest. âLoud, repetitive distress vocalizations. I thought he might be cold. Or constipated. I don't know. I was⌠assessing.â
âMm-hmm. Assessing with burping techniques and everything.â
The raccoon chose that moment to release an enormous milk-bubble burp directly into the tea towel. He, with the reflexes of a seasoned father, immediately shifted to pat his back in perfect circles.
You leaned over the back of his chair, resting your chin on his shoulder, close enough to smell formula and warm raccoon on Hotch's skin.
âYouâre using the football hold. Thatâs advanced-level bottle feeding, Hotchner.â
âI read the rescueâs care sheet,â he muttered, cheeks actually pink, as if he were embarrassed to tell you. âThree times.â You just found it endearing that, despite his protests, he was still trying to support your work with these creatures.
Bandit squeaked, abandoned the bottle, and attempted to climb Hotch's chest like a fuzzy mountaineer. He instinctively cupped the kitâs butt to keep him from sliding and hurting himself.
âAdmit it. You love him.â You bit your lip so hard it hurt.
âI do notââ Bandit shoved his whole face into Hotch's neck and started making tiny contented huffing noises. Hotch's traitorous hand came up to cradle the back of the raccoonâs head, thumb stroking the soft fur between his ears. ââHeâs⌠adequate.â
âAdequate,â you repeated, grinning so wide your face ached.
He sighed, the sound of a man who had profiled serial killers and negotiated with terrorists but was finally, utterly defeated by twelve ounces of orphaned trash panda. âHe grabs my finger when heâs sleepy,â he admitted in the smallest voice. âItâs⌠objectively cute.â
âYouâre a raccoon dad now, honey.â You pressed a kiss to his temple.
He closed his eyes like he was praying for strength. âIf Morgan or Rossi ever finds outââ
âHe will never let you live it down. Iâm fully prepared to blackmail you for extra foot rubs.â
Bandit yawned, revealing a tiny pink tongue and two minuscule front teeth, then promptly fell asleep wedged under Hotch's chin, paws tangled in the collar of his T-shirt.
Hotch looked down at the sleeping kit, something achingly tender crossing his face before he could school it back to neutrality.
ââHe stays until heâs fully weaned and climbing like a maniac,â he said at last. âThen an enclosure in the backyard. Then soft release in spring.â
You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades, smiling so hard it hurt. âOf course.â
Summary: Youâre dating, but the team doesnât know yet.
The alarm on Hotch's phone buzzed at 5:47 a.m., exactly thirteen minutes before the one on your phone was set to go off. You felt him shift behind you, his arm tightening for half a second around your waist before he forced himself to let go. It had become a silent ritual during your mornings together: he woke first, stole one more minute of holding you, then slipped out of bed to get ready for the workday ahead.
âFive more minutes,â you mumbled into the pillow that still smelled like his cologne.
âYou say that every morning,â he whispered against your hair, lips brushing your temple. âAnd every morning we both know you're lying.â
You rolled onto your back and cracked one eye open. He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair adorably rumpled from where your hands had been running through it last night. The soft light from the lamp on his bedside carved shadows across the lines of his face. Even half-asleep, he looked like the put-together unit chief. It was unfair.
âYour tieâs going to be crooked if you donât let me fix it later,â you said, watching him get dressed.
He gave you the tiniest smile, knowing you were teasing him, and leaned down to kiss you. When he pulled away, you tried to chase his mouth, and he laughed under his breath.
âShower,â he said, tapping your hip. âIâm making coffee.â
You listened to him walk around the house getting Jack up and ready for school while you scrolled through your phone, deleting any evidence of the text you had sent him at 11:43 the night before that simply said: come to bed, Hotch.
The man was paranoid about subpoenas and the team discovering your little secret before any of you were ready to share the news.
You thought it was cute.
By the time you were both in the kitchen, he was flipping eggs one-handed while the espresso machine hissed. Jack had already been picked up by the bus, so the house was quiet except for the low tones of the radio playing classical because Aaron Hotchner refused to listen to anything with lyrics before 8 a.m.
You leaned against the counter in one of his old T-shirts and watched him move.
There was something stupidly attractive about how competent he was at 6:45 in the morning.
âYou're staring,â he said without looking up.
âYou have a very interesting spatula technique.â
He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. âThat a euphemism?â
âOnly if you wanted it to be.â
He snorted, plated the eggs, and slid one across the island to you.
Toast popped.
You both ate standing up, shoulders brushing. He stole the sports section of the paper you werenât reading anyway, and you stole sips of his coffee because you liked it stronger than you would ever admit.
At 6:58, you rinsed your mug and headed for the stairs.
âLeaving in seven minutes,â he called after you.
âI know the drill, Hotchner.â
Upstairs, you changed into the blouse and slacks you had brought over in your covert overnight bag, the one that lived, permanently, in the back of his closet or the trunk of your car.
You were buttoning your shirt when his arms slid around you from behind.
âYou looked better in my shirt,â he murmured against your neck.
âAnd you looked better out of yours, but we aren't having that conversation again, or we'll both be late.â
He hummed, kissed the spot just below your ear that made your knees weaken, then stepped back before you could do something reckless like drag him back to bed.
7:05. You were at the door, keys in hand. He was still upstairs pretending to finish getting dressed. You had perfected the timing: you left first, circled the block once, then headed to the office. He left three minutes later, took the shortcut, and beat you there by eight minutes. Every single day.
You were halfway down the driveway when the front door opened again. He had his suit jacket slung over one arm, tie straighter than you'd like to admit.
âHey,â he said, voice low. Anyone watching the street would have thought he was just saying goodbye to his partner and not currently pulling of an undercover mission. âYou forgot something.â
He stepped close, cupped your face, and kissed you.
When he pulled back, your lipstick was probably ruined a little, but you didnât care; you could fix that in the parking lot before heading inside.
âSee you at the Academy,â he said.
âTry not to look too smug when you beat me there, Agent Hotchner.â You winked.
He smiled.
You drove away first.
By the time you pulled into the FBI parking lot at 7:23, his SUV was already in its designated spot.
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
Inside the bullpen, Morgan was at his desk, Reid was balancing a coffee and three books, and JJ was on the phone, probably to Will or coordinating with a local PD about an upcoming case. Everything normal.
You dropped your bag at your desk, smoothed your hair, and headed for the kitchenette like you had been up for hours and definitely did not have your boss's handprint still on your ass from last night.
Rossi was already there, leaning against the counter, sipping espresso from a tiny cup that had probably been imported from Italy and cost more than your rent.
âMorning, tesoro,â he said, eyes twinkling with the wisdom of a man who had seen everything twice. âSleep well?â
You froze mid-pour. âFine, thanks.â
He nodded slowly, gaze flicking to the faint mark just above your collar that you 100% thought your blouse had covered. âFunny. Hotch mentioned he had trouble sleeping last night. Said he kept getting woken up by⌠noise.â
Your cheeks burned. âMustâve been the neighborâs dog.â
âMm. Big dog.â Rossi patted your shoulder as he walked past. âTell Aaron the good coffeeâs in the tin labeled âdecaf.â Heâll know what it means.â
He was gone before you could form a response.
At 7:58, Hotch walked through the bullpen with his scowl on, coming straight from a meeting with the director. He nodded at the team and stopped by your desk on his way to his office.
âMorning,â he said, perfectly neutral.
âMorning, sir,â you answered, just as neutral.
No one else noticed the way his fingers brushed yours when he handed you a case file that didnât need handing at all.
Rossi, watching from the catwalk above, just shook his head and smiled into his coffee.
One day, you thought, the secret was going to be pointless.
Until then, there was tomorrow morning.
And the morning after that.
And Hotch's ridiculously strong coffee waiting for you at 6:45 sharp.
Flew close to the sun now I'm scared of the light @meg-black - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook