Stargirl Nation

mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

chapter eight: breathe

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

"We did that," Strauss crossed her arms and raised her chin, the same way she always did when she felt like someone was threatening her authority, "We thought it would better the chance of catching this guy."

"You did what?" It came out a lot louder than you hoped it would. A lot more angry. It took everything in you to not lose it, not throw the empty coffee cup beside you at the screen where the Section Chief was currently displayed.

The edges of your vision blurred with the sheer amount of raging emotions you were feeling, you pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes to try and clear it up. You had to calm down before you got yourself fired for lashing out.

Although the freedom of never seeing the she-devil again...

After a shaky, and not-at-all steadying breath which sounded more like a huff of disbelief, you tried to pull yourself together. To give the woman some sense through a different perspective, a more logical one. It was doubtful it would work, but you had a certain wishful way of seeing the world that nobody else knew about. Obviously that was the reason for your next, carefully chosen words.

"So, let me get this right," You tried your best to keep your composure, to remain calm and collected and speak in a tone that reflected it, "You sent home every single male student from campus, essentially creating the dream opportunity for the unsub, to 'catch this guy'? What's stopping him from going on a mass spree? There's a campus full of only female students out there, just for him."

Not only was it problematic and sexist, it was incredibly stupid. The anger was evident in your voice, despite your efforts to keep it in check. Honestly, you had every right to be angry.

You ran a hand down your face before finishing with one final, crucial point, "Not to mention, the unsub could very well be one of those male students."

It was baffling, hearing and witnessing the stupidity this woman was exhibiting and presenting in the shape of federal orders.

In your peripheral, you could see Hotch, his focus locked on you. It seemed like he was ready to jump in when you lashed out, reading you as he waited for the outburst he knew was coming.

You would probably say something — even if it would not be nearly as unfathomable and incomprehensible as what Strauss had been bullshitting about — that would, simply because of your lower rank, get you kicked.

Again, that freedom... If you could have managed to draw a full breath, to calm down enough, you would have been able to smell it.

"We don't know that." Strauss argued, glaring at you through the screen. There was a flicker of annoyance on her face, and for that split second, the authoritative scowl she had carefully plastered on like it was a clown mask, faltered. She was getting angry with you, but knowing when to stop was not one of your many good qualities. It was not in your file, so it probably should not even have been expected of you.

"Exactly," You spat the words with the force of your emotions, "We don't know." What was not clicking? It was an obvious point, at least one would think it was. Why would someone make decisions based on nothing?

Unbelievable. It was infuriating to know not only would more students be killed, simply because of the stupidity of her orders, but you were also getting increasingly terrified to think about the lack of support for the role you were to play.

You were supposed to be one of those students, like the ones that were killed. Supposed to lure the unsub out, to make you his next target.

Everything about this mission allowed for just that last part. You were going to be his target at some point, yet that would be all. A target, and then a dead one. Because they would not actually do anything helpful to prevent it.

There was no system, no way for you to get out other than by yourself, and that — thanks to the very first decree of the devil's laws — that was not going to happen. Not without you going against her command, to protect yourself.

To. Protect. Yourself.

You were going to die.

"What the absolute fuck is that kind of decision?" Your voice raised to shout above the roaring in your ears as your pulse increased to a thunder. It was deafening, drowning out the voices around you.

You had to get out, quickly. Now. This could not happen. Not in front of her and certainly not in front of him.

Out of the kitchen at least, you could do that. Yeah, that should be possible. You had to be able to make it that far.

Hotch had said your name at some point, but it was lost in the unforgiving sea of your mind. Whisked away by the stormy winds of your thoughts before it could register.

An explosion erupted in you, a volcano of anger, of panic and anxiety. Fear. The walls were moving in, the floor was a blur. Everything felt like a trap. A cage.

You could not do this.

You could not breathe. It was like the air refused to get down into your lungs, despite the way you were desperately gasping for it. Even as your chest heaved, your lungs ached and burned with desolation.

Breathe, you tried to tell yourself, to command your lungs to accept the air. Breathe for fuck's sake. Why could you not breathe? It was a fundamental requirement to stay alive, and yet you could not even manage that? Embarrassing.

Smell the flowers, blow out the candle.

One, two, three — no, not enough. It was not working.

You could faintly make out the stairs through the haze clouding your vision, and dashed for them. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor, that could help. It had to.

You were going to die, that was what she wanted, was it not? Die for this case, die for them. Yet, the victims were gone, dying for them would not change anything. They were already dead and he would kill more.

It would not stop with you. Not when they were not doing anything to prevent it, to help you, to catch him.

There was nothing to do but die. And for what?

Who would know? There was no one else. Everything around you — the friends you had made, the memories and experiences, every moment you had felt loved and desired — nothing was real.

You were all alone.

All alone and your fate was in the hands of someone who did not even care enough to try. Did not seem to want to, either. You were no value to the team, or the Bureau, that was what you understood now.

Seven lives had been lost for nothing. As would yours be.

You swung the bathroom door open and barely managed the step over the doorstep before your knees gave out. The world tilted and faded to black. The one last reminder of just another one of your failures.

You forgot to breathe.

 ──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

"Hey."

A deep voice said from somewhere in front of you as soon as you opened your eyes. You squinted against the bright, white light to locate him, and found him standing tall at the foot of the bed with his eyes narrowed on you.

Hotch held a glass of water in one hand and what looked to be a wet washcloth in the other, dripping onto the floor as he walked around the bed to sit beside you.

He put the glass on the bedside table and glanced down to you, a flicker of hesitation, before he reached over to place the cloth on your forehead. It was lukewarm, not the cold relief he probably intended it to be, but it made your stomach flutter with butterflies. Or nausea.

Yeah, that was more likely.

It was an odd thing, seeing him take care of you. A stark contrast to the Unit Chief you knew him to be.

Very boyfriend of him... Whoever would end up with that man would be very luck—unlucky. In the famous words of the wise Ursula, a Poor Unfortunate Soul. Really.

"How—" Your voice croaked like it had not been used for years, and your throat felt drier than your sense of humor. Which was hard to believe could even be possible.

Hotch furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, until he pieced it together and reached out to hand you the glass of water he had put there only a moment ago.

You swallowed a mouthful of water under the intensity of his stare. It was unnerving, being under the microscope like this. It turned your skin feverish and sent shivers down your spine.

"I ran upstairs after I heard a crash and found you on the bathroom floor. You were out for like two minutes." He sent you a disapproving glare, but it was weak and not at all like the glares you had gotten many times before. This was more fabricated, feigned, to hide the worry flashing in his eyes.

"I carried you to bed, thought you'd be more comfortable." More comfortable than the bathroom tiles? Was that a joke?

Did he make an actual joke?

The gleam that twinkled in his eyes confirmed your suspicions, and the small curve on his lips revealed the enjoyment he felt about his own show of humor. It was cute.

You huffed what could somewhat resemble a laugh, "Thanks, it is." He watched you for a heartbeat, scanning your face as if he was looking for something.

Finally, seemingly satisfied by whatever answer he got, Hotch turned his head to look out the window.

"Do you know where Spencer is?" You asked softly. His whereabouts were still unknown to you. It had been bugging you since the phone call with Lizzie, and you had not gotten the chance to talk to him. So much had happened, yet absolutely nothing at all.

After talking with Penelope, and then the weird conversation with Lizzie, both you and Hotch had ended up on a video call with Strauss instead of Spencer.

The man in front of you looked back from the window as he contemplated his words, carefully picking which ones you would get to hear and which ones you would not, "He's following up with the police."

A non-answer. Nice.

"Where's he staying?" You clarified your question, knowing the Unit Chief sitting on the bed with you would do anything to not really answer, if he decided it was not something you needed to know. A little annoying, that was. A lot annoying, in fact.

Spencer was your friend, not just coworker, and you deserved to know what it was he was doing.

Hotch pursed his lips and furrowed his brows, no doubt calculating how to give you as little as possible, "Hotel." Short and precise, yet not satisfying at all. Just like a lot of men… Not him though, despite his answers being exactly that.

"What are you not telling me?" There was something he was not sharing, something he knew that he was keeping from you for whatever reason he saw fit. You could tell, and it unnerved you more than anything.

Usually he had good reason for his decisions, but good reasons to keep it from you meant there was bits of knowledge you did not know of.

His jaw clenched, his gaze flickering down to the lower lip you were chewing on as he, again, contemplated. "He's got a profile, that's why he's at the station." Oh, okay. Spencer had leads on the case, then. He had actually managed to investigate. It made you wonder if he was under the same orders as you were.

If Hotch even was.

You tried to gather the loose strings of your mind, to tie your thoughts together to somehow make sense of the glimpses and pieces of knowledge you had as you kept chewing on your lip. A bad habit, perhaps, to bite down either on your lips or the insides of your cheeks, but it helped.

It dawned on you then. If Hotch knew of Spencer's whereabouts and that he had made a profile, it would be likely that everyone back at the Bureau also did. "So, the order from Strauss—"

"No." He said quickly, cutting you off as if he was waiting for it. You sighed in honest relief, feeling a lot better knowing you did not make a complete fool of yourself simply because you were left out of the loop. It was the bullshit you thought it was, then.

"What happens now?" You lowered your voice, suddenly all too aware of the weird silence that stretched throughout the room. A calm before the storm, that was what it felt like.

He met your gaze, and the slight furrow of his brows told you he felt it as well, "Nothing, until we're told otherwise." Great.

The energy in the room shifted.

You held his stare, as he did yours. As if they would reveal something, show you the reasons that would explain the shift between you. The words left unsaid, the secrets left untold. Perhaps you were searching for your own.

Hotch cleared his throat and looked away, opting for studying the non-existent pattern on the curtains instead. "Would you mind telling me what happened?" He asked, in a quiet way that seemed almost hesitant.

You were not really sure what had happened. One moment, you were pissed off and about to invent a whole new dictionary of curse words directed to the Section Chief. The next, you had fainted on the bathroom floor.

"Are you sick? Is there something I should know?" He did not follow with 'is there something I should know — as your Unit Chief', yet it was what he meant. You could tell by the scowl reappearing on his face and the authoritative professionalism of his demeanor.

He asked as your Unit Chief. Not as your love interest, not as the Aaron you had slept with. Your boss, team leader, coworker.

Because that was all you were. All you wanted to be. Right? Right.

"No, I'm fine." The lie tasted acidic on your tongue as you spoke it. You were not fine, and it felt like things were getting worse by each passing moment. It was a rollercoaster around him. One second you were sleeping beside each other, eating breakfast he had cooked for you. Another, you shrunk under his glare.

He cared about you, until he had a job to do. He praised you, made you blush, even smile — until he felt the need to remind you it was the roles you were to play. It was confusing.

"You're not fine," He declared, leaving no room to argue with him, "I can tell, but I'm here if you want to talk about what it is that's—"

"I don't. Especially not with you."

It was harsh, shooting him down without letting him finish his sentence, and unnecessarily mean. He did not deserve your attitude, even more so when he had just done his best to take care of you. He was simply worried about you, and offered you a shoulder to lean on. To be there for you.

It sounded worse than you had intended it to. You had not meant for it to come out that way.

The guilt hit you immediately.

You did not want to talk about it, that was true. However, there was a lot more to it. It was not like you did not want to talk about it with him — though, you supposed you did not want to either — it was the ocean of emotions and secrets you did not want to acknowledge. It was the feelings, the new ones more than the old, that terrified you to admit the reality of.

His jaw clenched, the muscles tightening as he got up from the bed. The same way it did when he disapproved of your actions, when you had disappointed him, defied him in some way he did not appreciate. Yet, it was different this time.

This time, you felt the panic rise up your throat. All you wanted to do was take it back, more than anything. Regret and guilt, shame and anxiety, it all churned in your gut. You were getting nauseous.

Hotch gave one shake of his head and turned, heading for the door.

You ran a hand down your face, cursing yourself for what you likely had now destroyed with one stupid sentence. Fuck. You watched him leave the room and heard him go down the stairs, with horror and a self-loathing so immense, it caused your hands to tremble. You were shaking as you kicked off the covers he had pulled over you, tucked you under.

Without thinking, you followed after him. Through his bedroom door, down his stairs and out the front door of his house. The house he had let you stay in when you were too drunk to be in your dorm alone. When he wanted to keep you safe.

It was the biggest mistake you had ever made. That was certainly what it felt like, at least. You did not even stop for a moment to think, to wonder what it was that had changed within you. What it was that could have possibly been the reason for your panic. The cause of sudden desperation and desire for his concern.

Because you wanted his concern. You wanted him to continue to worry about you, to keep you safe.

Hotch passed through the gate of the white picket fence and turned right. Your pace picked up, but his steps were faster, determined to get somewhere you did not know about. The area was still so unknown to you, if you lost him, you would not find your way back.

Would he even want you to come back?

The increasingly aggressive wind and the warm, sticky air revealed the thunderstorm rolling in. You could smell it, feel it pressing in your sinuses, though you did not care. There was no room in your panicked and frantic state of mind to think about it. All you could see, all you could hear, all you thought about was the look on his face and the hurt flashing in his eyes.

It replayed over and over again.

You were sure of one thing, and one thing only. The look on his face would haunt you. It made your chest ache and your stomach churn. Your vision blurred and the world around you spun as you followed after him through a creaky gate. Dizzy and trembling.

The line of sight was limited, through the thickening clouds and darkening sky. A sea of trees scattered throughout the grassy park, with wooden benches placed between the spaces between them along the trail. Across the park, behind the tree tops, you could barely make out the tops of stone buildings. Campus, you guessed, it had to be.

Why was he heading for the campus? To get to your dorm and pack your stuff?

Would he send you back to Quantico? No, no. He would not do that. There was still a job to do, even if you destroyed all hopes of building… Building a bond of trust between two coworkers. Right. It was hard to breathe.

You managed to catch his arm and pull him to a stop, right as rain started falling from the heavens above.

Hotch twisted to face you with the scowl still firmly planted on his face. It was nauseating, that scowl, you found yourself starting to hate it. Even more so when it was directed to you. He rarely scowled when the two of you were alone, not anymore at least. The version of him you had come to know, come to like and appreciate, that was the one you felt slipping through your fingertips. And you hated it, more than anything.

"Please," Your chest heaved as you tried to alleviate the thirst, swallowing the thick humid air, "I'm really sorry." The apology fell from your lips repeatedly, an echo of guilt. A chant of shame.

He said nothing, did nothing. Hotch stood still in front of you, listening as your apologies shifted to sound more like desperate pleas. Although that was what it was, a desperate attempt to fix what it was you had broken. You wanted to rewind, to turn back time and do it again.

"If you can't tell me what's going on with you, how am I supposed to trust you? Or know that you trust me?" His voice remained calm and collected, as if the words he had just said weighed nothing. That almost hurt more, seeing him so stoic and unfazed, when all you could feel was panic and restlessness. You hated him for it, despised him for it. Yet, you hated yourself even more.

It was your fault for lashing out, your fault for ruining everything between you. All you had wanted and dreamed of, but did not dare to pursue. A dream that crumbled by your hands.

Everything was confusing.

You could not understand what war was raging inside of you, and even so, it controlled you. It tainted your thoughts and coursed through your veins. The overwhelm of emotions clouded your vision. You swallowed and tried to blink away the haze, "I do trust you, I just–"

"Then prove it to me. Tell me what's going on with you." His demand went unanswered. It hung in the air between you. Not because you could not answer him, but because you did not want to acknowledge it for what it was. To admit it. That made it real.

The truth scared you.

"You had a panic attack so bad, you fainted. On the bathroom floor. Do you expect me to just let that slide, and let you get back to work?" His eyes flickered between yours, searching for the very thing you were trying to push down. The truths he wanted that you clung to with closed fists and desperation to keep from him.

You wanted to expect that he would let it slide, and that you could move on and get back to work, yet you knew better.

Actually, that was not the case. You did not know better, because knowing better meant telling him the truth. Again, the truth was a terrifying thing.

Hotch shook his head, though it was barely noticeable, almost as if it was to himself. "This can't work if we don't trust each other." He spoke quietly. Despite it, you did not miss the undertone of his voice, the insinuation behind his words.

You stilled, frozen in time, while your mind raced.

"What can't work?" The quiet question almost disappeared, whisked away with the wind, but he heard it. He blinked, his jaw ticking as he realized what he had said, what you had heard. Your heart pounded in your ears, the waves of your pulse crashing in time with the swaying trees.

The man in front of you stood silent, like a statue, not even his eyes moved away from you as rain dripped from his face. He had no answer. If he did, then, by the looks of it, he was not about to give them to you.

Which was fair, if you were to be honest. You did not deserve to know his, if you could not give him yours.

His shoulders dropped slightly in defeat as he sighed, "I know you're scared, and I get it. I don't approve of her orders either, but–"

"Yes, I'm scared," You cut him off without thinking, without realizing it before the words had fell out of you, "But the case has nothing to do with it." It was not entirely true. The case had something to do with the stormy waves of fear and panic that flowed through you. Yet, not nearly as much as the man in front of you had to do with it.

There was too much inside of you, and everything wanted out. All at the same time. As if your emotions and your thoughts — every feeling inside of you was a body of water — and the dam you had built to keep it contained, was weakening by each passing heartbeat he kept his eyes on you.

It needed to come out sooner or later, however it was getting increasingly clear that later may never come.

Hotch watched you in silence as he waited for your explanation. He noticed the way your breathing picked up, how your shoulders tensed and the way your gaze flickered to the ground. The pressure weighing on you, pushing and pulling to get out of whatever cage you had shoved it in. He could not do anything but wait and listen, as you let everything spill.

"I'm scared, Aaron, because of the war raging inside me every time I'm near you. Every time I hear your voice, or feel your touch, all I can think about is how it's nothing. There's nothing between us, it's not real." The words rushed out of you with a hurry. Every emotion laced your voice as you revealed them.

If you stopped, if you took a breath, you would not continue. Instead, you would find a way to shove it down deep, so deep it would never reappear.

So, you kept going.

"At the end of the day, I'm going to get killed because of something that's not real. And it hurts to know it's not going to matter how real it feels to me, or how badly I wish it could be. It's not." A tear fell down your cheeks, concealed by the drizzle of rain that fell from the sky.

As if it listened, and did not want you to be alone.

"So, yes. I'm scared. Terrified. I can't breathe." Your chest heaved as the weight lifted and another took its place. He said nothing. He did not move. Only his eyes held yours, unblinking and unflinching, while the sky poured down its own emotions.

In sympathy or understanding, or in pity, it did not matter. The cool droplets felt wonderful on your feverish skin, even as droplets turned to downpour, and soon enough, you were both soaked.

The rain hammered down around you as a crack of thunder shook the ground, yet your eyes remained on each other. Locked. Unmoving and unwavering.

For moments, there was nothing else. Nothing more than you and him, dripping wet, a foot apart under the thick clouds of the thunderstorm. 

And then, there was the screams.

Both of your heads whipped towards the sound. The instincts kicked in and took over all thoughts and emotions you were experiencing. Everything was pushed back as you snapped into the choreographed dance you had done so many times before.

Despite it, and despite his better judgment, Hotch looked back to you. He knew full well it might have been the very act that cost someone their life, and even still, he did it.

It did not even register until it had already happened, but you caught it.

He snapped out of it and reached for the gun strapped to his ankle. It was the only one he had on him, though it was more than you had. You had nothing, no weapon, no means to protect yourself other than your hands and the jumbled jelly that was your mind.

What could go wrong?

Hotch pushed his gun to you as he grabbed his phone and dialed the police, his other hand hovering over to shield the screen from the pouring rain.

It was automatic. Almost natural. A familiar move with a familiar rhythm, akin to the beat of your heart.

You raised the gun up, treading forward quickly and quietly, the same way you had done countless times. Usually, however, you would both be armed and with communication to the team, not sharing a gun and squinting through the thick wall of downpour as you made your way blindly towards the screaming.

As another scream echoed, Hotch hung up the phone and took the gun from your hands. The thick clouds and rumbles of thunder might have dampened the sound, but it was still piercing. It was a female screaming, at least that was something. Not much, but without Spencer's profile, access to anything about the case and suspects, or even communication with the police, it was something.

Hotch held you behind him, a hand firmly gripped around your wrist as a leash. To make sure you were there, or perhaps it was to hold you and keep you from doing something stupid like run off, or faint again. You had not planned any of the above, for once.

On the bench, a couple trees down from the trunk you were standing behind, laid a woman. A girl, more like. You could not see her clearly through the rain, but you could tell by her screams.

A dark figure knelt above her, on top of the bench with one leg on each side of her body to keep her still as she trashed against him. There was no one else, not that you could see.

Hotch leaned down to whisper in your ear, "Stay behind me, you hide and do not engage." The warmth of his breath fanned across the cold, wet skin of your cheek and you shivered, "Is that clear?"

He straightened enough for his eyes to be leveled with yours as he waited for your confirmation. You swallowed, going over the command one more time to try to remember it.

"Have I made myself clear." Hotch repeated himself with a glare. He was not taking any chances with you, not when you had a tendency to defy his orders, no matter what they were. The possibilities of getting to you if you did defy him — which he had weighed and calculated over and over again — they were next to none.

It was also another way of proving your trust to him.

"Yes, Sir." You swore with a whisper and intended to keep it. There was a flash of surprise, and perhaps satisfaction in his eyes, until he moved. You kept close, creeping through the trees to the little opening, before you dashed right to hide behind a big tree trunk.

There was a commotion. A faint sound of someone shouting, but it was drowned out by the loud rumble of thunder. It was unnerving, not knowing what was happening behind you.

You could not see him, hear him. All you could do was trust him to keep himself alive, and hope for the best.

Not ideal.

The panic reappeared in your throat and you tried to remind yourself to breathe.

He could very well have been dead, even despite the unlikeliness. Chances were never zero. Never. Hotch had a gun, the unsub used a knife. But what if it was not your unsub? What if this one did have a gun?

The facts and the panicked thoughts mixed together into a soup of anxiety. Fear coursed through your veins, creating a lump in your throat and mush in your mind.

With your backside pushed against the bark, you closed your eyes and filled your lungs with air, and tried to remind yourself of what you did know.

Number one: you were a trained federal agent. It would be really embarrassing to have a panic attack behind a tree trunk. Get it together. Breathe.

Number two: Aaron Hotchner was somewhere behind you. If there was one certainty amongst the sea of uncertainty when it came to him, it was that he had your back. No matter how he felt about you, or did not feel about you, he always had your back.

Number three: keeping your eyes closed when a serial killer was around, was a bad idea.

The thick clouds, pouring rain and booming thunder hid the sounds of footsteps. Issued no warning of someone approaching.

A cloth forcefully covered your mouth and nose right as your eyes snapped open, but it was too late. You had no chance, whether you would acknowledge that, or not. No chance against the man in black with the familiar shade of stormy blue eyes that you could not place.

Right then and there, you swore to never again carry out breathing exercises with your eyes closed.

The darkness reappeared — it wrapped you in a warm hug as it consumed you — and welcomed you to the silent sea of your mind. Again.

──────────﹒★﹒﹒─

we're nearing the end guys!!! i think there's going to be two more chapters, but i'm... yuh.

if you tolerated this (which i’m finding increasingly hard to do myself) please TELL ME ABOUT IT so i don’t accidentally never finish this because i hate it <3

love, millie<3

─﹒﹒★﹒──────────

a three-part mini series following the FBI's least favourite duo as they struggle to come to terms with their feelings.

series & part titles from the maroon 5 album "overexposed".

SERIES MASTERLIST ─ ✧

ᢉ𐭩 - fluff | ✶ - angst | ❀ - smut | ༄ - hurt/comfort

one more night | ❀ after every case, the same bad decisions draw you and spencer reid together like magnets. you tell each other it's just sex, that you hate each other, but you can't deny the way your ribs ache when he kisses you, and he can't hide the jealousy he feels when you insinuate that he's not the only person you're sleeping with.

lucky strike | ❀ your car breaks down on a case, and sharing a motel room with your least favourite coworker becomes quite the challenge when he insists on pushing all your buttons. fortunately, you know just the way to get him to shut up, even if it's just for the night.

love somebody | (?) a mortifying memory, a near-death experience, and a much needed conversation; the perfect combination to get two tight-strung agents to finally address what has gone ignored for far too long.

Your previous assessment turns out to be wrong—the bullpen is empty.

It isn't that you're expecting fanfare when you arrive, but total solitude feels too pointed. A planned statement without a single word uttered.

Elizabeth Prentiss had it drilled in your head that clothes and grooming are the first things people notice about someone, the first shot at making an impression and controlling people's perceptions. It's a lesson you've taken to heart. Not a single hair out of place, shoes gleaming, makeup minimal. Every single inch of you screams effort and maintenance. You are burnished stone, shiny and always ready to face a crowd.

It's all a little embarrassing to be dressed to the nines, and have no audience.

You glance at your phone. Check the date, the time—all correct. You're here earlier than required, but not enough to enter a room without a single soul to greet you. You resist the urge to frown, though the suspicion keeps ringing in your ear. This isn't worth getting wrinkles over, not yet. One phone call to the Section Chief should clarify this—though you think it's way too early in the day to be dealing with Erin Strauss, and you loathe the thought of seeming incompetent—so you swipe through your contacts for her number.

"Oh my gosh, you're here!" a voice comes from your right, too bright and loud for such an hour. "I mean, they said we're getting a transfer, but you're a little early and–oh, this must be so confusing. Hi, I'm Penelope Garcia."

Thank god. You do not want to call Erin first thing in the morning like some sort of lost child seeking comfort from a parent.

A flurry of colors enter your peripheral, and you pocket your phone as you turn. Penelope Garcia. She's tall, click clacking in her stilettos—a vivid pink that matches her lips, quite a stark contrast to your sleek navy ones—and wearing an outfit that would probably get a memo if she didn't work in a department that tends to bypass the smaller bureaucratic rules.

"Hi, Penelope." you muster up some warmth and smile back at your savior. "I can see why the BAU needed me to transfer this year." you gesture around the empty room.

She laughs, and the expression seems to complete her entire look. Vivacious and bright, like sunshine slanting through windows in the spring.

"Oh, you have jokes. We're gonna get along very well. No, the team flew to Colorado last night on an active case."

"I wasn't informed of that."

"I'm sorry, that was supposed to be my job, but it slipped my mind with everything else happening." she ushers you to the staircase, talking a mile a minute. "You get your own office, of course, as the new liaison. It hasn't been cleaned out since JJ became an official profiler— both Hotch and I have our own offices—we filled in the position for time being, but Hotch wants to be more present for his son, and I really can't do it anymore, not with the other tech analyst stuff. So now you're here! We'll have to get the name on this nameplate replaced, of course, and oh my god I totally haven't let you introduce yourself yet."

Your smile falters slightly, but Penelope is too busy rattling the old doorknob to notice. Introductions. Yes. Normally, you carry your name like an honor, volunteer those facts with pride, but the circumstances here are… complicated.

"Don't tell anyone, but I was trying to open your file, but you're like, super secret for some reason. Usually Agent Strauss tells us who the new agent is, but for you it's all sealed." she adds.

For good reason. The door finally opens, releasing a muted scent of must and old paper. Your nose wrinkles in disgust, but you follow Penelope inside without complaint. It's dark and moody, even after she flicks on the light, filled with boxes of old files, probably archival cases. Jennifer Jareau's nameplate sits on the table, covered with a thin layer of dust, and you get an odd sense of intrusion.

You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here. Emily kept it secret from you for a reason and you should keep it that way.

"So, mystery agent, to what name are we changing the sign outside?"

It's almost cartoonish, the consecutive expressions on her face once you finally say your name. Once she catches that damning word—Prentiss. It's a gradual shift, a slow blink of incomprehension, before the similarity registers, her pretty eyes widening in realization. And then, confusion. It would've been funny if you weren't on the receiving end of it.

Penelope Garcia wears every emotion clear as perfectly polished glass. You file that thought away for later.

"Yes, that Prentiss."

You're prepared for it. Have a script memorized for any questions. It doesn't even offend you when Penelope laughs, disbelieving and shrill.

"She never told us she had a… a sister?"

"Emily does have a habit of keeping secrets, doesn't she?" you say lightly, a feeble attempt at humor even though the words feel like nettles clawing up your throat.

Penelope blanches, deflates, and it's an interesting thing to witness, like watching the sun get blocked by a large cloud in real time and feeling the subsequent shade. She flounders, hands waving vaguely by her side, clearly unsure of what to do, how to handle this information that's been unceremoniously dumped upon her.

"How… why?" She finally manages, a fragile whisper drifting in that dusty room. "Who else knows?"

You blink, considering. The answers to that lies with Emily, but you can make guesses. And Penelope's line of questions isn't outright hostile, which is good. You can work with curiosity. That's easy to win over, though no less dangerous. Penelope isn't all cotton candy and rainbows, of that you're certain.

"She's the only person who can answer that." You shrug, and your smile is only slightly strained. "I think Agent Hotchner knows, but I'm not sure and he's not here to confirm."

Penelope nods, taking it all in with a crease between her perfectly plucked brows. "That's… right, of course. Um, so this is your office and—"

She's cut off by a phone call, the identical tune that's programmed into every federal-issued phone. You both reach into your pockets in unison, but it's Penelope who has to answer.

"Garcia… Yes sir," she smiles apologetically and angles her body away.

For the second time today, you feel like you're intruding. Almost like a kid playing dress up, strategically choosing an outfit that excudes confidence and respectability, only for everything to be too big. You smooth your hands over your blazer to reassure yourself it's not the case. It's tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of your waist and flaring slightly at the hips, snug without being inappropriate.

Still, your stomach turns as Garcia murmurs into her phone. You swivel, focusing your attention to the table, running your fingers over the files stacked on a neat pile and pretend not to hear. Penelope's voice is lowered, but she doesn't leave the room, so you really can't be faulted if you catch snippets—murmurs of she just arrived and I'll send it as soon as I can.

"Duty calls?" you say after she says goodbye, glancing over your shoulder.

Penelope nods. "Yes. Unfortunately. But Hotch says you can shadow me while they're gone. I can brief you on the case, if you want?"

Shadowing someone when you're a fully competent agent with a long list of credentials should feel like an insult, a slight to your skills. Maybe if it came from someone else, it would land that way, but Penelope just sounds genuine and slightly nervous.

So you nod. "Lead the way."

You did not expect to spend your first few days in solitude, nor did you expect to be summoned by the Section Chief not even a week into your transfer, yet here you are.

Erin Strauss' office is almost identical to your mother's. Well lit and perfectly kept, with a shelf of impressive books just behind the expensive reclining chair. Credentials framed and hanging proudly on the walls. Upon her desk lays a nameplate bearing her name and title, a telephone, and a neat stack of folders perfectly aligned. A cursory glance tells you nothing of her life outside the Bureau, no pictures of her family, of friends, none of the colorful trinkets that litter Penelope Garcia's office.

Impersonal. Perfectly contained and professional, just like your mother's.

It makes you feel even more on edge.

Your mother's offices, whether it's stationed at home, or across Europe, or the Middle East, were always a place to keep your guard up. There is no telling what invisible flaw will catch Elizabeth Prentiss' keen eyes, or earn her clipped, mildly disproving tone of voice. The Section Chief's office carries the same atmosphere.

In that regard, you feel like you've been trained all your life to face the likes of Erin Strauss.

Poised in your pantsuit and heels, you face her like she's another journalist asking for a statement. Polite neutrality, lips curled in the lightest hint of a smile.

"How are you finding the BAU, Agent Prentiss?" If the familiarity of the name bears any ill feeling, Erin Strauss doesn't show it.

"Well enough, there's really nothing of note so far."

She tilts her head, waiting for more.

"Ma'am, my transfer occurred while they're all on an active case in Colorado. There's not much else to tell you, unless you want to hear about how I've spent the last three days cleaning out Agent Jareau's old office."

Her lips thin, unamused. "I would have hoped you'd made yourself more useful. Your last unit chief sung praises about your initiative."

"I've helped Penelope Garcia contain the online panic, and looked through Facebook—"

"Facebook?"

"Part of the background check." You smile. "I've been helping the team from behind the scenes as much as I can, which is ironic considering my job is to be their public facing representative."

Her shoulders draw back, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it. You always do. Noticing these things come like breathing to you by now. You do not know the section chief well enough to put a name to this shift, but your instincts, honed by years of people watching, tell you Erin Strauss is an administrative agent first and foremost.

Read: she values agents who will play along, who move within the red tape.

Meaning, that straightening of her posture is her offense materializing, and she thinks your comment, no matter how carefully worded it may be, isn't as innocuous as you'd tried to make it sound.

"But I'm learning a lot of valuable insights from Agent Garcia." you add quickly, hoping the save is satisfactory.

"Such as?"

Such as they don't trust you. At all. At least, the few agents who know of your existence—Hotch, who you've only talked to on the phone, and Garcia, who is kind but acts skittish when there are lulls in the case and she's forced to socialize with you. You can't blame either of them, considering your identity, and the circumstances of your abrupt transfer. Fuck's sake, who assigns a new agent to a team while they are in an entirely different state?

None of this had been your fault. You've been caught by the red tape too—you'd requested this transfer last year, when Emily still worked with the team, but for whatever reason, they delayed and kept you stuck in the California office. Your mother had warned you about that—she had less sway in the west coast—but at the time, all you had wanted was to get as far away from the Prentiss legacy as you can.

But the BAU is too busy to care about specifics. And even if they weren't, you know the wound is still too fresh. Emily coming and going—dying, but surprise! not really— carrying secrets the whole time.

Terrorists. Espionage. You.

No, you definitely don't blame the team for their distrust.

But Section Chief Strauss is looking for an answer, and that feels too personal to divulge.

"Such as the growing degree of these new social media websites in relation to serial killing. Platforms like Facebook and Twitter make it easier to map victimology, track social circles and routines. So many people volunteer the information online, in ways that would take investigators week to uncover decades ago." you reply instead, deliberately keeping the topic about work.

"That can't be all you're learning from this."

You resist the urge to sigh. "Not necessarily, but a victim's social media presence offers access to a lot of things. I'm not learning anything necessarily; I'm helping out. Garcia's workload is only going to increase with all these new websites, after all."

"Interesting." But Erin Strauss sounds the complete opposite of interested. The word slips out absentminded. Unimpressed.

Your ears prick at that sound. The slow drag of syllables, the flat tone. You've heard it one too many times; in your world, it indicates the beginning of criticism. What you could improve, how poorly you're doing. For a fleeting moment, Erin Strauss morphs into your mom and suddenly you're sixteen and sobbing from anxiety.

You blink. Clear your throat. The woman in front of you is not your mother, and you fixate on the graying strands of Strauss' hair, silver melting into blonde, to keep your focus.

She's waiting for something; people in positions like to do this—drop hints, let the silence stew until it grows so unbearable the subordinate slips. Talks without an objective and stumbles into whatever is needed from them. A secret? A confession, maybe?

You can tell Erin Strauss is good at this game. Has the patience and cool authority to circle around it, stare you down for hours, if necessary. Unfortunately for her, your job is quite literally meant for this.

"Very interesting indeed, ma'am." You smile, syrupy and bright.

She gives up. "Has anyone mentioned Agent Prentiss?"

Ah. A name, then, and perhaps a story attached. No matter where you go, Prentiss carries a significance.

Your smile doesn't waver, though your brows furrow innocently, projecting a sense of confusion. You aren't above taking advantage of these social dynamics; Director Strauss clearly relishes in her power, though she would never flex it explicitly.

"Nothing beyond the usual surprise, though I must reiterate they're on an active case, and I haven't met the rest of the BAU yet. Besides, Emily has transferred, I don't understand why she's relevant to my work with this team." You say, blinking like a helpless baby deer.

She makes a sound that's half sigh, half groan. Director Strauss' next words are careful, but impatient, as if she's speaking to a dolt. "She's relevant because this unit has experienced difficulties regarding… personal loyalties."

There it is. It is easy to ignore the borderline patronizing tone that colors her voice when she plays right into your hand and reveals information like this. Personal loyalties? What on earth could that mean? Beyond what happened with Doyle, had Emily done anything else? Had the other members?

"And you're making sure I won't become another one?"

Strauss says nothing, but that's answer enough. So this team is loyal, perhaps to a fault, but Strauss isn't just worried about that—she wants to information. About the team. Perhaps from a fresh set of eyes.

You could almost respect it, if she'd say it outright.

"By all means, ma'am, be blunt and tell me what exactly you're looking for so I can give you better answers the next time you decide to check in." you say.

Erin Strauss looks caught, both by your audacity, and the unexpected call out. Her mouth parts, then clamps shut, a little like a fish, before her gaze sharpens like steel.

"I am not looking for anything."

"My apologies, then. For a moment, I was worried you got the wrong sister. Emily's the one trained in espionage, not me."

You wait for the subsequent chill, for the air to grow cold. Instead, Erin Strauss huffs, frustrated but… amused.

"You're just like you're sister."

You bite back a smile. Better Emily than your mother.

"Most people seem to mean that as a criticism."

For the first time since entering the office, Strauss' mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "Merely an observation. And maybe a warning—your name inevitably carries assumptions, agent. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost."

The team does their best to welcome you, considering the circumstances. At their arrival, there's confusion and betrayal stitched into their very being, stiffening their handshakes and freezing their cheeks so their smiles never quite reach their eyes. It's all so awkward you find yourself thinking Strauss is wrong—your family name isn't making them embrace you. It's acting more like a wall, involuntarily erected and keeping you away from certain members of the team.

Alex Blake has it easy. She receives you with open arms, aware of the history but detached enough to evade the awkwardness. She's kind and warm, but is close enough to your mother in age that you're always half expecting some form of criticism to fall from her lips whenever she asks your opinion over something—usually language related, her field of expertise. Nothing ever does; in fact, she seems eager to know your thoughts, engages in your ideas with genuine curiosity. It always takes you by surprise. You are always braced for the ball to drop, ramrod straight and perfectly polished, just in case her eyes wander to your hair, or a smudge in your make up.

David Rossi just seems happy you know they have a new liaison. Told you that job drove poor Garcia to tears, like he's warning you about the horrors you're about to face. Once in a while, a syllable slips and you know Emily's name was at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he shifts and calls you kid like you're 23 and green, instead of someone with years of experience under your belt. Somehow, the word never drips with condescension, and the familiarity with which he says it tells you he probably called your sister the same thing. At some point, you begin to welcome it.

With Derek Morgan, things get a little complicated. He looks at you like he's looking for traces of Emily, but he's not sure if he actually wants to find them. Some days, it seems like the similarities—your manner of speaking, the sharp intellect, the obvious rich kid background—gives him relief. Even brings a fond smile on that handsome face, however reluctant it may be. Other days, he can't look you in the eye, choosing to address the files in front of him instead of you, as if even a glance is risky. Part of you understands; your presence is not only new, it is secrecy personified. Emily's mysterious past made even worse. You don't push. You value workplace dynamics over being fully accepted, and if this is the inch he's willing to give, then you'll be content. For now.

And your predecessor. JJ, trained in communications and appearances, and you can tell she was good at her job because you can't quite get a read on her. She spent an entire year fooling her teammates, so every interaction with her is tainted with layers of this knowledge. You never know if anything she says is genuine. Or perhaps it's your resentment manifesting as distrust. She knew your sister was alive. If her feelings mirror yours—after all, Emily trusted JJ with her "death," but still kept her little sister a secret—she doesn't show any hint of it. Every interaction with JJ is warm, if a little awkward, and you can never tell if it's because she's smoothed over the rough edges, or if they were never there to begin with. Maybe the problem lies only with you.

Spencer Reid doesn't have a social life. At least, that's what you've concluded from the short amount of time you've spent here. He stays in the bullpen almost as late as you do, but somehow manages to avoid you entirely. It's easy to do, considering you spend the evenings holed up in the liaison's office, and he's always bent over paperwork—Rossi's and Morgan's, never his own. According to Penelope, it's a playful arrangement between them, though Spencer never tells you about it. Never tells you anything, really. He doesn't talk to you unless it's directly related to the job, so everything you know about Spencer is from observation. Gangly and smart—the type to make you know it, too, with his constant statistical tangent and information dumps, aka unbearable. Currently, his avoidance means you've never had to be on the receiving end of his rambles, of which you are thankful.

"How were your first three weeks so far?" Aaron Hotchner's office is surprisingly more homey than the Section Chief's had been—pictures of his son on the desk, a couple more family pictures displayed proudly on the shelf behind him. Ironically, it feels more imposing, but that might have more to do with Hotch's presence than the decor.

If you opened the dictionary and looked for the word 'impassive' you're almost certain a picture of Hotch is provided there instead of a linguistic definition. But maybe you just haven't learned to read him yet. That'll come with time. So far, he's made no mention of Emily, but talked about your mother, which is so much more embarrassing. It seems like you're stuck chasing away the shadows of two impressive women before you, and doomed to fail no matter what you do.

"It's been going well, sir. I think I'm adjusting to your team's rhythm."

"Our."

"Sorry?"

"Our," Hotch looks up from the file. His eyes are pitch black, but warm. "You're part of this team now too."

"Right. I'm adjusting to our team's rhythm." When you smile, it's not forced. Hotch is perhaps the last person you expected to accept you explicitly, but the relief it carries breaks past your usual politeness. Still, Erin Strauss' voice lingers in the back of your head like a broken record. This team might embrace you for it, but that loyalty usually comes at a cost. Any efforts to silence it is futile.

Your new chief responds with a friendly nod.

"And yes, I'm inclined to agree. The request for your own nameplate should come in today." Hotch says, thumbing through a file one his desk. "Along with that, I think you're ready to take over fielding the cases on your own."

You blink; the only reaction you allow yourself to express. He and Garcia had been easing you into the job, allowing you to handle the older cases—closed ones, some needing follow ups and check ins—while they taught you the ins and outs of going through the newer reports that come in. What you need to look out for—not just victimology, but time frames and geographic patterns. Cases involving children get prioritized, but only if there's an existing pattern, otherwise they get redirected to ViCAP. While it's true that you've slipped into the team's rhythm near seamlessly, you hadn't expected them to give you full reign after only a couple of weeks.

"If you're certain, sir, then I would be more than willing to do it." Your back straightens even more, if that's possible.

"I am. Your work prior to this unit has been exemplary, and I'm allowed to overrule the probation period on account of the skills you've shown. And you've been doing a good job, agent, I see no reason to keep you under our supervision."

You nod, "Thank you sir. Honestly, I was beginning to think Garcia was going to lock me in her techno cave to start organizing her glitter pen collection."

Hotch's mouth curls up for a fleeting second, but vanishes before it becomes a full smile. "Garcia knows not to waste your skills on her collection, as expansive as it is."

A stack of files slide towards you, teethering comically from the action. "I trust that you'll choose with vigilance and care. It's easy to get overwhelmed by the cases that come in, but quantity does not always dictate urgency."

"That's noted, sir." With a last nod, you rise and step out of his office. Your heart pounds, but you're unsure if it's from nerves or excitement. Likely both. Likely both, and then some. Because as you leave Hotch's office, you catch Spencer and JJ, heads bent together like they're sharing a conspiracy, take one glance at you and jump apart.

Your smile is plastic. Erin Strauss' words ring in your head, louder this time, as you lock yourself in your office.

series masterlist.

Derek had gotten home late last night, joining you in bed in the early hours of this morning, and then sleeping in late once the sun had risen again.

you didn’t mind, especially when he looked so peaceful in bed. but Derek sleeping in also meant you were able to get stuff done around the house, which you were thankful for.

his bags were still by the door from when he came home, so you’d taken out the clothes that needed washed and put them in the washing machine. 

he had woke up by the sound of the washing machine, tiredly making his way towards you before stopping in his tracks at the sight of you.

the laundry hamper was on the floor in front of you, and next to it was a t-shirt you had dropped from his bag, cursing to yourself as you didn’t notice it before turning on the machine.

but behind you, Derek’s eyes had dropped to your ass as you bent over to pick it up, humming to himself in approval.

slowly, he moved towards you, both of his hands resting on your hips and instantly making you jump at the sudden contact.

“just me baby”

he murmured against your ear, holding you to his chest once you had stood to your full height once more, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

“i thought you were still asleep”

you told him, glancing back at him and shaking your head at the hunger that was slowly clouding his eyes.

his hands on your hips kept your ass against his crotch, allowing him to rock slightly against you, a silent tell of what he wanted.

“i missed you”

Derek told, making you laugh to yourself, shaking your head again before reaching down for the laundry basket and gasping as he rocked against your ass with more force and need.

your left hand shot out to lay against the wall, steadying yourself while Derek grunted above you.

“really Derek?”

he only flashed you a pleading look in response, his thumbs stroking back and forth across your hipbones while you sighed.

his lips pressed to the corner of your jaw as you stood up again, slowly turning to him and tilting your head as you looked at him.

“say please”

a laugh fell from his lips, unbelieving at first, before realisation and acceptance crossed his features as he realised you weren’t kidding.

“please baby? i miss you”

you didn’t say anything more, you cradled his face in both of your hands and pulled him down into a kiss, smirking against his lips as he whined out.

Derek’s hands stayed on your hips, trying to pull you impossibly closer while his hips rocked against your thigh, grinding his already hard cock against you.

"show me where it feels good, right there?"

his breath caught in his throat as one of your hands slid down his chest and towards the front of his boxers, teasingly trailing your fingers across his bulge while he nodded desperately.

he rutted into your palm, grinding his bulge against your hand before a groan fell from his lips.

“right there? need to use your words”

another whine fell from his lips, a protest fighting its way to be the next thing to leave him, but as your hand continued, his protest died on his tongue.

“..right there, oh fuck”

you smirked against his lips, easily slipping your hand under the waistband of his boxers before wrapping your hand around his cock.

Derek groaned at the contact, already rocking into your hand as you kissed him again, slowly starting to pump your hand.

a low groan fell from his lips while his forehead dropped to your shoulder, rocking his hips into your touch while you continued to move your hand with a teasing rhythm.

“like this, baby?”

he nodded slowly, groaning out as the slick sound of your hand around his cock filled the room, followed by his groans.

his hips bucked up into your touch again, throbbing and leaking into your palm while your free hand gently urged him to lift his head.

you leaned in, kissing him again and swiping your thumb across his slit, smearing the precum across the head of his cock while a breathier groan fell from his lips.

“baby..”

Derek murmured, pleasure plastered across his face and his eyes screwed shut as you continued to stroke and tease his cock.

“what Derek? does it feel good?”

before you finished getting the words out, he was nodding, groaning again and thrusting up into your palm.

it had been a while since you had seen him this desperate for it, and it sent a shrill of want shooting through your body.

despite his current desperation, jerking Derek off was always easy. the noises that fell from his lips always gave away what he did and didn’t like, or the whines that slipped told you exactly how close he was without using the words.

you knew Derek, and his dick, like the back of your hand.

his lips crashed against yours again in another needy kiss, your hand continuing to pump his cock as his tongue pushed into your mouth and moved against yours, deep and claiming while he throbbed in your touch.

“you close baby?”

he nodded at your question, groaning against your lips while his face knit together in pleasure, unable to hold back his next desperate moan.

“please baby..”

it came out as a desperate plea, and you couldn’t help the smirk that made its way across your face.

Derek rested his forehead against yours as your hand continued on his cock, pumping him with a steady rhythm and twisting your hand on the upstroke just to hear him groan again.

his hips rocked into your palm, chasing the tightness of your fingers around his dick.

the head of his cock was leaking steadily, easing the strokes of your hand with the copious amount of precum spilling from him.

“almost..”

he grunted, unable to form a full sentence as pleasure blazed through his body, already lost in the feeling of your hand.

pleasure thrummed through his body as you worked him closer to the edge, his body already coiled like a finely tuned spring ready to snap.

Derek was already teetering right on the edge and you both knew it, and you were determined to send him over the edge.

his hips bucked up into your touch, a silent and desperate plea for you to finally let him topple over into his orgasm, but you wanted to work him a little closer first.

“a little more Derek, i know you’ve got it in you”

because he did.

he always had the stamina to go round for round when he fucked you, it just seemed to slip away when it came to handjobs.

not that you were complaining of course, it was an ego boost after all, knowing you had such an affect on him to ruin him from only a handjob.

“please baby.. i’m right there”

you kissed him again, your hand continuing in quick wet strokes that had him groaning loud and lewd.

Derek grunted, his lips pressing to yours in another kiss as your hand moved quickly over his cock, pumping him again and again before he fell over the edge.

“that’s it baby, i’ve got you”

he groaned at a mix of your words and his orgasm crashing over him, your name toppling from his lips before a guttural groan tore from his throat.

his hips surged up, fucking himself into your fist as he spilled himself into your hand with another groan of your name.

your hand continued, stroking him through his climax until he pulled your hand off of him with a low whine.

“fuck..”

despite his sudden sensitivity, pleasure and bliss was painted across his face, making you smile into your next kiss.

“thank you, baby”

Derek whispered into the kiss, holding your face in both hands as he kissed you back with more force and easily pulling a soft moan from your lips.

he smirked triumphantly against your lips, making you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face.

but as you pulled back, you lifted your hand to your mouth, trailing your tongue along your fingers as you licked up his release with a teasing glint in your eyes.

another groan fell from Derek’s lips as he watched you, his eyes following the movement of your tongue as you gathered up his cum and licked your fingers clean with a satisfied hum.

“oh you’re trouble, baby”

you hummed around your fingers, only pulling off of the digits after a long minute.

Derek leaned in to capture your lips in another kiss, groaning into your mouth as he tasted himself on your tongue.

“your favourite kind of trouble”

he chuckled softly against your lips, his hands pulling your arms around his neck while his hands found your hips again, gently pulling you against his chest as he spoke.

“can i repay you for being such an angel?”

Your fingers pull on the roots of Spencer's mussed up hair, and your back bows when the tongue that'd been flicking at your clit circles your entrance.

A moan rips through your throat when he slurps, collecting a mouthful of your wetness and swallowing.

"There you go."

Derek's observing the both of you, arms crossed and his own fingers tucked over his mouth, contemplative.

Spencer whimpers in pain when the heel of your foot shoves itself into the skin of his naked shoulder blade in an attempt to pull him closer. The ache in his upper-back doesn't perturb him from grinding his hips down onto the mattress below him.

"Give her your fingers now." Derek says lowly. "Don't be afraid to go too fast. She can take it."

"Derek." You gasp, and he just chuckles instead of reaching for you like you want. "Spencer." You call for either one of them, and Spencer's left hand searches for yours blindly until it reaches you, and he intertwines them together. It settles you.

"He feel good, princess?"

Reid's fingers are thinner than Morgan's, and when his ring finger slips in next to his middle, he crooks them, adjusting his wrist before pulling in and out of you.

The experimental thrust snatches the air out of your lungs.

"So -" You choke. "So good."

"You don't think he wants you to tell him that?"

You look down from between the valley of your naked breasts, your nipples hard, aching, and wet from the relentless teasing that'd gotten you this soaked in the first place breaches your vision when your eyes captures the genius'.

His irises are blown out and dark. A thick fog clouds his focus, but he moans as he looks up at you. His wrist work is unrelenting, his digits curving themselves, searching and determined to find your g-spot.

You're shaking, and your legs tremble from where they're thrown around him. "You're doing so well, Reid." You praise, and he takes your clit in his mouth, and suckles. "He's a fast learner." You add with a whiny chuckle.

"I don't call him boy wonder for no reason." Derek remarks with a thick smirk.

Morgan's forwent his shirt, and his pants hang low on his hips to reveal a sharp v-line that disappears into his waistband. A part of you wants to beg him to put his cock in your mouth, but this is supposed to be a learning experience. You've seen Spencer occasionally throw a glance or two to the side at him before focusing back on you.

You can't say you blame him.

You're not sure how many professional boundaries the three of you have crossed in the span of two hours, but the chinese food you were sharing in your apartment sits abandoned on your coffee table, along with your clothes.

It was a stupid joke that Morgan had made, and it somehow spiraled into getting Spencer to open up about his lackluster sex life. The next thing you know, your boyfriend's offering you up to him, and after a moment of contemplation, you agree, and find yourself on your back.

You don't know what this means for you and Derek, but you don't think he's too worried about it, because the hand that was ghosting over his mouth reaches down to grip at the thick print in his jeans.

"You want in?" You ask breathily, and Morgan raises a thick eyebrow.

"You being greedy?"

You giggle and look down at Spencer, running your fingers through his hair. "Uhnt uh." You grin. "Just wanna help him out after I cum."

You're seeing how far you can push this, because nothing's been pre-established. You're letting him know you're down for anything, and the ball is in his court.

"Maybe after."

That's not a no.

You let your eyes flutter closed when a third finger adds itself to the mix, and your hips shoot up against his face when the pads of Reid's fingers meet your g-spot.

"Shit!" You cry out.

The twist to Spencer's wrist is brutal now, and his brief suckling turns into full on sucking, like he's trying to steal your soul out through your clit.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck -" You babble. "So, good. So fucking good."

You can see Spencer's humping get rougher the closer you get to your orgasm.

"Fuck yeah, give it to me." You moan. "Put your -" You huff. "Put your tongue in me. Rub my clit."

Spencer's quick to comply, the switch between pleasure seamless when the muscle in his mouth shoves itself inside of you, and his thumb swipes at you in fast strokes.

"Slow -" You pant. "Slower. It's not a race."

"Sorry." Spencer mumbles with a mouthful of you. It's the first words he's spoken all night since he kissed you earlier.

"It's not your fault." Derek scoffs. "She's a needy little thing."

"Don't be mean!" You mewl.

The tension lifts with your banter, but it doesn't stop you from spasming around him when sips at your hole.

"I'm almost there, just -"

He lets go of cradling your hand to come up for air. He's panting, his mouth is absolutely soaked, and he gets up on his knees in a hurry, pressing down on your stomach to hammer his digits.

"I got you," The genius breathes. "I got you." He licks his lips, "I didn't have a good angle from down there, sorry."

The sounds that come from between your legs are vulgar, and your boobs bounce with each thrust, and your neck grows hotter than it already is.

Derek looks on with pride as your hips jump, and your cries of pleasure grow higher and higher until they finally crescendo. Your vision goes white, and you claw at Spencer's forearms in desperation to keep yourself grounded.

You hear the two men talking when you resurface.

"Good job man." There's a slap and you know Morgan clasped his shoulder. "I knew you could do it."

"Thanks." Reid sounds as sheepish as he usually does when he's praised.

Ugh.

Men.

Derek had taken you out to dinner tonight, despite being away with the team on a case that had been closed out yesterday.

he had been promising to take you out again, murmuring about how he was going to “wine and dine” you when he got the chance.

but you hadn’t expected him to take his chance now.

during dinner, Derek had a smirk firmly planted on his face all night while he whispered teasingly in your ear.

it was infuriating, and Derek knew it. hell, he used it against you.

when he finally got you back to your hotel room, he was on you instantly. his hands moved across your sides, easily pulling you tight against his chest while he kissed you fiercely.

you moaned against his lips, your hands grabbing at his shoulders to steady yourself while he walked you into the room.

but then he was kissing you with more hunger, his hands moving across your sides as he made quick work of your clothes.

he left you in just your underwear, something he did often after you went out to dinner together, but it usually resulted in his head between your thighs.

his hands moved to your panties, his thumbs stroking across the delicate lace while he smirked up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Derek gave a sharp tug, different to the tugs he gave when trying to remove your underwear.

this tug caused a whine to fall from your lips, though it was quickly followed by another gasp as he tugged again, more insistent this time, while the lace teared slightly.

"if you tear that, you're paying for it"

he chuckled, smirk firm on his face as his fingers pulled at the lace.

a sharp ripping sound filled the room as he tore the lace apart, baring you to his gaze before he let out a low whistle.

“so pretty”

Derek praised, his thumb spreading your folds to admire you for a second longer, before he pulled away.

his hands moved to his own body, deftly working open his belt and shoving down and off his bottoms and boxers until he was bare before you.

you watched as he wrapped his hand around his cock, a low groan falling from his lips as he began pumping his hand.

“touch yourself for me”

he prompted, his hand continuing on his cock as you stared at him in a mix of need and disbelief.

“Derek! you just ripped them, you owe me a new pair”

instead of granting you with an answer, he only smirked over at you, continuing to move his hand with a growing need.

it was annoying, how smug he was and how attracted to him you truly were.

“i’ll buy you a new pair, but i want you to touch yourself for me, baby”

you could only nod in response, slowly slipping your hand between your legs and breaking into a moan at the feeling.

Derek watched the way your fingers moved around your clit, easing yourself into the feeling of it as a sharp heat filled your core.

he groaned at the sight of you, his hand continuing its wet glides along his shaft while he moved closer to you, leaving barely any room between you.

“did you bring it?”

his words came out in an almost breathless plea, his eyebrows pulled together as another groan fell from his lips.

but you knew exactly what he was talking about, even with him not fully saying it.

you nodded slowly, reaching over into the hotel rooms nightstand to fish out your vibrator.

Derek’s smirk widened at the sight of it, amusement flooding his eyes while you brought the vibrator between your legs.

a dull ache started between your legs as you turned it on, the vibrator humming softly while you broke into a moan.

“you really brought it?”

he asked as your eyes squeezed shut at the thrumming pulse, sparks igniting in your core and another moan falling from your lips.

“i don’t leave home for extended periods of time without it”

the gentle buzz of the vibrator doesn’t do anything to muffle Derek’s laugh, but you didn’t pay it any mind, instead focusing on the heat filling you whole.

your eyes hazily moved over to him, watching as he worked his cock with a practised motion. each pump he gave himself caused your cunt to flutter around nothing, entranced by each twist and stroke he gave himself.

“feels so good..”

you moaned out, head thrown back into the pillows as your orgasm started to make itself known.

“let me eat your pussy after?”

he asked, his cock twitching at the mere idea of having his mouth on you, and it added to the pleasure coursing throughout your body.

his cock throbbed in his hold, the head of him dribbling with precum that he used to help ease his strokes.

the strokes of his hand were getting wetter and quicker, filling the room with the dull thrum of the vibrator, your moans and the slick slide of his hand.

“Derek.. need you”

at your words, Derek seems to know exactly what you need. his free hand slips between your legs, one of his fingers pressing against your entrance before pushing in with ease, your wetness helping him as he added a second finger.

“like that, baby?”

you nodded, your walls fluttering around both digits as he began pumping them, your arousal dripping out and around them.

Derek continued to pump his fingers, moving them in time with every thrum of the vibrator on your clit and his own hand on his cock.

the heat in your belly was a raging inferno, your body clenching and building you closer to your peak until it became too much.

he broke into a groan as you came with a cry of his name, your walls spasming around his fingers while euphoria washed through your veins.

“that’s it, good girl”

a strangled groan fell from Derek’s lips as he stiffened next to you, your eyes watching as he followed you over the edge with a low groan.

ropes of his cum spurted from his cock, coating his stomach and hand with his release.

carefully, you turned off the vibrator and tossed it aside, smirking against his lips as Derek leaned in to kiss you.

“thank you”

he murmured, already stealing another kiss from you before you broke the embrace, carefully lifting his hand to your mouth with a mischievous smirk.

another groan left him as your tongue darted out, licking up his release and easily breaking into a moan as the taste of his exploded across your taste buds.

“fuck sweetheart”

when you pulled back, you giggled to yourself, already leaning in to kiss him again. Derek groaned into the kiss, tasting himself on your tongue while moving you onto your back.

his body settled between your thighs, a steady weight that had heat already starting to rebuild in your body.

“can i fuck you now?”

you nodded slowly, watching as Derek pulled your leg up and around his hip while positioning himself at your entrance.

“you still owe me a new pair of panties”

he chuckled into the next kiss he pressed to your lips, his hips rocking forwards and the head of his cock pushing into your warmth.

both of you moaned out at the feeling, your fingers digging into his skin as he slowly pushed in the rest of the way until he bottomed out.

“new underwear plus interest, i’m holding you to it Derek.. now please fuck me”

“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”

Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.

“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.

A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.

“This conversation is so inappropriate.”

JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.

“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”

That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.

Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.

Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.

Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.

“Freaky.”

Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.

“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”

Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.

“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”

JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.

Prentiss takes the floor first.

“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”

Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”

It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.

“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”

Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.

“Go on.”

“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”

Hotch’s eyes bore into you.

“Elaborate.”

“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”

He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.

“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”

Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.

“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”

---

Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.

Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.

Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.

“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”

He feigns innocence.

“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”

The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.

“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”

Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.

“Holy shit.”

Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.

“What is it?”

“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”

Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.

“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”

A beat. More keyboard clicking.

“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”

“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”

Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.

“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”

You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.

“Great, that narrows it down.”

Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.

“Hardly.”

You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.

“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”

Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.

“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”

You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement. 

Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.

“Unless we plant one.”

She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.

“No.”

You huff out a frustrated laugh.

“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”

Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation. 

Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.

“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”

You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.

“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”

JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.

“How’re you gonna do that?”

You shrug.

“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”

“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.

Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.

“It’s our best shot and you know it.”

---

Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.

You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.

Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them. 

The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway. 

“Damn, woman.”

You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.

Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.

He shifts uncomfortably for a second.

“It’s a bit much, no?”

You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.

Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.

“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”

That shuts him up.

---

One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things. 

They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet. 

Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.

As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.

Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.

“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.” 

Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.

You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.

Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.

Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of site behind a pillar.

“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.

Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.

Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.

“He’s gone.”

As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”

“Good.” he grits out.

“Good? We have him.”

Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.

“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”

Now you really lose your cool.

“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”

Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.

“It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”

You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.

“I am not.”

Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.

“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.

Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”

You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.

Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.

“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”

Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.

With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.

Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.

Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length. 

Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.

Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely. 

Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.

You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.

Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.

As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.

The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.

Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.

Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.

“Bathroom.”

Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.

Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.

JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.

“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”

You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.

“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”

Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.

“Huh. That’s... out of character.”

---

Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.

You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.

There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.

Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.

You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull. 

Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.

---

Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.

Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied. 

Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.

You feel a presence looming behind you.

“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”

With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

You bark out a laugh.

“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”

Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.

It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.

“Women like you need to learn your place.”

Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers. 

One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.

You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.

Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red. 

Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.

Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.

“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.

Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub. 

You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.

Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.

“You doing okay, kid?”

You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.

“How did you find me?”

Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.

“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”

Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.

Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now. 

The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head. 

“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”

His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.

“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”

You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.

Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.

“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.” 

You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.

“Is he dead?”

Hotch lets out a small sigh.

“Yes.”

You lower your voice.

“Did you do that for me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently. 

Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.

“Everything’s fine. I promise.”

And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.

the whole thing had started because your best friend had made the mistake of asking a simple question.

“who’s the biggest flirt in this room?”

immediately, everyone’s eyes had landed on you.

“oh, that’s easy,” one of your friends had laughed, pointing across the room. “it’s her.”

“absolutely not,” you protested, already smiling.

“absolutely yes,” another replied. “you literally spend half your time talking about how irresistible you are.”

you gasped dramatically, clutching your chest as everyone started laughing.

“first of all, confidence is attractive.”

“that’s what confident people say,” someone muttered.

“because it’s true.”

from the other end of the couch, joe watched the entire exchange with an amused smile, one arm resting along the back cushion behind you.

big mistake.

because the second you noticed him smiling, you pointed directly at him.

“see? joe gets it.”

“do i?” he asked.

“of course you do.”

“interesting.”

you narrowed your eyes at the obvious challenge in his voice.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

joe just shrugged.

“nothing.”

everyone immediately started making noises.

“oh, no,” javi groaned. “he’s doing the thing.”

“what thing?” you asked.

“the thing where he acts innocent when he’s about to annoy someone.”

joe looked deeply offended.

“i would never.”

“liar,” wes said.

the conversation moved on after that, but not before you had spent another twenty minutes confidently explaining exactly how charming you supposedly were and how joe had clearly fallen for you first.

every time someone challenged you, you doubled down.

every time someone laughed, you became even more dramatic.

and every single time, joe simply sat there listening with that infuriating little smile.

the one that said he knew something you didn’t.

by the time the night was over, you were determined to wipe that look off his face.

unfortunately for you, the smile only got worse during the drive home.

“what?” you finally demanded.

joe kept his eyes on the road.

“nothing.”

“joe.”

“what?”

“you’ve been smiling for twenty minutes.”

“have i?”

you crossed your arms, “you’re annoying.”

“that’s not new.”

you rolled your eyes and turned toward the window, pretending to be offended while secretly fighting your own smile.

when you finally got home, you barely made it through the front door before joe spoke again.

“you know,” he started casually, setting his keys down on the counter, “you talk a lot.”

you spun around immediately.

“excuse me?”

“i’m just saying.”

“you’re just saying what?”

his mouth twitched.

“that you spend an impressive amount of time talking yourself up.”

you stared at him.

“wow.”

“what?”

“wow.”

he laughed.

“there it is.”

“there what is?”

“that look.”

you pointed a finger at him.

“i don’t have a look.”

“you definitely have a look.”

“and you definitely have a superiority complex.”

joe laughed harder.

“see?”

“see what?”

“you always get defensive.”

you took a step forward.

“i do not.”

“you do.”

“i don’t.”

“you do.”

“joe.”

“yes?”

you hated how entertained he looked.

you hated how unfairly attractive he looked standing there with messy hair and that stupid grin.

and judging by the way his eyes flickered briefly to your lips, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“you think you’re funny,” you said.

“i know i’m funny.”

you groaned.

“you’re impossible.”

“and yet you’re still here.”

your breath caught slightly.

just enough for him to notice.

because of course he noticed.

the smile on his face softened.

the teasing was still there, but something warmer settled underneath it.

something that immediately made your stomach flip.

“what?” you asked quietly.

joe took a slow step closer.

“nothing.”

“joe.”

“you talk a big game sometimes.”

your heart skipped.

“and?”

another step.

“and i think it’s cute.”

you rolled your eyes despite the heat rushing to your face.

“cute?”

“very cute.”

“that’s not what everyone else would say.”

“good thing i don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

the room suddenly felt much smaller.

much quieter.

you swallowed.

“you’re still annoying.”

“probably.”

“and smug.”

“definitely.”

you shook your head.

“i can’t stand you.”

joe smiled softly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“that’s a shame.”

“why?”

his gaze dropped to your lips again.

“because i was thinking about kissing you.”

your breath caught completely this time.

“you think too much.”

“maybe.”

“and you’re still smug.”

“maybe.”

you tried to come up with another comeback.

you really did.

but the second he stepped closer, every thought disappeared.

and when you finally closed the distance yourself, joe’s smile vanished beneath the kiss.

“you’re. so. impossible” you said between the kiss.

he pulled back just enough to grin against your mouth, one hand curling warm around your waist to hold you steady, thumb brushing slow over the curve of your hip.

his breath came a little fast, the familiar smug glint softened by what’s still there, bright and unmissable.

“you’ve already said that” he kissed the corner of your mouth again, slow and teasing. “but you keep kissing me back. so who’s really the fool here?”

“fuck you”

he barked a laugh against your neck, teeth scraping lightly against your pulse before he pulled back to look at you.

his pupils were blown wide.

that signature smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

his fingers thread tight through your hair, tilting your head up.

“mmm. patience. you gonna let me, or are you just gonna keep running your mouth?”

you arched into him, your hands fisting the front of his soft knit sweater, and his smile deepened when your breath hitches in your throat.

he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your jaw, his other hand slipping lower to grip your waist.

“c’mon. use your words. i know you’ve got ‘em.”

you sighed, “just—”

his thumb brushed slow over your bottom lip, pressing down just hard enough to make you go quiet, his gaze dark and warm all at once.

he leaned in, his mouth brushing yours instead of kissing, the heat of his breath fanning over your skin.

“just what, baby?” he teased, the nickname slipping out soft and low.

“c’mon, tell me what you want.”

after some seconds of debating yourself in your own mind you finally whispered, “fuck me.”

he groaned low in his throat, kissing you hard and hungry, one knee shifting between your thighs to press up against you.

his hands roam slow over your sides, calloused fingertips catching on the hem of your shirt.

“good girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, smiling when you shiver. “was that so hard to say?”

you rolled your eyes.

he catchedyour wrist before you can move away, laughing softly as he pins it gently above your head, his body pressing full against yours, warm and solid against the wall.

his smile softens, all the smugness melting into something quieter. “don’t roll your eyes at me now, baby. you said what you wanted.”

he noticed the way your breath catches at the pressure against the wall, and his free hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone slow and gentle.

the quiet intensity in his gaze makes your skin prickle.

“you still gonna act like you don’t want this?” his voice drops to a rough murmur, mouth hovering just over yours. “be honest.”

“i don’t want it against the wall.”

he huffed a warm laugh against your neck.

releasing your wrist to hook both hands under your thighs and lift you clean off the floor.

your legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

he shifted toward the nearby unmade bed, his smile tugging sharp and hungry. “good thing i had other plans anyway, baby.”

“what plans?”

he dropped you gently onto the soft mattress, leaning over you to brace his hands on either side of your shoulders.

his hair falling in a messy fringe over his forehead.

he grinned, slow and teasing, and pressed a slow kiss right between your collarbones. “you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

“fuck…okay”

his grin widened at how breathless you already sound.

his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to brush warm against the soft skin of your stomach.

he left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your sternum, pausing just above your waistband to look up at you through dark lashes.

“okay what? say it again. i wanna hear you.”

“i’ll wait and see.”

he chuckled again, low and rough against your skin, his fingers fumbling just slightly with the button of your jeans before pausing.

his eyes flicking up to yours to check.

when you nod, he tugs the fabric down slow, his thumb brushing soft over your inner thigh.

“atta girl,” he murmurs, leaning back in to kiss you slowly and deep. “i’ll make it worth the wait.”

the calloused pad of his thumb brushes slowly over your skin, making you shiver beneath him, and he hums against your mouth, one arm sliding under your back to pull you closer.

his hair falls to tickle your cheek, and his smile turns softer, warmer against your lips.

“that’s it. just relax. let me take care of you, yeah?”

your breath hitches when his fingers brush higher, and he swallows the soft sound with a deep kiss, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold you steady.

the room feels warm, almost too warm, and the only noise is the quiet rustle of fabric and your uneven breathing.

“there we go,” he murmured, kissing your jaw slowly.

he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his pupils blown wide with want, that familiar soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

his thumb brushes a slow, steady circle against your skin, and he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“i’ve got you. don’t have to rush anything, okay?”

you nodded and he pressed a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, slow and deliberate, making your fingers twist into the sheets beneath you.

his name slipped quiet from your lips, and he groaned low against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone. “say it again.”

“joe—”

he repeated your name back soft under his breath, his fingers moving slower, right where you want him, just to draw out every little reaction from you.

he leaned in to kiss you hard, swallowing every quiet gasp that slips past your lips, his smile warm against your mouth. “right here, baby. i’m right here.”

when he pushed two fingers inside you he didn’t stop looking you directly at your eyes, still with that damn smile of his. “where’s that attitude of yours, huh?”

his fingers going faster and harder in every word he said, “weren’t you so confident?”

your legs started to shake, your orgasm growing up in your stomach, you couldn’t even make a sentence.

“talk now, baby” he whispered in your ear.

“i—fuck…please don’t stop.”

“i wasn’t planning to stop.” he presses his forehead harder to yours, his fingers speeding their steady rhythm, his thumb brushing over the spot that makes you gasp.

he kisses you messy, swallowing every sound you make, his voice rough and urgent against your mouth.

“that’s it, baby. go on. i’ve got you.”

he holds you through your orgasm, whispering your name soft against your neck and pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder while you come down.

his fingers slow, then stop, and he wraps his arm tight around your waist to pull you close against his warm chest. “there we go. did so good for me, baby.”

he brushes messy hair off your sweat-warmed forehead, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple while your breathing slows.

his thumb strokes slow, gentle circles over your hip, no urgency left, just quiet warmth.

“told you i’d make it worth the wait,” he murmurs, smiling into your skin.

you can’t help but smirk softly and he catched it.

his own teasing grin tugging at his mouth as he pulls you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your swollen lips.

he traces the curve of your jaw with his fingertips, warm and soft. “what’re you smirking about, huh? cat got your tongue now that i’ve proved my point?”

“oh shut up!”

“yeah, you’re right…we are not done yet.”

he brushes a kiss over your jaw, his hand sliding slow back down your side.

“oh, baby. i told you. we’re just getting started.”

then without a warning he just turned you into your stomach he helped you with your jeans and panties, taking them off completely.

his palm slides warm down the curve of your back, then squeezes soft at your hip, his thumb brushing slow over the sensitive skin just below your waist.

he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades, breath hot.

“so perfect for me,” he murmurs, shifting closer behind you.

his fingers dig gentle into your hips, pulling you back against him, and he groans low when he feels the heat of you through his own jeans.

he presses a line of open kisses up your spine, his breath coming rough and fast.

“you feel that?” he murmurs, rocking slow against you. “all this because you.”

“stop teasing, joe.”

he laughs rough against your shoulder, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans while his other hand keeps a tight grip on your hip.

“alright, baby. no more teasing. i’ve got you.”

he lines himself up slow, pushing in inch by inch.

both hands tightening on your hips when you gasp and arch back against him.

he groans deep, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades, breath hot and shaky.

“fuck, you feel so good. so fucking good.”

“oh fuck, joe.”

he sets a slow, deep rhythm.

one hand coming up to wrap around your shoulders to hold you closer.

his lips brushing over the back of your neck over and over.

his breath comes out hot and ragged against your skin. “oh fuck, baby. that’s it. taking me so good, aren’t you?”

all you could do is moan as response.

his hips stutter for a second when you do it, his fingers digging harder into your hip, and he groans low in his chest, leaning deeper over you.

he kisses just under your ear, voice rough and broken.

“god, i could listen to you make those sounds all fucking day.”

he shifts his angle, hitting that soft spot deep inside you that makes your whole body go tight, and he groans when you moan louder, his hand fisting tight in your hair.

he pulls you back against his chest, kissing messy along your shoulder.

“there you go. that’s it, baby. so fucking good.”

“i’m not gonna last—“

he wraps his arm tighter around your waist, his thumb finding your clit to rub slow.

steady circles.

his hips snapping harder against you.

“it’s okay, baby. go on. i’m right there with you, come on.”

when you finish he follows right after you, spilling deep with a low groan of your name.

his fingers digging hard into your hips to hold you still.

he collapses forward slow, pressing kisses to your sweat-slick back as you both catch your breath, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

he pulls out slow after a minute.

rolling onto his side beside you and tugging you into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

his thumb brushes lazy circles over your shoulder, his breathing still a little uneven.

“so, did you learned your lesson or what?”

you laughed softly and rolled your eyes, “i didn’t.”

“oh, maybe you need a second lesson?”

“yes, absolutely.”