dismalflo

[dismalflo]

hi! I saw your post about hotch requests so how about him and bau!reader get into a bigish argument on if they’re even working as a couple but then obviously get called for a case, and then something happens to reader (like gets taken, stabbed, serious gsw) and hotch starts to spiral bc he doesn’t want reader’s last interaction with him was to think he wanted to separate or that he didn’t love her. Hurt feelings but then happy ending <333

hi babe, thanks for requesting <3

you can read it here: how did we get here?

[dismalflo]

how did we get here?

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 3.5k words

summary: It's normal for couples to argue and fight, to kiss and make up. so why does this one feel like the end?

for this request here!!

cw: established relationship, angst, happy/hopeful ending, typical criminal minds themes and topics, reader is shot

“What do you want me to say, Aaron?”

You’re not even sure he knows what he wants from you. Everything about this feels off, like the whole world has shifted two inches to the right, just enough to make you dizzy. You can’t remember exactly how it started, only that it’s unraveled into this: the two of you, locked in a standoff across the kitchen counter, frustration thick in the air, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Right now, he doesn’t feel like your Aaron. Your Aaron is warm. Quick with a joke. Gentle, even when he’s tired. This Aaron is distant, sharp-edged, his face hardened by something you can’t quite reach.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, voice tight. His jaw is clenched, arms folded across his chest closing himself off from you. “I don’t know what I want you to say.”

You let out a shaky breath and glance down, blinking hard. If you look at him too long, you’ll cry. And you’re not sure he deserves to see that right now.

“Then what am I supposed to do? We’re talking in circles here.”

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. You know him well enough to see the signs, but not well enough – apparently – to understand what’s been brewing beneath the surface for weeks.

“I just–” he starts, then shakes his head like the words won’t come. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m twisting it?” That sparks something in you, some bitter flicker of pain that lights quickly into anger. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’ve barely looked at me in days. We live in the same house and I feel like I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”

His face tightens. “Because every time we talk lately, it turns into this.”

“Because you act like I’m against you every time I bring it up.” you snap, the heat in your voice covering any cracks.

Rationally, you know a good amount of this argument is useless. Yes, you feel neglected but Hotch has been swamped, more so than usual, with a million different requests from Strauss and whoever else. Really this is all just stress bubbling over for the both of you. That doesn't make it hurt any less.

That silence comes back – sharp, suffocating. Your chest feels too tight, like there’s no space for air with all these unsaid things between you.

And then it tumbles out of you, soft, unsure. “Maybe we need some time apart. To figure out what we’re even doing.”

It’s the last thing you want. It’s the last thing you thought you’d ever have to say to him. But you can’t keep walking on this knife-edge, pretending like everything is okay when it’s clearly not.

His head snaps up. “That’s not what I mean,” he says quickly, and this time there’s panic under the frustration. “I don’t want that.”

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it’s no use. The tears are already slipping down your cheeks, and the sight of them seems to disarm him.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Your voice breaks, full and raw. “Because I’m trying, Aaron, and I don’t know what else you want from me.”

His face softens for a fraction of a second – just enough for you to see that he’s hurting too – but he still doesn’t move toward you. His arms remain crossed, his expression flickering between guilt and stubbornness. It’s like he’s stuck in place.

Aaron’s phone buzzes sharply on the counter, slicing through the tension like a blade. You both flinch. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then, with a sigh that seems to scrape its way up from his chest, he reaches for it.

You don’t have to hear what’s being said. You already know.

His posture shifts the moment he answers, shoulders stiffening, voice low and clipped. You’ve seen the transformation a hundred times before. Agent Hotchner. It’s almost eerie how quickly he slips into the role. You grab your coat from the back of the chair and move toward the door, already pulling on your shoes.

You don’t wait for him to finish. You know the drill by heart: someone’s missing, or dead, or will be if you don’t get to them in time.

He hangs up with a sigh that sounds heavier than anything he's said all night. His eyes flick to you, still tense, but somehow smaller now. Less angry. Just tired.

“We have a case,” he says quietly, like it costs him something to admit.

You nod once, not looking at him. “Yeah. I figured.”

You reach for your go-bag from the hall closet, the motions automatic. Zip. Sling. It all feels mechanical now, like everything between you has been whittled down to routine.

“I’m gonna drive myself,” you add, voice quieter now. “I need some time. To cool off.”

You expect him to protest, just a little. A glance, a word, something that says he hates the idea of putting more space between you. But he doesn’t.

He just nods, jaw tightening. “Okay.”

That’s it.

You open the front door, and the cool night air hits your face like a shock. You linger for half a second on the threshold, hoping – stupidly, maybe – that he’ll say something. That he’ll stop you.

But the silence behind you holds.

And so you leave, your footsteps echoing down the path, your heart a little heavier with every step.

How did you get here?

-

 This whole case has been a mess in Hotch's head, he can’t stop thinking about you and how hurt you looked standing across from him in the kitchen. He should be thinking about the three dead women and the one that's currently in the hands of the unsub.

To your credit as an agent and his dismay as your partner (if you even want him anymore) you’ve been exceedingly efficient and professional. Only speaking to him about the case and only doing that when it has been absolutely necessary. Most of your time has been spent bouncing ideas off of Morgan or Reid or anyone else that isn't him. 

Whereas hotch hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what’s going on in your head despite the residual anger and frustration sitting inside of him. He loves you and knows – or maybe hopes – you can work this out together when you're home. But do you know or want that? He’s not so sure.

The minute the unsub is identified everything moves quickly, like it always does. 

The team splits. Morgan goes for the garage. You head toward the backyard, your weapon steady in your hands even though your mind feels frayed at the edges. The grass crunches under your boots, every shadow a threat, the shed looming ahead like something out of a nightmare.

Hotch is still in the house, clearing rooms with Reid, but his ear stays tuned to every word over comms, every breath that doesn’t belong.

“Rear of the property is clear,” Morgan murmurs through the mic. “Garage looks undisturbed. Circling toward the shed.”

“I’m heading in,” you respond quietly.

Then, silence – just for a beat. And then your voice, sharper now, urgent: “Tyler. Drop the gun.”

The name alone punches the air out of Hotch’s lungs. His head whips toward the nearest window, heart suddenly hammering. You found him.

Through the living room blinds, he tries to angle himself to see the backyard. Nothing but warped shapes and the edge of the shed roof. He wants to move – needs to move – but logic overrides instinct. Charging out there might spook the unsub. He can’t risk that. You’re trained for this. Still, it doesn’t stop his whole body from tensing up.

“Tyler, listen to me. I just want to talk, but you have to let her go.”

Your voice again, calm and even. He closes his eyes for half a second and listens.

Then Morgan’s voice cuts in.

“Moving in from the left.”

“Morgan, wait—”

But it’s too late.

Chaos unspools in seconds.

A man's yell. Your voice, louder, panicked now– “Don’t! Don’t come any closer!” Then–

Gunshots. One. Two. Three. Muffled and fast. Then someone shouts, something thuds against wood, and everything on Hotch's end goes static.

He’s running before he realizes it, shoving through the back door and sprinting down the steps, breath tearing out of him in ragged bursts. He doesn’t feel his feet hit the grass. Doesn’t register Morgan calling his name. All he sees is you.

You’re on the ground.

There’s so much blood.

“Medic!” he yells, dropping to his knees so hard he jars his shoulder. “Medic now!”

You’re trying to sit up but barely. One hand presses against your thigh, the other limp near your side. Blood is soaking through your vest from a wound in your shoulder. The second he touches your arm, your eyes flutter open.

“Hotch,” you whisper, and it's not even your voice. It's breath and pain and barely there.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me.” He presses a hand to your leg in an effort to staunch the bleeding, panic clawing its way up his throat despite all the training he's ever had. “Help’s on the way. Just stay awake. Look at me.”

Your hand clutches weakly at his sleeve. “I–I’m sorry.”

Your voice is hoarse, barely more than air. Aaron shakes his head, frantic, heart plummeting at the sound of it. His hand is already soaked through with your blood. Warm. Sticky. Too much.

“No. Don’t—don’t say that,” he says, sharper than he means to. “Just be quiet. You need to breathe.”

You’re trying to talk, but each breath comes out harder than the last. He watches the way your body trembles, the tension in your jaw every time he applies pressure to the wound in your leg. A gunshot to the thigh. Deep. Dangerous. Femoral. He knows that much. Knows that kind of bleeding can kill you in minutes.

But it’s the shoulder wound that scares him more. You’re still bleeding there too, slower, but constant.

Your fingers twitch on his forearm like you're trying to apologize again, like you're trying to say anything. And it guts him.

“Don’t,” he says again, quieter now. His voice cracks as he presses harder against the leg wound and hears the broken whimper it pulls from your throat. “Shit. I know, I know—I’m sorry. I have to.”

He turns his head, voice ragged now as he shouts over his shoulder. “We need a medic! Now!”

No one’s close enough. He can see Morgan, gun still in hand, sprinting toward them with his comm pressed to his mouth, yelling for the med team. It’s not fast enough. It never is.

Your eyes are glassy. Too much white showing. You blink slowly, like your body’s too tired to keep up. He leans closer, brushing hair from your forehead with a blood-slick hand.

“You’re gonna be okay. You hear me?” He forces steadiness into his voice, but it’s barely holding. “You’re going to be fine. They’re on their way.”

You try to nod, barely. But your body is giving out beneath you. Limbs going slack. That horrible, horrible rattling breath.

“Aaron,” you whisper, eyes fixed on him now, like you’re afraid to look away.

His name sounds so small coming from you.

Hotch barely hears your voice, but it cuts through him more sharply than the sirens wailing in the distance, more deeply than the panic clawing at his chest.

“Aaron.”

Your lips barely move. Your gaze locks onto his like it's the only thing anchoring you here. And then—

Your eyes flutter closed.

Your hand slips from his arm.

And for one suspended second, the world around him stops.

“No, no—hey, hey. Stay with me.” His voice is cracking now. “Look at me. Look at me, damn it!”

He gently taps your cheek, once, twice, his hand shaking too much to pretend he’s in control anymore. There's blood on your lips now, seeping from the corner of your mouth.

“No. No, don’t you dare.”

The EMTs burst through the side gate at last, Morgan waving them over, shouting orders that don’t even matter anymore because Aaron is already on the ground with you, his knees in the grass, his soul leaking out with every drop of your blood.

“She passed out,” he says, quickly, voice clipped with panic. “Shoulder and thigh. Through-and-through, maybe. She was responsive before—she was talking to me.”

The EMTs descend like a coordinated machine. One goes for your shoulder, another for your leg. A third tries to get a read on your vitals, speaking into a radio with firm urgency. Hotch barely registers them, only backing away when one of them places a firm hand on his arm and says, “Sir, you need to give us space.”

Sir. Sir.

They don’t know what you are to him.

They don’t know how this is going to kill him if you don’t make it. If you don’t know how much he loves you.

He stands on trembling legs, his hands soaked in you. Covered in your blood. He stares down at them, fingers flexing uselessly, like if he just moved them right, he could undo this. Reverse it. Take it back.

How did he get here?

-

Aaron hasn’t moved in hours.

The chair beside your hospital bed is uncomfortable, stiff-backed and too low to the ground, but he can’t make himself leave it. 

The monitors beep steadily beside him, each sound tethered to some small, vital part of you — and he watches all of them like a man possessed. He’s never been one to pray, not really, but if willing you to live counted for anything, you’d already be walking out of this room.

You’re so still.

Too still.

A nurse told him the sedation was necessary, said your body needed time, rest, a chance to recover. But you don’t look like someone resting.

There’s a smear of dried blood still clinging to your hairline. They cleaned most of it, bandaged the wounds, hooked you up to machines, but Aaron still sees all of it — the way your hand slipped from his, the red that soaked his palms, the way your voice broke around his name like it was your last word.

It could’ve been.

And he just—he can’t stop thinking about the kitchen. About how the last time he really looked at you, you were crying.

You asked him if he even wanted to be with you anymore. You asked him what he needed from you, and he couldn’t answer.

He should’ve said everything. He should’ve crossed the damn room and held you, should’ve told you that it wasn’t you, that it was never you. That it was the job. The pressure. The thousand things eating at him that made him close off because he didn’t know how to carry all of it and hold onto you properly. But instead—

Instead all of this is happening and it's awful.

And now you’re lying in a hospital bed with tubes in your arms and tape across your chest and a wound in your leg that nearly killed you.

His leg bounces, restless. Uncontrolled. He’s unraveling quietly in the corner of the hospital room and no one’s around to see it — or stop it.

He scrubs a hand down his face and stares at you again, heart breaking anew just from the sight of you like this.

It starts with a flicker.

A twitch of your fingers beneath the blanket, a shift in your breathing — tiny things, small enough that most wouldn’t notice. But Aaron does. He sees it all.

His spine straightens in the chair before he even realizes it. His hand reaches out, hovering just above yours. Afraid to touch. Afraid to hope.

Then your eyelids flutter, lashes trembling like butterfly wings against too-pale skin.

“Hey,” he breathes, barely more than air. “Sweetheart—hey. You with me?”

Your face scrunches a little, eyebrows pulling together as your head shifts on the pillow. It’s clumsy, slow. Your lips part, but no sound comes out at first — just a rasp of breath, like your body’s forgotten how to speak. You blink hard, struggling to focus.

Aaron leans forward, elbows on his knees again. “Take your time. I’m right here.”

Your eyes crack open, bleary and unfocused at first. They drift toward the window, then the ceiling. Then finally, finally, they land on him.

And then they widen.

Your lips move, but the words catch in your throat. He can see it happen, can see the panic and confusion start to bloom behind your eyes like bruises.

“No, no—it’s okay,” he murmurs, reaching out gently this time to rest his hand on yours. It’s warm. Grounding. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”

You swallow hard. “Aaron…” It’s wrecked. Barely your voice at all.

He stands quickly, grabbing the paper cup of water from the tray beside your bed. His hands shake a little as he slides a hand behind your head, lifting you just slightly.

“Slow sips, honey,” he whispers, pressing the straw to your lips. “Okay? Just little ones.”

You obey, and his heart clenches as you sip — one, two, three careful swallows before you turn your head weakly away.

“Too much,” you breathe. It’s still raspy, like every word scratches its way out of your chest.

He eases you back against the pillow, setting the cup down again. “That’s alright. You did great.”

There’s a pause — long, heavy, trembling. And then your eyes find his again, and you whisper, with every ounce of strength you can summon:

“I’m… sorry.”

It hits him like a freight train.

“No,” Aaron says quickly, sitting down again, leaning close. His voice breaks on the word. “No, sweetheart. You don’t ever get to apologize to me for this.”

You blink again, confusion creeping in at the edges. “I… I just– I said… we needed time apart. I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” he murmurs, brushing a hand gently along your forehead, sweeping your hair back. “God, I know. You were hurt. And I should’ve tried to fix it then.”

You’re quiet again, breathing shaky. “How long?” you ask after a beat, voice small. “

“Seventeen hours. Surgery was six. You’ve been sedated since they got you stable.”

You hum faintly. “Felt like minutes.”

“Felt like years,” he says, and when you glance at him this time, you see it.

The red-rimmed eyes. The pale skin. The haunted look in the crease of his brow. You can tell  he hasn’t slept. Probably hasn’t even left this room. His suit jacket’s long gone, his sleeves rolled up, and his shirt is wrinkled and still stained at the cuffs with your blood.

You reach for him with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing his wrist. “You stayed?”

His mouth twitches — almost a smile. It doesn’t quite make it. “Of course I did.” He takes your hand fully in both of his. “You really think I could be anywhere else?”

You squeeze weakly, not trusting your voice. And he leans in further, forehead nearly to yours.

“I was so worried about you,” he says softly, the words dropping from his mouth like a confession. “I thought—” He stops himself, swallows hard. “I didn’t know if I was going to get to tell you how sorry I was. How much I love you.”

Tears prick at your eyes. “I knew,” you whisper.

He shakes his head gently. “You shouldn’t have had to guess. I should’ve said it. I should’ve shown you. But I—”

He breaks off again, his voice catching in the middle. And you just hold on tighter, as tight as you can manage.

“We were both hurting,” you say quietly. “But I love you. I always love you. Even when I was angry. Even when it hurt.”

His eyes close briefly, like he’s praying again. “I know. I know. And we’ll… we’ll fix it, okay?”

You nod faintly, exhausted now, your eyelids beginning to drift again. Your body’s still working overtime just to heal, and you can feel yourself starting to slip back under — but this time it doesn’t feel as frightening.

Because he’s here. He’s your Aaron again.

And when your eyes fall shut, the last thing you hear is his voice — soft, close, trembling with promise:

“We’ll figure it all out, honey. Me and you.”

[dismalflo]

also angsty hotch fic with a happy ending tomorrow probably

[dismalflo]

seeing fantastic four tonight eeek

[dismalflo]

i've had sooo many nose bleeds in the past week it's crazy

[dismalflo]

Aaron Hotchner

Secrets in the bureau (fluff, bau!reader, 6.5k words) ✩ you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.

how did we get here? (angst, hurt/comfort, 3.5k words) ✩ It's normal for couples to argue and fight, to kiss and make up. so why does this one feel like the end?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* drabbles ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you wait up for hotch after a case

[dismalflo]

i've become so bad at being active, so sorry i miss u

[dismalflo]

Just the thought of civilian reader staying up until Hotch gets home after a long case and taking care of him and giving him lots of cuddles to make up for lost time :,)

thanks for requesting lumi, my love! <3

Aaron Hotchner x reader who stays up late waiting for him ✩ 831 words

cw: fluff

Aaron is quiet as he locks the door behind him, easing it shut with a soft click. He sets his bag down gently, toes off his shoes with practiced care. It’s too late to make noise. Too late for voices, too late for lights.

And yet, the living room is bathed in the soft, golden glow of a lamp.

Warmth stirs in his chest. You’d left the light on for him. A small kindness that says: I was thinking of you. That he hasn’t come home to a cold, dark space, but one softened by your presence, even in absence.

He keeps his steps light as he rounds the corner, intending only to switch off the lamp and slip into the bedroom. Where you are. Where he can relax.

But the sight that meets him stills him in place.

You’re curled on the sofa, the soft rhythm of your breathing giving you away. A book rests loosely in your hands, its pages fanned slightly, forgotten. Asleep, but not far gone.

Something in him aches a little, sweet and sharp. Who is he to deserve this? Who is he to deserve you waiting up for him? Or trying to?

“Honey,” he murmurs, crouching beside you, his fingers brushing gently along your arm.

Your lashes flutter, a drowsy hand reaching up to meet his.

He leans in closer as your other hand rises, the pads of your fingers brushing lightly along the rough edge of his jaw. Your eyes are half-lidded, lashes shadowed in the lamp’s golden glow, but the concern in your expression is startlingly clear.

Your brows knit as you take a proper look at him.

“Oh,” you say, the sound soft. Your thumbs sweep gently across the scruff lining his cheekbones, your frown deepening, not out of irritation – but worry. “You look so tired.”

Aaron chuckles, a quiet, low sound. “I know,” he says, voice roughened by the long day, but fond, undeniably fond. His thumb traces a slow, reverent line along your cheek. “You look tired too.”

Your lips pull into the ghost of a pout, your hand still resting lightly against his jaw. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Hotchner,” you mumble, the edge of teasing softened by the weight of sleep still clinging to you. “I was waiting up for you.”

“I can see that,” he says, not bothering to hide the affection threading through his words. He adjusts, kneeling properly beside you now, one knee pressed into the carpet, the other bracing him so he doesn’t lean too heavily against the couch.

His fingers curl gently around your wrist, anchoring himself with the quiet steadiness of your touch. He can feel the slight tremble in your tired limbs and his thumb moves in slow, soothing circles against your skin.

“You didn’t have to wait,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the soft slope of your features, the imprint of a blanket still faint along one cheek. “I’d rather you sleep.”

“I tried,” you admit, words catching around a yawn. “But I knew you’d be back tonight and I couldn't settle.”

Aaron watches the yawn overtake you, soft and unguarded, and something inside him unfurls. You’re here. Waiting. Wanting nothing from him but his presence. That simple, unbearable truth settles into his chest like a balm and a burden.

“Are you hungry? I can heat up some leftovers for you.” you ask.

“No, I’m okay.” His hand moves from your wrist to your waist, steady and sure. “Let’s go to bed, honey.”

You blink at him slowly, still tangled in the soft threads of sleep, but you nod. “Yeah. Okay.” You sit up, the book slipping from your lap to the cushion with a whisper of paper. As you rise, a little off-kilter from exhaustion, Aaron’s hands stay at your waist, guiding, anchoring, careful. You lean into him without thinking, arms sliding around his torso, cheek pressed to his chest.

He holds you immediately.

One arm cradles the back of your shoulders while the other settles at your lower back. The scent of his cologne lingers faintly on his shirt and his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

You stay there a moment, just breathing each other in.

Then, slowly, you pull back, just far enough to meet his eyes. Your fingers slide along his side as you lift your face to his, and without ceremony, without any fanfare, you press a kiss to his lips.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his mouth.

Aaron exhales softly, like the weight of the whole day finally finds a place to rest. “I missed you too.”

His hand brushes your hair back, the motion reverent. “Come on.”

With a gentle tug, he leads you down the hall, towards the bedroom. The sheets are cool, the room hushed. You climb in first, pulling the covers back for him, and he follows, sliding in beside you with the kind of quiet relief that can only come at the end of the day.

[dismalflo]

hey ho! Sorry to hear that your day wasn’t/isn’t that good. But I wanted to ask when or even if you’re gonna write a second part to the fic of Sirius and the camp helping?

thanks babe! it is on my list but i have no idea as to when i'll get it done

[dismalflo]

spent my day being so irrationally angry and irritable i hate it

[dismalflo]

hi lovely! i was wondering if i could request a roommate!reader x james or maybe remus, where where the reader would be dropped off at home by their friends and are like plastered asf, like super drunk. it’s be like sweet fluffiness where the reader is stumbling around and babbling things they probably shouldn’t, and james or remus care for the reader!

thanks for requesting!!

roommate!james potter x reader who comes home drunk ✩ 654 words

James is woken by a crack of thunder. It jolts him upright in bed, pulling him out of his dozing back into the real world. He settles back down, and that's when he hears it. A giggle followed by the clattering of something falling to the floor.

Not thunder. You.

He throws the blanket off and swings his legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor with a soft thud. Another giggle floats through the air, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of keys dropping – again.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbles, half amused, half worried, rubbing at his eyes as he pads barefoot out of his room.

You're at the door, one shoe on, mascara smudged in a constellation of soft specks beneath your eyes, and your jacket halfway off one arm like it gave up somewhere along the journey. Your hair’s a little windswept, damp at the ends from the rain, and you're frowning very seriously at your shoe.

“Oi,” James says softly, not wanting to startle you. “You alright there, trouble?”

You whip around dramatically, which, given your state, is a mistake. You sway like a tree in a windstorm and nearly go down with the coat rack. James lunges forward just in time, grabbing your elbow.

“Whoa—alright, alright, I’ve got you,” he chuckles, guiding you upright.

Your hands come up and rest on his shoulders like you’re trying to steady the room itself. You blink at him, eyes wide and glossy, lips curling into a lazy grin.

“James,” you say breathlessly. “You’re so warm.”

He laughs, properly now. “Jesus, you’re pissed.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, though you poke his cheek like it’s a button. “Better than fine.” You wobble again. “I’m a bit… soggy. It’s raining out there”

“I know it is. Come on, soggy,” James says, steering you gently down the hall toward your room. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Take me on a date first, Mr. Potter.” you squeal, acting scandalised. James can feel his cheeks heating up at the insinuation. 

Your legs work, sort of, but only because James is practically carrying half your weight with one arm around your waist. You cling to him like Velcro, mumbling things under your breath, your voice warm and slurred and just this side of sleepy.

“You smell really good, Jamie,” you mutter as he helps you sit on the edge of your bed. 

“Thanks, angel.”

James grabs the blanket from the end of your bed and starts to drape it around your shoulders. You keep talking.

“Did I ever tell you,” you say, looking up at him with serious eyes, “that I think your eyelashes are prettier than mine? ‘S not fair. You look like you were made in a lab for pretty boys.”

He pauses, one hand on your shoulder. “You’re not gonna remember any of this, are you?”

You just smile, dreamy and slouched as you lean back on the bed. “Don’t tell anyone. ‘S a secret.”

James snorts softly and crouches in front of you, unlacing your one remaining shoe. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“James?” you mumble once he gets the shoe off and sets it aside.

“Yeah?”

“D’you think,” you yawn wide, arms reaching out blindly for the blanket, “we’d be good roommates forever? Like. Infinity?”

James tucks the blanket around you and ruffles your hair gently. “Yeah,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I think we would.”

You’re already half-asleep, curled up and warm, face pressed into your pillow with a tiny smile.

James lingers for a second longer, watching you breathe, slow and soft, then reaches out to gently pull your phone from your pocket and set it on your nightstand.

Before leaving, he turns off the light and shuts your door with a careful click and wanders off to get a glass of water and some paracetamol for your bedside table, his heart a little lighter, a little fuller.

[dismalflo]

i have a clark kent idea and i'm gonna have to write it oh god

[dismalflo]

if anyone has any hotch requests they wanna send my way i would be most grateful

[dismalflo]

secrets in the bureau

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 6.5k words

summary: you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.

cw: fluff, typical criminal minds violence and topics

an: ahhh first hotch fic everrr, gonna have to write more cm stuff to get characterisations down but this feels like a nice first go

1.

"...so what do you think?" you ask, looking at Aaron – Hotch, technically, it is working hours – from across his desk. He glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, an amused glint flickering in his eyes.

"You know the answer is yes, honey. Why are you even asking?"

"It's good manners," you say, your smile tugging wider as you inch forward in your chair, the toe of your shoe brushing his under the desk.

The truth is, you're both long past the need for politeness in these matters. If you want to stay over at Aaron's place, he's rarely, if ever, given you a reason to think he wouldn’t want you there.

He shifts in his chair slightly, setting the file aside to give you his full focus. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperated and soft, which is just how he loves you: half amused by your formality, half undone by it.

“You could come over unannounced and I’d still find a way to make it feel like I’d planned for you to be there all day,” he says, voice low and steady, like everything with him is. “You know that.”

You do. You know it in the way his fridge is always stocked with the oat milk you like, even though he won't touch the stuff. You know it in the extra toothbrush in his drawer, the way your laundry ends up folded at the foot of his bed after a weekend, neatly nestled between his dark t-shirts and pressed slacks.

Still, you like asking. You like that you can.

Hotch watches you for a beat, the silence stretching warm between you. Then he leans back in his chair, a slow breath leaving him like he's reluctant to shift back into Unit Chief mode, but he does because he’s nothing if not disciplined.

"You know something else, too," he says, eyes flicking down toward the folder on his desk before sliding back to meet yours.

You tilt your head, curious, a smile still ghosting on your lips. "What’s that?"

"That your break is over," he says, holding out the file across the desk, tone smooth but with the tiniest lilt of playfulness only you would catch. “And you need to go back to work.”

You glance at the file, then back at him, lifting a brow like you’re considering the offer. He’s in full supervisory mode now, except for the way he’s watching you too closely, his expression too fond.

You lean forward slowly, drawing it out, your hand hovering just short of the folder. "I think I’ll be alright," you murmur, feigning confidence, "my boss seems to have a soft spot for me."

The moment your fingers brush the edge of the file, he pulls it back with the smallest shake of his head, his mouth twitching again at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite not, either.

"That might be true," he says quietly. "But don’t push your luck."

Aaron holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he pushes up from his chair and rounds the desk in one fluid, practiced motion. You track him with your eyes, but your body stays still, waiting.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne settles into the air between you. With that same maddening composure, he places the file in your lap, fingers brushing your thigh just enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re not above paperwork,” he says softly, but the words are barely finished before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it costs him something to keep it brief.

But you aren’t finished. You tilt your face up before he can pull away fully, catching his jaw with your fingertips. You press back into him, just a little longer, a little deeper. His breath hitches, hands tightening against the arms of your chair like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop or pull you closer.

Hotch barely has time to blink before the knock comes.

You spring apart like teenagers caught in the act, both of you straightening instinctively—him taking a full step back, you smoothing the front of your shirt as you rise from the chair, face composed but pulse racing. You know you're standing too close, close enough that the air still feels warm between you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

Then the door creaks open.

Emily leans halfway in, eyes flicking from Hotch to you. She's not smirking, not yet - but her brow does lift, just enough to say: Interesting.

You clear your throat lightly, stepping aside as if you hadn’t just been kissing your boss at his desk. “Thanks for going over that file with me, Hotch,” you say, voice clear, maybe a little too deliberate. “Really helped.”

 “Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Emily’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. “JJ’s rounding everyone up in the conference room.” she says lightly.

You nod, making your way to the door with a quick “Got it,” and Emily steps back to let you pass. She waits a beat, then glances back over her shoulder at Hotch.

“Everything alright in here, sir?” she asks, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth now. 

Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift. “Just going over case material.”

Emily hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. “Right. Very thorough, I’m sure.”

You catch the look she shoots you as you walk side by side down the hallway. You don’t say anything, and neither does she. But you know she knows. Or at least suspects.

2.

The case, as a lot of them are, is long and hard.

Cruelty that sinks into your bones and stays there, no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing it out under fluorescent lighting. You found the unsub and you brought him in, but no one really feels like they won.

The jet is quiet on the way home, lit only by the occasional blink of overhead lights and the low hum of the engines beneath your feet. You sit in the back corner by yourself, turned toward the window, cheek pressed lightly against your knuckles. It's dark out, nothing but clouds and sky and your own reflection staring back at you, tired and smudged at the edges.

At first, it was the usual: Morgan with his headphones in, head nodding slightly to some beat no one else can hear. Reid halfway through a dog-eared paperback. Emily curled sideways with her jacket for a pillow, Rossi sipping quietly at a scotch.

Aaron sat at his usual spot, paperwork spread neatly across the table in front of him. His pen scratched steadily for a while, methodical as ever. But even that faded eventually.

Now it’s just you and him.

Everyone else has drifted into sleep, slumped shoulders, legs stretched awkwardly into aisles, exhaustion settling over the cabin like a soft blanket. You hear Reid murmur something in his sleep and shift, but otherwise, the silence is heavy. Restful.

You’re so deep in thought you don’t hear the soft creak of leather as Aaron rises from his seat. Don’t notice the subtle hush of movement as he crosses to the kitchenette. The sound of a mug being set down, water pouring, the paper rustle of a teabag unwrapped – all of it folds into the white noise of the flight, lost beneath the whirring engines and the thick fog in your mind.

He moves the way he always does, like he knows time will wait for him. Like even gravity might hold off for a second, if he asked it nicely.

When he finally comes back, you only register him when the cushion beside you shifts under his weight. The faint scent of chamomile and citrus drifts upward, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic placed on the small table in front of you.

You blink, slow, as you turn your head.

Aaron’s watching you – not with concern, exactly, but something gentler. Something steadier. A softness in his eyes that no one else on this plane ever gets to see. You’re not sure they’d believe it if they did.

He glances at the tea, then back to you.

“I thought it might help,” he says, voice low, barely threading through the quiet.

You look down at the mug then back at him. “Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you spoke.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, even more gently this time.

“You alright?”

You nod instinctively, but then shake your head, just once.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just reaches over, his hand brushing against yours. When your fingers curl around his, his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand. He doesn’t ask for more. He never does. He just holds you like that, quiet and steady.

You both sit there for a while, the silence stretching long again.

You sip the tea slowly, the heat grounding, the taste comforting. His shoulder rests against yours, warm and solid, and neither of you moves away.

“I hate that it still gets to me,” you say finally, not looking at him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

His hand squeezes yours.

“I hope you never do,” he says, quiet but steady. “The day this stops getting to you is the day you’ve lost the part of yourself that makes you good at this, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, but your grip tightens slightly around his, and he feels it. You know he does.

The tea is still warm in your hands when your eyelids start to slip. You don’t fight it. Not when his shoulder is right there, solid and warm.

You’re barely awake when he leans in, the press of his lips to your temple so light it could almost be imagined. But it’s not.

So you sleep.

-

When you wake, the world feels dim and weightless, the hush of descent in your ears, cabin lights low but brightening gradually. You blink against the dry air and shift slightly, realizing two things in the same breath.

Aaron is no longer beside you.

And you're warm. Too warm, actually.

You glance down to find his suit jacket draped across your front, heavy and crisp and unmistakably his. It’s folded in that way he does everything: precise, considered, like the act of keeping you comfortable matters more than anything else. The scent of him clings to the fabric – clean laundry, faint spice, and something uniquely his that you could pick out of a crowd without trying.

You’re reaching to smooth it over your lap when movement draws your attention. He’s walking back to the front of the jet, toward the files he’d left abandoned hours ago. The light overhead catches against the curve of his jaw, the familiar line of his shoulders. And just before he sits, he turns.

His eyes find you instantly.

You hold it for a second, that look, storing it somewhere behind your ribs where all the quiet, important things live.

Then you catch motion from the corner of your eye.

Spencer’s awake, sitting sideways in his seat a few rows ahead, blinking blearily behind his glasses. His book is open in his lap, but it’s clear he hasn’t read a word in a while. He’s looking between you and Hotch, his brows slightly furrowed, like he’s working a problem he doesn’t have all the variables for.

Thank god his genius brain takes a few minutes to start up after a nap.

You straighten a little, clearing your throat and nudging the jacket higher on your lap like it’s perfectly normal for your boss’s clothes to be draped over you mid-flight. Then you turn to Spencer with the airiest voice you can muster:

“Spence, what have you been reading?”

It works, somewhat.

He blinks, focusing on you as his brain shifts tracks. “Oh. Um.” He lifts the book like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “It’s a comparative analysis of the evolution of moral frameworks in isolated societies. There's this fascinating case study–”

You smile, nodding as you listen, letting his words fill the space. It’s enough to distract him, at least from whatever observations he was starting to piece together. And it's more than enough to keep your thoughts from drifting back to the warmth still lingering on your skin, or the weight of that kiss you’re still not entirely convinced you didn’t dream.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron settling back in with his files, expression calm but unreadable again.

3.

It starts with a lull in the afternoon, one of those rare moments in the bullpen when the cases are filed, reports are done (mostly), and the coffee's gone lukewarm but no one wants to get up to fix it. The low hum of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper fills the air, a kind of peace, however temporary.

You're halfway through your third report of the day, pen uncapped and mouth twisted in concentration, when Morgan leans across the short wall of your desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the divider.

"So, what’s the deal with you?" he asks, casual but too pointed for it to be offhand.

You blink at him, glancing up from your paperwork. "Clarify, please."

He grins like he’s been waiting for you to bite. “I’m just saying. We’ve known each other how long now? Three years? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even flirt with anyone.”

“Maybe I’m just selective,” you say without looking up, though the smirk tugging at your mouth threatens to betray you.

Emily’s head pops up from the other side of her monitor like a meerkat. “Selective or nonexistent? Because Morgan has a point. You’re attractive, smart, not a serial killer—what gives?”

Across from you, Reid glances over with a tiny frown, clearly confused as to how this became the topic of conversation. "Are we ranking coworker eligibility now?"

“No,” you say, “we are not. They are.” You gesture at Morgan and Emily with your pen. “And I don’t date because I’m too busy.”

“Too busy?” Emily echoes, incredulous. “Come on, you make time for what matters.”

You give a noncommittal shrug and flip a page in the file you’re reviewing. “Maybe nothing’s mattered enough.”

Morgan huffs. “You’re telling me no one’s even caught your eye lately?”

You barely have to think to keep your expression neutral, your tone light. “Nope.”

There’s a rustle of movement behind you, a door opening at the far end of the bullpen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hotch stepping out of his office, file in hand, brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration he always wears when he’s mid-thought. He glances around the room, then straight to you, like instinct. Like muscle memory.

You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the moment he finds you. You feel it like a current, like the way your shoulders relax half a degree before you can stop them.

“Really?” Morgan presses, watching you too closely now. “No one?”

You glance up, keep your voice calm. “You ever try scheduling a date between a cross-country manhunt and a twelve-hour flight delay?”

“You think we haven’t?” Emily snorts.

Hotch’s footsteps pause just outside the group’s periphery, and you feel him hovering there — listening. You’d bet money on it.

“Well,” you say, flicking your pen across the page as if it’s just any other day, “I'm perfectly happy as I am now.”

Hotch moves finally, continuing toward the conference room, his voice low and even as he passes.

“Briefing in ten.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, not directly, but his hand brushes the back of your chair lightly. So lightly it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t already watching too closely.

You don’t move. Just nod. “Got it.”

The moment he’s out of earshot, Morgan narrows his eyes at you. “That was weirdly… cordial.”

“Maybe he’s just in a good mood,” you reply, deadpan.

Emily mutters, “Which would be weirder.”

But they let it drop, mostly because the briefing’s about to start, and because the day’s quiet never lasts long. Still, Morgan gives you one last look before turning toward the conference room.

4.

The morning sunlight filtering through Aaron’s bedroom is soft and pale. It falls in golden streaks across the sheets, the hardwood floor, and the line of his bare shoulder where the covers have slipped down during the night.

You shift slowly, your leg sliding along his under the covers, your face still tucked into the space just below his collarbone. His hand is still resting low on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he’s mapping you in his sleep.

“Are you awake?” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” Aaron murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your cheek.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Handsome?”

“That’s fine,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you feel him press a kiss to your temple. “You got it.”

You shift again, curling closer, and he chuckles quietly at the way you practically climb on top of him. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the detergent you’ve secretly switched his sheets to without telling him — because the old ones smelled like hotel soap and starch. These smell like home.

“God,” you mutter, “can’t believe we have to work today.”

Aaron hums, his hand still steady on your back. “We can’t be late again.”

“We won’t be, you’re so dramatic.”

“We won’t be,” he repeats, more teasing now. “Yeah, right.”

You lift your head, finally, meeting his sleepy brown eyes and a smug smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, slow and easy, until your lips meet his.

The kiss starts soft – sleepy and unhurried – but quickly deepens, his hand sliding up under your shirt, the weight of it grounding you. You sigh into his mouth, shifting to press him deeper into the pillows, and he lets you, his other hand sliding along your waist like he’s not ready to let go yet either.

Eventually, unfortunately, he does pull back, eyes flicking open again.

“If we don’t stop, we’re going to be very late,” he says, voice low and a little ruined now.

You kiss the edge of his jaw in retaliation. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He groans, but he’s already sitting up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

He tosses you a look over his shoulder and leans down for one last kiss, slow and deliberate, before he gets up and heads to the shower. He pauses in the doorway, looking at you swaddled in his sheets like you’ve been dropped there by some vengeful sleep deity.

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

You whine softly, rolling over dramatically. “You’re abandoning me, cruel man.”

“You’ll survive, honey,” he says, smirking as he disappears into the bathroom and flicks on the water.

You stay in bed for another few minutes, eyes closed, completely content. You can still feel the press of his lips on your neck, still smell the citrus of his aftershave lingering in the sheets.

And then his phone rings.

You groan again, dragging yourself upright. The screen lights up—JJ.

Your heart skips, just slightly.

You let it ring out.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don’t even look before answering.

“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got something,” JJ says. “Need everyone here, as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Thanks. I already tried Hotch, but he didn’t answer—can you try calling him?”

You blink. “Oh—yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll let him know.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough.

JJ’s voice is too casual when she says, “Thanks.”

And then, just as you’re about to hang up, you hear it.

“Honey?” Aaron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, drifting out from the steamy bathroom. “Do you know if I left my belt on the—?”

You fumble to hang up the phone.

Too late.

There’s a beat of silence on JJ’s end. You can practically hear the way her eyes narrow.

You clear your throat again, face hot. “I—um. I’ll pass it along.”

“…Sure,” she says slowly. “See you soon.”

Sure enough, when you get to the office later that morning, JJ barely glances up from her folder.

“Morning,” she says sweetly. “You two sleep well?”

You don’t answer.

Aaron – your ever-collected, ever-disciplined Aaron – freezes just long enough to give the entire game away.

JJ just smiles.

And keeps reading.

5.

You’re hunched over a map of the city, elbows on the edge of the conference room table, red and blue pushpins scattered across the surface like confetti from a very grim party. Spencer leans over your shoulder, pointing at the area just north of the river.

“I’m telling you,” he says, tapping the map with the end of his pen, “the pattern holds if you factor in the population density from the census before the most recent one. It’s consistent with a comfort zone radius, even if it doesn’t look like it at first glance.”

You nod, squinting at the outline of streets and intersections. “So the unsub’s older, maybe? Operating off memory instead of current data? That would explain the anomaly in the last dump site.”

“Exactly. I mean, he might even be—” Spencer pauses, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—using a mental map that hasn’t updated since he lived here, assuming he moved away and came back. Like visiting old haunts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s depressingly poetic.”

He grins. “A lot of serial killers are.”

You’re just about to reply when the conference room door swings open harder than necessary.

Hotch.

His expression is tight, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and tired in that dangerous way that means he’s too deep in it. His gaze sweeps over the map, the markers, and then the two of you. His eyes linger on the way Spencer’s leaning in, innocent enough, but close..

“Is this part of the profile?” he asks, voice clipped.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The conversation,” he says, straighter now. “Does it have anything to do with the case? Because if not, maybe we can stay focused.”

Spencer pulls back immediately, blinking. “We were just discussing—”

“I’m not interested in discussion. I want results.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice – he never really does – but the tone alone is sharp enough to make Spencer recoil slightly. You feel your spine stiffen automatically.

“We are working,” you say, slower now. “We’ve been narrowing the comfort zone down to two square miles. The pins—”

“I don’t want excuses,” he cuts in. “If you’ve got something, put it on the board. Otherwise stop wasting time.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the door snapping shut behind him like a slap.

The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. You glance at Spencer, who’s looking down at the map like it just personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “that was… intense.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, pressing a palm to your forehead. “He’s been like this all day.”

It’s not a lie. The second the briefing started, Hotch had been on edge, pacing too much, correcting people mid-sentence. You knew the case was getting to him, and you knew what it meant when he got like this – when his control frayed and he lashed out not because he was angry, but because he was terrified of making the wrong call. Of losing someone.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to be on the receiving end.

Especially not in front of everyone else.

You’re still rubbing your temple when Morgan appears beside you.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “You got a second?”

You nod, rising slowly as Spencer gives you an apologetic look and turns back to the map. Morgan leads you out of the conference room and down the hall, away from the rest of the team.

When he stops, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s gearing up for a talk. You groan internally.

“I know that look,” you say. “And I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then stop making me use it.”

You fold your arms, mirroring him. “What?”

“You know what,” he says. “Hotch is being a dick. To everyone. And I know he’s stressed, I know this case is brutal, but it’s getting in the way.”

“I agree.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, so talk to him.”

You blink. “What? Why would I—”

“Because he listens to you.”

Your stomach flips. You hope to God it doesn’t show on your face.

“I’m not magic, Morgan.”

“No,” he says, voice low but pointed. “But you’re the only person he hasn’t completely snapped in half yet.”

You snort. “He just bit my head off in there.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but he look too happy with himself after.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard not to let your expression crack. “That’s a stretch.”

He just gives you a look. The kind that says don’t bullshit me, I have eyes.

You stare at him, exasperated. “Why does everyone assume I can fix it just because I—”

You stop yourself before you say love him.

Morgan doesn’t blink. “Because you calm him. He has a soft spot for you”

You sigh, slumping against the wall beside him. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But no promises.”

He smiles, finally, clapping a warm hand to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

You wait until he disappears back into the conference room before you head down the hallway, toward the local precinct’s makeshift office where you know Hotch has holed himself up.

You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say: something about how his tension is bleeding into the team, how he needs to remember they’re on his side, how he can’t fix this case by destroying himself from the inside out.

But when you reach the door, it’s cracked just slightly – and inside, you see him.

Elbows on the desk. Head in his hands. Shoulders tight.

You stop. Because for a second, he doesn’t look like the man who barked orders ten minutes ago. He looks… tired. Scared. Like all of this has sunk too deep under his skin.

You raise your hand, knock softly.

His head lifts instantly. The second he sees it’s you, something in his face softens. He sits back slowly, composing himself, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the unraveling.

You step inside and close the door gently behind you.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

He looks up at you, exhausted. “If you’re here to tell me I’m being an asshole, you don’t need to. I already know.”

You blink. Then let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, that saves me a speech.”

He leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or Reid. Or anyone.”

“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “But they don’t.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at you like maybe your presence alone is enough to let him breathe again.

After a beat, he says, quieter: “I’m afraid we’re going to miss something. That someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m pushing too hard because I don’t know what else to do.”

You step in front of him now, between him and the desk, and crouch just enough so you can meet his eyes. Your hand slides over his where it rests on his knee.

“Then let us help you,” you say. “Let me help you.”

His eyes search yours, and for a second, there’s nothing but the space between your breaths. Then he nods, barely.

You squeeze his hand once. “Come back in. Apologize. Let’s get this guy.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And I’m always right,” you reply, and lean in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It lingers a second too long.

You pull back and then you hear it.

A cough. Somewhere behind you.

You turn just in time to catch Rossi in the doorway, brows lifted, a coffee in each hand.

He arches an eyebrow. “This is cozy.”

You freeze.

Hotch just sighs and mutters, “Dave...”

Rossi grins. “Learn to lock a door, Aaron.”

He winks and disappears down the hallway before either of you can respond.

You look back at Aaron.

He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

“He already knew, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, honey.”

+1.

The call comes in fast. Too fast.

One minute you’re clearing a low-rise apartment complex with Morgan and Emily on your six, the next, there’s shouting, an unexpected backdoor escape, a scuffle, the unsub slipping through hands you thought were ready to catch him. You see the knife before anyone else does.

You don’t think. You move.

And then–

White-hot pain.

It's sharp and sudden, flaring across your side as the unsub lashes out and the blade sinks in just beneath your ribs. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against cracked linoleum, and your breath punches out of your lungs before you can even process the impact.

You hear shouting again – Emily’s voice, Morgan’s, someone barking for medics – but it’s all underwater now. Muffled. Warped. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by a nauseating chill that starts at your fingertips and crawls inward.

You press your hand to the wound and it comes away slick.

Shit.

Morgan’s face looms above you next, eyes wide, voice sharp. He’s pressing down on your side with both hands, trying to slow the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he says. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”

You want to answer. Want to reassure him. But your lips feel slow, and your mind is already spinning sideways.

Then there’s another voice. Quieter, rougher, but sharper than a knife through fog.

“Aaron—she’s hurt bad.”

You don’t see him at first. You only feel the way Morgan shifts to let someone else take his place, the way the air changes as Aaron drops to his knees beside you, one hand immediately replacing Morgan’s at your side.

He’s pale. Jaw locked so tight it looks painful. But his eyes, his eyes are wild. 

“Hey,” he says, too calm, too quiet. “Stay with me.”

You blink up at him, trying to smile. “Wasn’t... planning to go anywhere.”

His expression cracks. Just barely.

You feel his hand slide up, cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he blinks.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a plea.

Your fingers twitch, reaching for him. He catches your hand like it’s instinct, like he was already halfway there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Aaron shakes his head once, fierce and immediate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

But you’re already fading, the pain morphing into something floaty and distant. You don’t know when the medics arrive. You don’t hear the sirens. You just feel Aaron’s hand in yours, tight and shaking slightly.

And the last thing you register before your world goes black is the sound of his voice – no longer calm, no longer careful – shouting your name.

-

You wake up to beeping.

Soft, steady, mechanical. A rhythm that feels like it’s been there forever, lulling you in and out of something thick and dark.

It takes a minute before your eyes crack open.

The hospital ceiling is blurry, too white, and the lights overhead are too bright. Your mouth is dry, your throat worse.

You shift, barely, and that’s when the pain comes.

Dull but deep. A throb just under your ribs, blooming out slow and insistent like a warning bell. Your face twists in a grimace, and a sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Instantly – instantly – there’s a hand on yours.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not one of those brisk, impersonal touches meant to check your vitals and vanish again.

No. This is different.

This hand is warm. Familiar. Fingers wrapping around yours like an anchor.

You blink again, and your vision clears just enough to see him.

Aaron.

Slumped forward in the hospital chair, suit jacket discarded on the back of it, tie loosened but still intact. There’s stubble on his jaw, more than usual, and deep bruises under his eyes, like sleep gave up on him days ago. His hand is clasped in yours like he never left your side.

Because he didn’t.

He feels your fingers twitch and bolts upright, the chair screeching slightly beneath him.

“Hey,” he breathes, and it sounds like the first time he’s spoken in hours.

You try to smile. It’s weak. Pathetic, probably. 

“Hey,” you rasp.

His eyes flick over your face, wild with relief and something else, still settling behind his ribs.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice thick.

You squeeze his hand—or try to. “I scared me.”

That gets a half-laugh out of him. It’s broken, but it’s there.

You take a shallow breath, testing your lungs. “What happened?”

“You lost a lot of blood. The knife missed anything vital, but barely.” He swallows hard. “You were in surgery for two hours. They had to give you a transfusion. You’ve been out for almost a day.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Wow. Overachiever.”

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him. The tightness in his shoulders, the rawness in his voice. You reach for him again, slower this time.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

Aaron doesn’t move at first. Just watches you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if he lets himself believe it, the universe will punish him for the audacity.

You blink at him again, taking in the state of him now that your vision’s steadier. The wrinkled shirt, the undone top button, the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting cold on the bedside table. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look so sad.

“You haven’t left,” you murmur.

It’s not a question.

Aaron shakes his head once. “Didn’t want to.”

You arch a brow. Or try to — it feels more like a flutter of effort than expression. “Aaron... have you even gone home? Or... showered?”

His silence is damning.

“Have you slept?” you push, and your voice cracks halfway through, too dry, too rough.

“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” he says simply.

“Aaron.” You pause until he meets your eyes again. “I’ll be fine. Just for an hour. Go... sort yourself out.”

His jaw twitches. “What if you sleep and wake up again and I’m not—”

“Then I’ll be annoyed for five minutes and then I’ll fall asleep again,” you cut in. “Seriously. I don’t need a guard dog.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

So you lean your head back against the pillow and muster your most unimpressed tone: “If you don’t go, I’m going to ask Rossi to make you.”

As if summoned, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar head peeks in.

Rossi.

Followed by Morgan. Then JJ. Emily and Reid right behind. Garcia’s holding a bouquet that’s half her height and bright enough to sear through the fluorescent lighting.

“You rang?” Rossi says with a knowing look, already striding toward the bed.

Aaron stands stiffly, caught in the headlights.

“Perfect timing,” you murmur, letting your gaze flick toward Hotch. “Rossi, can you do me a favour?”

Rossi crosses his arms. “Of course.”

“Make him leave for, like... forty-five minutes. An hour. Long enough to eat and shower. Or sleep. Whichever comes first.”

Aaron huffs through his nose, not quite a protest, but not agreement either. Rossi doesn’t wait.

“You heard the patient,” he says, already taking Aaron by the elbow like it’s a done deal. “Come on. I’ll even buy you real coffee.”

“I’m not—” Aaron starts, but Rossi just tightens his grip.

“You’re not doing anyone any favors walking around looking like that. She’s safe. We’ve got her.”

And somehow, it’s that —the weight of trust in Rossi’s voice— that finally gets Aaron to nod. He squeezes your hand once more, like he’s leaving behind something vital, and then lets go.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Once he’s gone, the rest of the team crowds in, careful and gentle.

JJ brushes a hand down your arm and gives you a smile that’s equal parts motherly and relieved. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Join the club,” you rasp, eyes flicking toward the IV in your arm. “Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.”

Morgan chuckles and drops into the chair Aaron vacated. “You still managed to take the guy down. Stab wound and all.”

“I just slowed him down. You all did the rest.”

“You gave us the opening,” Emily says softly. “That’s more than enough.”

Garcia sets the flowers down by the window and nudges the edge of your blanket with uncharacteristic caution. “When you’re better, I’m throwing a movie night. And you’re not allowed to say no.”

“I’ll be there,” you whisper. 

Emily clears her throat and tips her head toward the door, where Aaron disappeared minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth...” she says carefully, her voice low and sincere, “we’re really happy for you both.”

JJ nods, smile gentle. “Seriously. It’s not exactly shocking.”

“We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Garcia adds, her voice half a stage whisper, half delighted confession.

“You should’ve seen him when they wheeled you into surgery,” Morgan murmurs. “He looked ready to rip the whole ER apart just to stay with you.”

Your heart trips a little. You shift your gaze to the doorway, even though he’s long gone from sight.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say softly. “It just... did.”

“No one ever means to fall,” Rossi says from the hallway, returning with two coffees in hand. “The good ones just catch you.”

You smile again. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.

“Thanks, guys.”

JJ squeezes your arm again. “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And as you drift back down into the syrupy quiet, surrounded by the warmth of your team and the promise that he’ll be back —soon, always— you believe it.

[dismalflo]

It made me so happy to see a new post of yours! And then a sirius one at that oh my heartttttttt

you have no idea how happy this made me!! i hope you liked it, im trying my best to get back in the swing of things

[dismalflo]

for my criminal minds babies, i'm hearing rumours of a 7k hotch fic tomorrow

[dismalflo]

Idk if u would be into this but u were talking abt frat au and ive been seeing a bunch of these tiktoks abt frat royalty and stuff, so i was just wondering if you would be open to writing for frat president! Sirius and sorority president!reader, who have like a love hate relationship?

i wasn't sure i'd be into it either and then i started writing it

Sirius Black x reader who just wants a drink ✩ 836 words

cw: frat au, alcohol

an: idk if i like this but i needed to post something after my little break instead of worrying about things being perfect sooo. i would be so open to writing more drabbles for this au if anyone wants them and has ideas

The floor’s disgusting. It’s sticky in that way only frat parties can manage but you’ve come to expect it by now. Other usuals? A disappointing drinks selection, bass so loud it rumbles your chest, endless beer pong games going nowhere, and, of course, the one constant pain in the arse: Sirius Black.

You thread through the crowd, hugging the wall to avoid people, sidestepping a heated make-out session plastered against the opposite side. They look suspiciously like Lily Evans – your sorority sister – and James Potter, the boy she swears up and down she doesn’t fancy. Right.

Your eyes drift to the kitchen, where the “bar” is less a bar and more a counter piled with mixed drinks you wouldn’t trust in a million years and cans of beer that have been warmed by the room. But you’re thirsty, and frankly, hunting for something better isn’t on your agenda tonight.

Just as you reach for a can, a shadow slides in behind you. Before you can even register, Sirius leans in, almost like he appeared from thin air, with an infuriating smirk already tugging at his lips. Of course.

You jump at his sudden presence, knocking the drink a little and lukewarm beer spills over your fingers, dripping to the floor. 

You hiss under your breath, low and annoyed. “For fuck’s sake.”

You lean for a napkin, but Sirius is already there, holding one out like he’s your saviour and must be heralded for his actions. 

“Here you go, gorgeous.”

You can’t help the reluctant exhale that slips free. You snatch the napkin and dab at your hand quickly. He leans closer, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear.

“Jumpy tonight, love?”

You roll your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “You’re such a wanker.”

Sirius catches it, smirking wider. “That’s why you like me, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes, fighting the smile. “Fat chance.” But you say it like you don’t mean it, and he knows.

He quirks an eyebrow, like the cat who just got the cream. “No? Must be ‘cause I’m pretty then.”

You snort. “Keep dreaming, Black.”

His smirk deepens as you scoff, crossing your arms. “I reckon I already am,” he says, his tone smooth and teasing. “You’re here,  moody as ever – that’s how they usually start.”

You bite your lip, desperate to stop the smile from breaking free. No. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Yeah, yeah, keep it in your pants,” you mutter, turning on your heel, determined to get away before he says something else that’ll have you walking right back into his trap.

The last thing you want is to indulge Sirius’s ridiculous antics. He’s bearable in short bursts before he inevitably puts his foot in it and that low-grade irritation simmering under your skin readies itself to boil over, and the thought of spending one more second near him makes you want to pull your hair out. Same teasing banter. Same weird pull between annoyance and something you don’t want to name. You figure you can avoid all of it, if you move away now.

You take a step away, weaving through the crowd, when his voice cuts through smooth and sharp.

“Oi, wait up!”

You freeze. For a second, your gut reacts faster than your brain. You try to ignore it, but that pull is there and it’s undeniable. Or maybe you’ve lost your mind.

Exhaling sharply, you roll your eyes and turn slowly, already bracing for the smug grin. “What do you want now?” you ask, already regretting not leaving when you had the chance.

He’s close, close enough to feel the heat of him brush your skin. Sirius reaches for the can you’re still holding, fingers brushing yours. Without hesitation, he snatches it with practiced ease.

“Let me,” he says, flashing that half-mocking smile, then strides toward the fridge.

You stand frozen, irritation winning out over everything else.

“What the hell are you doing?” you call after him, sharper than you meant.

“Getting you something that doesn’t taste like shit,” he replies, eyes glinting as he swings open the fridge. After a brief rummage, he pulls out a can – something only his frat boys drink, off limits to regular party goers. Something that actually tastes like beer.

He pops the top and hands it to you without a word. The cold can feels heavier in your hand  and somehow feels like more than just a drink. You have gone mental, you decide.

You stare at him, lips pressed thin as the silence stretches just a moment too long. Then, quietly, “Thanks.”

Sirius doesn’t flinch. If anything, he’s watching you like he’s already won some game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Anytime,” he says lightly, tipping an imaginary hat before slipping back into the crowd.

You can’t decide if you want to punch him or laugh at how he always manages to pull you in – whether you want to be there or not.

masterlist <3