#Fold Symmetry | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

matcha3mochi · 16 days ago

Text

GLASS BETWEEN US | III

Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

wc: 4,508

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The tank exhaled a low, final hiss, followed by the heavy groan of retracting glass. Condensation poured outward in sheets, flooding the floor with a dense mist that caught the red emergency lights and fractured them into ghostly patterns. The air smelled of brine, steel, and something deeper—like the electric hush before a storm.

He hadn't moved yet.

Rafayel remained near the back of the chamber, partially submerged, framed in swirling light and vapor. His body rested in a coil, serpentine tail gathered beneath him in slow, shifting loops. Unlike the dull, utilitarian tones of the lab, he radiated color.

Starlit cobalt shimmered across his long, muscular tail, the fin trailing behind like a banner woven from moonlight and glass. Thin, transparent layers fanned out from the base and tips of his tail, edged in silver that refracted light with every breath he took. The fin was enormous—wide and translucent, nearly iridescent in motion—like the wings of a deep-sea butterfly.

His torso was partially human, yes—but not quite. The symmetry of his musculature, the carved hollows of his ribs and shoulders, seemed engineered by something beyond evolution. His skin shimmered faintly with a sheen like wet obsidian, patterned in soft constellations of bioluminescent freckles that flared in rhythm with his breath. Across his collarbones and down the sides of his ribs, you could see faint silver lines—like delicate circuitry, or scars arranged in sacred geometry.

And then there was his face.

His hair fell long and loose around his shoulders, pale as moonlight—almost silver-blue, but not metallic. Damp strands clung to his cheekbones and collar, framing eyes so luminous they looked inhuman. Not just glowing, but alight with layered color: cerulean at the iris, ringed in radiant silver, and threaded through with fragments of violet. His pupils were slit, reptilian—but there was emotion behind them. Sharp, clear, unwavering.

He tilted his head slightly, water trickling from his hair in slow rivulets.

He was watching you.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

With a soft motion, he moved forward.

The shift of his tail was mesmerizing—silent and fluid. Water rippled outward from his motion, his fin catching and folding like gossamer. His clawed hands gripped the rim of the tank, pulling him closer, and you saw how his strength was carefully restrained. Muscles flexed under the glow of his bioluminescence, tail tensed with effort, but every movement was measured.

He reached the lip of the tank and paused.

There, at the edge, he hesitated. Not from fear, but from reverence.

This was not just a step into air—it was a crossing into your world. The glass was gone, but what stood between you now wasn’t material. It was the weight of every unspoken moment.

You stepped closer.

He watched you.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Rafayel crossed the threshold.

His body was massive up close. Towering when upright, his tail trailing behind in long arcs, fins brushing the floor. His gills flared briefly, adjusting to the dry air, then sealed shut with a shudder. Droplets clung to the curve of his neck, his shoulders, his lower back. Water glided down his tail, pooling across the floor in reflective silver.

He faltered slightly, the change in weight pulling at him.

You rushed forward.

Before you could reach for him, he reached for you—one hand at your waist, steadying himself. His claws were gentle, curved away from your skin. He leaned forward until his forehead nearly met yours, breath cool against your cheek.

He smelled of ocean and starlight.

“You’re real,” he whispered, voice soft and husky.

Your hand came up to brush his cheek, fingers tracing the edge of a healed scar that curved just beneath his jawline. His skin was smooth there, cooler than yours, lit beneath by shifting hues that pulsed like soft bioluminescence under the surface.

You nodded, voice barely audible. “I’m here.”

His eyes closed for a moment, as if absorbing that truth. His tail coiled beneath him, securing his balance. He was powerful, but grounded. Tethered only by you.

Then the world reasserted itself.

The lab lights flickered violently above you, flashing crimson with every pulse of the lockdown sequence. The air was thick with steam and salt and something deeper—like the breath of a pressure system ready to collapse.

Rafayel’s form glistened under it all, coiled and shimmering. His hair clung to his jaw and neck in soaked strands of silver-blue, his tail heavy and unwieldy behind him on the slick floor, already beginning to dry at the tips. He was fighting gravity with every breath, each movement slower than the last.

“I can’t stay out much longer,” he rasped, voice strained, gills fluttering shallow and fast. You could see it now—the way the dryness was pulling at his skin, the way his bioluminescent markings were dimming.

You crouched beside the floor hatch at the edge of the lab—an old maintenance duct now half-buried under forgotten debris. You had ripped the access plate free minutes earlier, fingers bloodied from the metal, but the tunnel still waited beneath, dark and cold and damp. A drainage pipe, long since disconnected from main circulation, but if your schematics were right...

It led to the open sea.

You twisted the final valve on the manual flood system. With a mechanical groan, water surged into the shaft from below, gurgling and roaring as it fought its way upward through corroded pipework. In seconds, the bottom of the tunnel filled with swirling seawater, black and turbulent, glinting like oil in the emergency lighting.

“This is it,” you said, voice breathless. “You ride the current out. It opens into the inlet three miles off the coast. That’s your way out.”

Rafayel reached the edge, using the last of his strength to drag himself forward. You were already beside him, arms bracing under his, steadying the weight of his body.

His tail thudded against the floor with a wet slap. He groaned softly, teeth bared, not in anger—but in pain.

“Too dry,” he whispered. “I can feel the weight in my bones.”

“I’ve got you,” you said. “You just need to reach the water. Let it take you.”

He stared at you then, breath catching. His eyes were duller now, but still beautiful—full of galaxies and pressure and memory.

You slid your arm around his waist, guiding him to the edge. The water was rising fast, swirling just beneath the opening. The scent of salt filled your nose—fresh, briny, alive.

He hesitated at the edge of the shaft. Not from fear—but from something heavier. The realization that this was real. That he was leaving. That this wasn’t a simulation, a dream, or another test. It was freedom.

And you—still on the other side.

His tail coiled slightly behind him, dragging wetly across the floor, leaving trails of water in silver and blue. His fins twitched at the edges from exertion, and the way his chest heaved told you everything: he was almost at his limit.

“You should come with me,” he said, voice low and husky. His eyes flicked to yours—wide, unguarded, full of both hope and dread.

Your breath stuttered. You wanted to say yes. Every part of you screamed for it. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not if it meant they’d follow him.

“I can’t,” you said, voice catching on the edge of your throat. “They’ll follow. But if I stay, they won’t know where you went. You’ll have time.”

He stared at you. The air between you thickened with salt and electricity and something else—grief, maybe, or the ache of almost.

He shook his head slowly, painfully. “I’ll come back for you.”

“I know,” you said.

You stepped forward and cupped his face with both hands. His skin was slick and cool beneath your palms, but he leaned into your touch like warmth itself. Your foreheads met, his gills fluttering shallowly against your wrists.

The cold of his skin against yours was grounding, but what startled you most was the heat building behind your eyes—the sting of tears you hadn’t let fall. Not since the day they took you off the rotation. Not since the tank had gone dark.

For just a second, the chaos faded. There was no facility, no containment protocol, no security breach. There was just the salt on your lips, his pulse under your fingers, and the impossible light in his eyes that had never dimmed for you.

His gills fluttered against your wrists, flutter-light, fragile in a way nothing else about him ever was. You stood like that for a moment suspended in the storm—your body pressed into his, your mind falling quiet. All the alarms, the sirens, the red strobing chaos behind you faded into nothing. No containment. No mission. No escape.

Just him.

Just you.

His pulse thrummed under your palms, steady and strong, and you realized with a jolt of pain that you had never known anything more alive than this moment.

Tears welled up, thick and hot, blurring the glowing planes of his face. You hadn’t let yourself cry—not since they stripped your access, not since they darkened the tank. But now, here, the dam broke silently. The ache in your chest cracked wide, and the tears fell.

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to tilt his lips to your forehead. His claws grazed your waist with exquisite care. And then—

A kiss.

Soft. Barely there. A promise pressed into skin. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t hurried. It was reverent.

As if you were something sacred.

You gasped quietly, the touch searing deeper than any wound ever could.

He pulled away—just far enough to see you, really see you, as if committing every line of your face to memory. His eyes—glowing, full of salt and sorrow and something ancient—locked with yours.

And in that gaze, you understood everything he couldn’t say.

His lips parted, and he whispered, voice soaked in something fragile and final.

“Thank you.”

The words shattered through you.

Your throat burned with the urge to call him back, to beg him not to go—but your body wouldn’t move. Your nod was the only answer you could give, silent and aching.

His fingers lingered for a beat longer, claws ghosting across your wrist. Then he turned.

You watched as his body coiled, tail glowing in crescents of violet and cobalt, every movement smooth as silk in water. The shaft loomed open behind him—dark, spiraling downward into the unknown. He looked back once, just once, as if checking to see if you’d follow.

And then—he dove.

He slid into the shaft with a grace he couldn’t summon on land, the water cradling him as he disappeared into the dark below. His tail vanished last, streaking silver-blue through the rising current.

You didn’t breathe.

You crawled forward to the hatch, leaning over just enough to catch a final glimpse. His glow shimmered in the tunnel for a moment longer—luminous violet, flickering like a beacon. Then it vanished into the deep curve of the passage.

A beat of silence passed. Then instinct took over.

You reached for the hatch and slammed it shut, your wet hands slipping slightly on the handle before it locked into place with a heavy, hydraulic seal. You could hear the water surging downward, swallowing the tunnel behind the metal. He was gone.

You staggered back from the hatch, chest heaving, knees weak.

A dozen thoughts battered your mind all at once—What if the tunnels collapsed? What if they tracked his thermal signature? What if he didn’t make it? What if you never saw him again?

But louder than all of them was the single truth pulsing at the center of your chest like a lighthouse in the dark:

You had done what no one else would.

And now—you had to survive what came next.

You spun around, heading for the override console. The emergency lockout sequence was already in motion, but you could delay it—slow the security response by rerouting power through maintenance relays.

Just a few more seconds.

Just enough time.

Your fingers flew across the interface. The keys were slick from the saltwater dripping off your sleeves. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. Red light bathed the walls. Your reflection in the console screen looked like a stranger—soaked, wide-eyed, trembling.

Then—

The lab door exploded inward with a mechanical scream, metal slamming against the frame as boots flooded into the room.

You turned, hands raised—but not in surrender.

In defiance.

Because you knew what they’d find.

—

The moment the hatch sealed shut behind Rafayel, the facility’s heartbeat changed. A violent, shrieking pulse echoed through the corridors as klaxons ignited in tandem with the emergency lockdown. The red strobe lights splashed the sterile halls in waves of crimson, as if the structure itself had started to bleed.

You stood motionless in the center of the observation deck, soaking wet, hands trembling at your sides, the hatch’s locking hiss still echoing in your ears. The space around you shivered with the aftershock of what you had done. Rafayel was gone.

And you had let him go.

The containment doors burst open with a metallic scream. Heavy boots thundered through the water pooling on the lab floor. You barely flinched as the first pair of gloved hands seized your shoulders and twisted your arms behind your back.

The cuffs bit into your wrists with practiced precision. You were dragged through Lab C’s exit, your boots slipping on salt-slick tile, your breath loud in your ears.

You caught one last glimpse of the tank—the place where it all began. The water inside had stilled, but the glow lingered faintly on the glass, a phantom signature of his presence. The scent of brine and charged ozone hung in the air like an unanswered question.

They said nothing to you. No demands. No accusations.

You weren’t escorted to the debriefing levels. They didn’t take you to Security Admin or Medical. They took you down.

Past Sublevel 3. Past Research Storage. Past the doors marked in yellow hazard chevrons and warning seals in languages older than the base’s schematics.

This part of the facility didn’t hum with power.

It breathed.

The lights dimmed the further you went, until it felt like descending into the pit of something sleeping. The elevator halted with a hollow clunk. The guards marched you into a corridor where the walls sweated condensation, and the floors echoed too loudly.

You were led into a chamber without windows or screens. Just a single overhead panel flickering in cold white. A metal chair bolted to the floor. Walls that hummed with a low, constant vibration—the sound of a pressure system older than safety code.

You didn’t sit.

You stood in the center of the room, salt drying on your skin, fingers twitching against the chill. The cuffs dug into your bones.

Then, the door opened.

Two entered. One you recognized immediately.

Dr. Havers.

His expression was unreadable, but something had shifted in it—something hollow behind his eyes. He didn’t speak. He simply stepped aside.

And behind him—her.

Dr. Sorein.

You had never seen her before. Not in person. Her name had appeared in closed reports and clearance levels above your access. But now, standing in the doorway, you understood why her presence had always been a rumor until now.

She was tall, severe in posture, and dressed in a bone-white uniform without insignia or affiliation. Her hair was slicked back so tightly it gave her face the illusion of being sculpted from stone. Her boots made no sound, and her skin was pale enough to catch the light with an eerie pallor. There was a precision in her every movement—too smooth, too restrained—as though her very breath obeyed protocol.

Her eyes—ice gray, glinting like cut glass—studied you with impassive calculation. They weren’t empty. They were measuring.

She stepped forward and placed a black tablet on the table with the care of someone laying a scalpel on a sterile tray.

She didn’t introduce herself.

"You facilitated a Class-IV breach," she said, tone cold, crisp, and final.

You said nothing. The room felt narrower by the second, as if the walls were bending inward.

"You compromised the containment of an unclassified marine hybrid. You overrode secure systems, accessed obsolete exit routes, and destroyed surveillance logs."

Still, you stayed silent. The cuffs bit into your skin. Your heartbeat felt slow, deliberate.

Sorein took a single step closer. The overhead light caught the rim of her tablet.

"Tell me why."

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t harden. It simply dropped like cold metal onto the surface of the air.

You looked up at her then. The overhead light threw long shadows under her cheekbones. Her face was unreadable—expressionless in the way cliffs are expressionless before they break.

Your voice, when it came, was hoarse. “Because he would’ve died.”

A slight motion—perhaps a breath through her nose. "You don't know that."

"And you don’t know that he wouldn’t."

Her eyes flicked to Havers, who remained a silent statue in the doorway. Then she activated the tablet with a flick of her wrist. A projection shimmered upward—a three-dimensional hologram of Rafayel in his tank, timestamped and flickering.

He lay motionless at the bottom, curled loosely around himself, his bioluminescent patterns dulled to a faint murmur of color. No movement. No reaction. Just still water and heavy stillness.

"Unresponsive to handlers. Complete nutrient rejection. No behavioral reflexes."

She tapped again.

"He wasn’t sleeping. He was shutting down."

Your jaw clenched. “He was grieving.”

Sorein looked back at you. For a moment, there was silence. A mechanical hum somewhere deep in the walls. The scrape of your cuffs when your fingers twitched.

"You’ve assigned meaning to anomaly," she said. "Dangerous mistake."

Another tap. The projection shifted—to a still of you, pressed to the tank wall, Rafayel mirroring the gesture from inside. The space between you was illuminated in pale cyan glow.

"You believe this... connection had merit."

You stepped forward, chains tightening with the movement. “It does. He responded to me. I stabilized him. You documented that yourself.”

"Instinctual mimicry is not evidence of sentience."

"He knew my name. He spoke. He chose."

Havers stirred. Not a word—just a subtle intake of breath.

Dr. Sorein didn’t blink. "You breached protocol. You acted without command."

You were shaking now. Not from fear.

From fury.

"Because none of you would have done anything until he was dead."

Her eyes narrowed. "Your emotional projection endangers this entire research ecosystem."

"He isn’t your ecosystem. He’s a person."

Another flick of her fingers. The projection dimmed, disappearing in a wash of static.

Sorein stepped back from the table, arms behind her back.

"You will be placed under indefinite observation. All data access revoked. All permissions suspended. You will remain confined to Sublevel 5 until reassignment or clearance strike."

Your throat closed around the pressure building in your chest. “You’re not even going to ask where he went?”

"We’ll retrieve him," she said calmly. "Eventually."

“No,” you said, louder now. "You won’t."

A pause.

"Why is that?"

You met her eyes. For the first time, she blinked.

"Because you’ll be looking for an experiment. But he isn’t one anymore. You turned him into a prisoner, and he still didn’t break. He chose to leave. And if you try to hunt him like a weapon, he’ll remember that, too."

Dr. Sorein regarded you like one might examine a specimen that had just spoken back.

Then she turned.

"You’re dismissed."

Two new guards entered. They said nothing as they seized your arms, removed the chain between your wrists only to replace it with a heavier restraint—one that hissed as it tightened.

As you were pulled from the chamber, you looked once more at Havers. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

He didn’t stop them.

But he didn’t look away either.

You were led into the corridor. The door hissed shut behind you.

You didn’t resist. But your heart beat with the rhythm of a memory you could not surrender.

Rafayel was out there.

And he remembered, too.

—

They didn’t give you a window.

The walls of your new quarters were uniform steel, painted over in a sterile shade of off-white that somehow made the space feel even smaller than it was. There was no artwork, no markings, not even a facility insignia. Just smooth walls, seamless seams, and a door that sealed with a hiss and a coded pulse.

A cot—thin, nailed to the floor. A basin, stainless steel. A single folding desk affixed to the wall. The kind of room designed not to contain danger, but to erase presence. No identifiers. No comforts. Just waiting.

You were monitored constantly.

Two cameras tracked every movement—one in the ceiling, another embedded in the corner by the door. Every time you moved too quickly, the ambient lights adjusted. A quiet warning.

Your new ID badge didn’t display your name. Just a number.

All requests for information were rerouted. All terminals were access-locked. No outgoing messages. No unsupervised activity. When you were escorted for brief medical scans, the guards never spoke, never made eye contact. You weren’t a colleague anymore. You were a protocol.

Even your meals arrived through a sealed slot in the wall, like rations dropped into an airlock.

There were no clocks. No sense of time. Only cycles.

The room lights dimmed for six hours and brightened for sixteen. Rinse, repeat. You marked the days in your head, tracking the patterns of sound beyond the door—how often boots passed, how often the power grid hummed or staggered. It was the only rhythm left to follow.

But despite the cold logic of your imprisonment, you never stopped listening.

In the silence, you learned the language of Sublevel 5: the faint whispers of redirected orders, the muffled tension in overheard conversations outside the bulkhead, the repetition of reports about ‘Subject Loss Event’ and ‘Recovery Priority One.’

They hadn’t found him.

Not yet.

And the more they failed, the more pressure mounted. You felt it in the changes—the extra guards, the quiet footsteps of someone listening outside your door at night, the way your medical scans grew longer, more invasive.

In the days that followed, the facility above your cell became a hive of tightly coiled movement. Not chaotic—never chaotic—but buzzing with a low, intense current of urgency.

Something was building. You could feel it in the walls, in the rhythm of the boots passing by your door, in the increased traffic in the secure lifts.

Dr. Sorein no longer moved like a figure in the background. She was everywhere. Every hallway camera caught her in motion—flanked by a team dressed in matte black uniforms with no departmental markings, each one armed not with standard-issue tranquilizers, but high-output compression rifles and experimental sonar disruptors.

Her presence was a vector. Every room she entered straightened around her. Every technician’s shoulders lifted a fraction higher. Havers remained behind her often, shadowing her through the operation—never leading. Watching.

She reviewed footage personally. Not just of Rafayel, but of the old sea tunnels, the outdated records from the Lemurian sub-grid, and the long-redacted logs from Phase Zero of the facility’s foundation. You heard whispers of Directive Theta.

It wasn’t recovery.

It was eradication.

Her voice filtered through the halls in clipped commands:

“Double scan radius.”

“No contact. Full silence protocol.”

“If we lose visual—assume migration.”

“Terminate if retrieval becomes untenable.”

No one dared challenge her.

She issued her orders from a reinforced command wing refitted with deep-sea tracking tech you had never seen on any blueprint. One of the guards let it slip once—an entire sonar array had been reprogrammed to detect specific bioluminescent frequencies, calibrated not to find something, but someone.

Rafayel.

They were hunting him like a rogue weapon.

But they had a problem.

He wasn’t surfacing. He wasn’t feeding. He wasn’t responding.

And that’s when Sorein made a new decision.

She would use you.

The logic, she explained—cold, clean, spoken only once in a closed-door command briefing—was simple: Rafayel had bonded. Unusually. Persistently. He had formed a pattern of recognition that transcended mimicry. A fixation. A behavioral imprint so specific that it had overruled his natural aggression and induced pacification. You were not just a handler. You were a variable.

Now, you were a beacon.

They would fabricate a leak—leak footage of your relocation, create a false signal trace from a secure observation buoy, encode it with the exact wavelength of your voiceprint.

"He will come to her," Sorein said. "Even if he knows it’s a trap."

Some of the team had hesitated. Even Havers had glanced at the floor.

Sorein didn’t blink. "That’s what makes it effective."

They never told you.

But you could feel it.

The change in the air. The way the guards lingered a little too long outside your cell. The sudden return of an audio panel, just functional enough to transmit pre-recorded messages. The reappearance of your file on external terminals, left visible just long enough to be intercepted.

They weren’t just hunting him anymore.

They were summoning him.

And they were using your heartbeat to do it.

You memorized their shift rotations. The brief lapses in surveillance. The tension in Havers’ voice when he was left alone to make his notes.

They were closing in.

—

The moment Sorein summoned you to the debriefing chamber again, you knew something had shifted.

This wasn’t another check-in, another round of sterile questioning. This time, she sat waiting—alone—no assistants, no techs. The room was colder than usual, the light overhead dimmed to a clinical amber.

You stepped in, shackled at the wrists. Your footsteps echoed once, then fell silent.

She gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

You didn’t move.

“I won’t help you,” you said before she could speak.

Her gaze didn’t flicker. “You misunderstand. This isn’t a request.”

Your heart pounded. “You’re using me as bait. You’re transmitting my voice. You’re trying to lure him out.”

“And it’s working,” she replied, voice like frost. “Proximity scans have begun detecting anomalies along the trench perimeter. His bioluminescent signature has flickered within range—irregular, but deliberate.”

You shook your head. “No. I won’t be part of this.”

Her jaw shifted, just slightly.

“You formed the bond,” she said. “You gave him something to fixate on. You knew what it meant the moment you stepped into that tank room and didn’t look away.”

“I saved him,” you shot back. “And you’re trying to destroy him.”

Sorein rose slowly, hands folded behind her back. She crossed the space between you with precise, noiseless steps. When she spoke again, her voice was lower.

“You will do what is required of you. Or we will change tactics.”

You felt your blood run cold.

She leaned in, just enough that her shadow fell across your face.

“If he doesn’t surface on his own,” she said, “we’ll flush him out. With heat. With current. With depth charges calibrated to fracture the trench walls. We will pull him from the sea if we have to. Bleeding or not.”

You stared at her, throat tightening. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would prefer not to,” she said smoothly. “But make no mistake—Directive Theta does not include contingencies for his survival. Only containment. Or termination.”

You clenched your fists, the cuffs biting into your skin.

“You’re threatening him to control me.”

“Control is a primitive word,” she murmured. “This is about leverage. And leverage, Agent, is how we decide who walks away from this.”

She straightened.

“You can help us bring him in alive. Or you can stay in this room while we drag what’s left of him from the abyss.”

The silence between you pulsed like a living thing.

Sorein turned away.

“You have twenty-four hours.”

The door hissed open behind you.

You didn’t move.

But as the guards took you back to your quarters, your legs began to shake.

And your mind began to burn.

Not with fear.

With rage.

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

author note: ooo i wonder what's going to happen :3 thank you all for the love and support!! the next part will be coming out soon hehe!

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff @crowleysthings @sylusgworl @napa-the-yappa @jelxqa @julia-loves-cupcakes @blobbyblobblobblobblob @iamperson12280 @animecrazy76 @mochibunnies3 @glitterykingdomangel @themysticalbeing @creepy-story-lover28 @calebsupremacy @crypticallystealthyqueen @deepspace-fishie

#lads #lads imagine #lads x reader #lads x you #love and deep space #love and deepspace #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #loveanddeepspace rafayel #loveanddeepspace x reader #lads x non!mc reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #rafayel lads #rafayel merman

432 notes · View notes

kiwriteswords · 3 months ago

Text

Something's Blooming [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: Requests are very much open for florist!reader <3 Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, flirting, Jack Hotchner, Shy!Hotch (kinda), pining!hotch, yearning!Hotch, Hotch's POV, 5+1 Summary: 5 times Aaron Hotchner visits your flower shop and the 1 time you visit Quantico.

It was almost 11 p.m. when Hotch found himself driving down that side street.

He told himself it was on the way home.

It wasn’t.

But still--

After thirty-six hours straight of blood, concrete, and case files, he needed something...different.

Something quiet.

Something warm.

And as he turned the corner, eyes scanning out of habit more than purpose, he saw it.

The flower shop.

Your flower shop.

Lights still on.

Even now.

He slowed at the curb. Blinked.

No one else was on the street. The windows glowed golden from the inside, soft and warm and alive in a way the rest of the world didn’t feel right now. He could make out movement--

Just a flicker.

You, probably.

Maybe closing up.

Maybe still working.

Maybe completely unaware that you were the only thing in a four-block radius keeping him from drowning in the aftermath of the case he just closed.

And then he was parking.

Just a wellness check, he told himself.

He stepped out of the car, loosened his tie slightly, and approached the door, knocking lightly against the glass.

It opened before he even pulled his hand back.

You stood there barefoot, in black leggings and a paint-stained tank top with a cardigan slipping off one shoulder, surrounded by chaos: buckets of blooms, a half-finished arrangement on the counter, shears tucked behind your ear, and glitter--glitter--on your cheekbone.

And still, somehow, you looked like a daydream.

Your eyes lit up the second you saw him.

“Well, well,” you said, arms folding playfully as you leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect the FBI at my door tonight. Should I be worried?”

Hotch almost smiled. “Just a…friendly check-in.”

You looked up at the clock on the wall, “At eleven o’clock?”

“I was in the area.”

You raised a brow. “Doing what, profiling the after-hours produce aisle at Trader Joe’s?”

His lips twitched.

You stepped aside. “Come on in, Agent. If you’re going to pretend this is a normal social visit, you might as well stay long enough to commit to the bit.”

He followed you in, taking in the scent of fresh lavender and eucalyptus, the low hum of music playing from somewhere in the back.

“You always work this late?” he asked, glancing at the scattered flowers, the open order book, a cup of tea gone cold on the counter.

You twirled one of the stems between your fingers. “Weddings. Receptions. One very demanding bridezilla with opinions about peony symmetry.” You looked up at him. “But it’s good work. Soulful. Messy. Honest.”

Hotch watched the way you moved--

Fluid, easy, magnetic in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving until he stood in front of you again. Like you were the kind of person who knew exactly who you were, and didn’t apologize for it.

“Long case?” you asked, noticing the lines around his eyes, the fatigue in his posture.

He nodded. “Long everything.”

“Yikes,” you said softly. “Want to touch a flower? It might heal your soul.”

He raised a brow.

You grinned and held out a single bloom--

White scabiosa, delicate and strange and stunning.

“No pressure. But I highly recommend it.”

He took it without hesitation.

You looked at him for a beat--

Really looked, like you were reading something behind his eyes.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” you said, quieter now. “Even if you’re pretending you didn’t mean to.”

Hotch met your gaze, feeling that flutter of something unfamiliar and unshakable lodge itself under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he said, fingers grazing the edge of the flower. “Me too.”

You turned away then, humming as you returned to your arrangement.

And as he stood there, still holding the soft white bloom, surrounded by half-lit petals and the faint scent of jasmine in the air…

Aaron Hotchner realized he was in very real danger of falling for a free-spirited florist who wore glitter after dark and made the whole world feel softer just by existing in it.

II.

Hotch hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Not since that late-night “wellness check.”

Not since the scabiosa in his cup holder.

Not since you smiled at him like he was more than a man in a suit with blood on his hands.

He thought about your shop--

Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, jazz humming faintly from the back room, your bare feet dodging rose stems like it was just another Tuesday. He thought about your laugh. Your voice. The way you said, "pretend you're not pretending."

So when Jack looked up from his math worksheet two nights later and said, “Teacher Appreciation Day is coming up--we’re supposed to bring something nice,” Hotch paused mid-sip of his coffee and said, very casually:

“What about flowers?”

Jack perked up. “Like, real ones? Not drawings?”

“Real ones,” Hotch said, already pulling out his phone. “I know a place.”

So that’s where they went the following morning before school drop off.

Your shop looked different in morning’s daylight.

Still charming. Still cluttered with artfully organized chaos. But now it felt more alive--

Sunlight dancing through the front windows, making the dust in the air shimmer like magic.

The door jingled as Hotch pushed it open, his hand gently resting on Jack’s shoulder as they stepped inside.

You appeared from the back, clipboard in hand, hair piled on your head in that same effortless twist, a pencil behind your ear and--of course--a tiny smear of dirt across your cheekbone.

“Back so soon?” you asked with a grin, catching sight of him. “And this time, you brought reinforcements.”

Jack looked up at you, a little wide-eyed. “Hi.”

You crouched slightly, lowering the clipboard. “Hey there. I’m guessing you’re the brains of this operation?”

Jack blinked. Then grinned. “Probably.”

You laughed--warm and bright--and extended your hand. “I’m the flower boss. But don’t worry, I’m a fun boss.”

Jack shook your hand, completely charmed.

Hotch watched the exchange with something heavy and light all at once sitting in his chest.

“So,” you said, straightening again and turning your attention back to the pair of them, “what’s the occasion? Hot FBI dad and his small, charming accomplice?”

“Teacher Appreciation Day,” Jack said. “I want to get something for Ms. Wyatt. She likes purple.”

You nodded solemnly, tapping your chin. “Purple’s a bold move. I like it. Let me show you what we’ve got.”

You beckoned them to follow you through the shop, your voice trailing behind like music.

Hotch didn’t say much at first. He watched.

Watched as you crouched beside Jack in front of a bucket of lisianthus, letting him smell them. Watched as you explained the difference between lavender and lilac with actual enthusiasm. Watched as Jack started to talk to you--really talk--and you listened like every word he said mattered.

And then Jack asked, “Do you like working with flowers?”

You tilted your head. “I do. They’re soft, but they’re not weak. Some of them grow wild and stubborn and beautiful--just how I like ‘em.”

You looked up--just for a second--and met Hotch’s eyes.

Your smile deepened.

Jack chose a small, vibrant bouquet of lavender lisianthus, white veronica, and soft mint-scented geranium leaves. You wrapped it in craft paper with a piece of twine and a tiny card, and handed it over like it was a treasure.

Jack beamed. “Ms. Wyatt’s gonna cry.”

“She better,” you said. “Or I want it back.”

As you walked them to the door, you reached out and brushed a tiny leaf from Jack’s sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “For being so kind to him.”

You shrugged one shoulder, a little mischievous. “Well, you keep showing up at my shop like some tall, broody plot twist…figured I should be nice to the supporting cast.”

You winked at Jack. “No offense.”

Jack whispered, “What’s a plot twist?”

“Ask your dad in the car,” you grinned. “It’s probably a very long answer.”

Hotch opened the door, hand resting on the small of Jack’s back, and turned back just once to look at you.

You were already heading back to the workbench, one hand reaching for a bloom, your hair bouncing slightly as you moved--

Completely yourself.

And it hit him again:

You were a wildflower.

Unruly. Gorgeous. Rooted in chaos and beauty.

And he could not, for the life of him, get you out of his head.

III.

The meeting was already dragging.

A mid-morning bureaucratic roundtable with Erin Strauss and two other higher-ups, including the Director himself, all droning on about funding optics, interdepartmental appearances, and the upcoming annual FBI charity fundraiser.

Hotch sat with his hands folded on the table, posture perfect, expression unreadable. On the inside, he was timing how long it would take to break out a window and escape.

“…It would reflect well to have full attendance from the Behavioral Analysis Unit this year,” Strauss was saying, flipping through her folder with a sigh. “High-profile. Press-worthy. Symbolic.” She couldn’t even hide the distaste for Hotch’s team, “After the year you’ve had…”

“And tasteful,” the Director added. “No nonsense. We're still recovering from that guest speaker mishap in ‘09.”

Strauss didn’t even look up from her agenda. “And someone needs to arrange centerpieces. Something understated. Professional. Neutral. Nothing weird.” She waved her hands in the air, practically rolling her eyes as if finding a florist was below her.

She said the word with disdain, as though a rogue sunflower arrangement had personally insulted her.

One of the admin staff in the back reached for a notepad. “We can place an order with one of the vendors we used last year--”

Hotch cleared his throat.

Everyone looked at him.

Strauss blinked, looking at him over her glasses. “Yes, Agent Hotchner?”

“I’d recommend not using the vendor from last year,” he said, calm and precise. “Half the table arrangements were wilted by dinner service.”

The room blinked again.

He looked toward the Director. “If I may--I know a florist. Small business, local. She’s talented. Professional. Excellent attention to detail.”

There was a brief silence. Strauss lifted one eyebrow in that way she did when trying to find the hidden trap.

“A florist?” she repeated.

Hotch nodded. “She owns her own shop. I’ve worked with her before.”

Technically true.

So did stopping in three times in two weeks under vague excuses.

“She’s efficient,” he added. “Creative without overcomplicating things. And reliable.”

The Director nodded thoughtfully. “Send her business info to the event planning team.”

Strauss sighed and made a note, clearly having run out of energy for caring. “Fine. As long as no one puts glitter on the tablecloths.”

Later, when Hotch was back in his office, wading through a backlog of paperwork with the lights low and his tie already loosened his desk phone rang.

Unfamiliar number.

He answered anyway. “Hotchner.”

Silence for half a beat.

Then:

“Aaron. Hotchner.”

His brow lifted.

Your voice.

Dramatic. Breathless. Accusatory. Entertaining.

He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips before he could stop it. “Speaking.”

“You ambushed me.”

He blinked. “Ambushed?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have two men in suits--full-on Men in Black suits--walk into your flower shop at 10:12 a.m. on a Thursday morning and ask to speak with the proprietor?”

His smirk widened. “I might have an idea.”

“They had folders,” you went on, faux-horrified. “Clipboards. Credentials. They used the words ‘logistics’ and ‘event security’ in the same sentence. Do you know what my barista neighbor across the street thinks is happening right now? He thinks I’m laundering money. Through roses.”

Hotch chuckled, low and soft. “I’d say that’s your own fault for making illegal arrangements look so good.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t deny it.

You exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. “Tell me the truth. Did you set me up?”

“I made a professional recommendation,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking back to the invoice he’d been signing. “What happens after that is out of my hands.”

“They said the order could be significant,” you said, your voice shifting into something almost uncertain now. “Like…dozens of centerpieces. Greenery. Floral structures. Possibly multi-room staging.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the desk. “Will it be a big purchase?”

“…Yes,” you admitted. “Very. Like…I’m going to have to move things around in the walk-in cooler just to hold it all. Which, I mean, fine. I’ve been saying I’d reorganize that thing since Valentine's Day. But still.”

He could hear it--

That hint of hesitation behind your normally easy, free-spirited tone. That flicker of is this too much?

“You’ll be perfect,” he said, firm but soft.

You paused.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, voice low. Certain. “I’ve seen what you do. And I know how seriously you take it. This is a good thing. You deserve it.”

You were quiet on the other end for a second. Then:

“Damn it.”

Hotch raised a brow. “What?”

“I wanted to find a reason to be annoyed with you. You know, hold it over your head a little. But you’re being supportive and kind and--ugh--encouraging, so now I’m just grateful. And weirdly flustered.”

Hotch leaned back again, smile hidden in the way he exhaled through his nose.

“You’ll live,” he said.

“Barely.”

He picked up his pen again, still smiling. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I need a budget allowance to hide flowers with symbolic meanings that subtly insult all your supervisors.”

“You’ll have to call up the phone number they left for that one.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m absolutely putting glitter in at least one arrangement.”

He let out a quiet, real laugh at that. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, your voice warm now--flirty and fond, like a grin against the receiver--“you keep coming back.”

Hotch paused.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

IV.

The fundraiser had come and gone without him.

He’d been pulled into a case two states over--

Something fast-moving and grisly, the kind of thing that swallowed days and nights whole. Strauss hadn’t been pleased when he told her he couldn’t make the event, but he hadn’t had time to care.

The case wrapped late the night before, and by the time he made it back to D.C., there was a buzz in his inbox--

Emails floating around the Bureau, some from higher-ups, some from administrative staff, and one very surprised message from the Director himself.

“These arrangements--where did you find this florist?”

“Elegant but understated.”

Even Rossi patting him on the back, as he always heard everything through the grapevine, “Nice recommendation. Even Erin approved.”

Which was a feat. A miracle, really.

Hotch hadn’t even seen them in person. But he didn’t need to. He could picture it clearly: your touch in every detail. Your precision. Your charm. Your little flourishes that somehow made even the most rigid Bureau decor look alive.

So on the drive home, exhausted and a little frayed, he found himself turning off his usual route.

And pulling up to your shop.

The bell over the door jingled softly.

It was late--not closed-late, but near it.

Golden-hour light stretched long across the floor, casting a honeyed glow across scattered petals and buckets of green. A soft indie song played somewhere in the back, low and melodic, wrapped in the scent of eucalyptus and something faintly citrus.

You appeared from behind the workroom curtain, an empty vase in one hand and your hair pinned up messily, like you’d been too busy to care but somehow still managed to look painfully good.

The second you saw him, your lips curved up.

“Well, well. The missing man of the hour.”

Hotch stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I heard you made quite the impression.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? Did your boss weep openly at the sight of hydrangeas?”

“No reports of tears,” he said. “But there was definite approval. Which, for her, is practically euphoric praise.”

You chuckled and walked toward the counter, setting the vase down and dusting off your hands. “So you came to confirm the rumors in person?”

“I came,” he said, slow and measured, “to thank you.”

Your smile softened--

Just a little.

“Well, that’s very gentlemanly of you.”

He stepped closer to the counter.

You leaned against it.

The space between you crackled with something unsaid--

Something that had been brewing for weeks now, layered in between teasing glances and “accidental” run-ins, masked by professionalism and distance and goddamn restraint.

“I missed seeing them,” he said, voice quiet now. “The flowers. What you created.”

You tilted your head. “You came all this way after a case…to see my leftovers?”

“I came,” he said again, eyes fixed on yours, “because I wanted to see you.”

That stopped you.

For a second, your cool, breezy exterior faltered. Not in a panicked way. Not in fear. Just…surprise.

Something warm slid behind your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you offered, voice teasing--

But not deflecting.

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

He gave a small, amused breath. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

You leaned forward slightly on your elbows, your bracelets clinking softly against the wood. “You always this charming when you’re sleep-deprived?”

“Only when I’m talking to someone who makes Bureau directors write glowing reviews.”

You grinned. “So you’re here to woo me with flattery.”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

There.

A card on the table.

You blinked, lips parting.

Hotch didn’t move any closer. He didn’t have to.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, his tone lower now, more deliberate. “But there’s something about you.”

You exhaled, slow. “Dangerous words from a man who deals with unsub psychology.”

“And yet,” he said, mirroring your words from before, “I keep coming back.”

You laughed softly, but your voice dropped too. “Yeah. Me too.”

And there it ws.

A beat.

A stretch of quiet.

Neither of you moved to close the gap--

But you didn’t have to.

It pulsed between you, just enough to make your fingers twitch, and you heart race and your breath catch in a way that said: not tonight…but soon.

“I should close up,” you said, voice gentle.

Hotch nodded, eyes lingering. “I should let you.”

But neither of you moved right away.

He looked at you like he was memorizing something.

And when he turned to leave, you called out behind him, light but deliberate:

“Next time, don’t wait for a Bureau-level excuse.”

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“I won’t.”

It wasn’t anything official.

At first.

Hotch had just…stopped by once after work.

No excuse, no case.

Just that same warm shop light pulling him in off the street and the way your voice lifted ever so slightly when you saw him.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Sometimes at night--

When your hair was messier, your apron slung loose, music playing faintly in the background. He'd lean against the counter, coffee in hand, and listen to you talk about blooms like they were people, alive and moody and magical. Or your customers like they were long-lost friends in the story of your life. All of these colors that made up you.

Sometimes, it was early.

Just after opening.

He’d bring coffee--

Your coffee, specifically.

Nonfat milk, one pump of mocha, a touch of cinnamon. He’d noticed it once, scribbled on the side of a cup near your register. Ordered it without asking.

He never stayed long in the morning. Just long enough for you to tease him about his tie or the furrow in his brow or how unnaturally good he looked in a suit before 8 a.m.

And every time he left, you’d call after him, voice flirty and sing-song:

“Thanks for the caffeine, Agent. Come back when you miss me.”

He always did.

Three weeks into this…whatever it was, he thought he was subtle.

Until the evening that Rossi caught him in the Quantico parking garage.

Hotch had just slid behind the wheel, engine rumbling when he saw Rossi standing at the edge of the exit lane, arms folded across his chest.

Hotch narrowed his eyes.

Rossi raised a brow. “You do know your house is to the right, yeah?”

Hotch blinked. “What?”

“At the light,” Rossi said, stepping closer. “You keep turning left.”

Hotch stared. “You’re tracking my turns?”

“I’m a profiler,” Rossi said with a shrug. “I notice patterns. You’ve been turning left out of the Bureau at the same time nearly every night for the past couple of weeks.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “Maybe I’m taking a different route.”

“You’re not,” Rossi said, far too casually. “You’re making a detour.”

Hotch didn’t respond.

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Left puts you on 608. Which goes right through Old Town. Which means--”

Hotch turned away, reaching for his sunglasses.

“Oh my God,” Rossi said, the realization hitting him like a freight train. “It’s the florist.”

Hotch said nothing.

“You’ve been visiting the florist.”

Hotch sipped his coffee. Slowly. “She makes good coffee.”

“She doesn’t make the coffee, Aaron.”

Silence.

Rossi’s grin widened, wolfish and deeply entertained.

“This whole time, I thought you were being cryptic about a new case, but no. You’ve been...what? Casually haunting her flower shop like a silent romantic ghost?”

Hotch glanced at him flatly. “Are you done?”

“Not even close. What’s her name? No--don’t tell me. Let me guess. Something stunning. Unique. One of those names that belongs in a book.”

Hotch rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking space.

Rossi watched the car ease toward the exit, windows down.

“She’s got you bad, Hotch!” he called after him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be showing up in a boutonnière!”

Hotch didn’t even flinch.

Just turned left.

Again.

Hotch didn’t expect you to stroll into Quantico like you owned the place.

But you did.

He was halfway through reviewing a case file, pen tapping absently against the margin, when a knock sounded once against his office door--

And then it opened before he could answer.

And there you were.

Waltzing in like you’d done it a hundred times, clipboard in one hand, sunglasses perched on your head, a little smudge of pollen on your forearm, and that same damn smile that always made his thoughts scatter.

You looked at him like he was exactly the person you’d come to find.

His brow lifted, slow and deliberate. “You know most people wait for permission.”

You shrugged, leaning against the inside of the door with a grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He stood, a mix of amusement and surprise tugging at his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently,” you said, glancing around his office like you were appraising it, “I’m the Bureau’s favorite florist now.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I’m doing weekly arrangements for half your departments. Including your very charming, very…emotionally distant boss.”

Hotch huffed under his breath. “Strauss.”

“Mmhmm.” You wandered further in, crossing the room like you owned the air between you. “I walked past her office earlier. She nodded at me. It was almost a smile. I think that counts as federal-level affection.”

Hotch gave the faintest smile. “She is rather fond of a well-composed bouquet.”

You tilted your head. “Or maybe she’s just jealous of my access to her most brooding agent.”

That earned a pause.

Hotch stared at you for half a second too long.

And then, “You came all the way up here just to flirt?”

“Oh, Agent,” you purred, tapping your fingers on the edge of his desk. “If I made a stop every time I wanted to flirt with you, I’d need a badge.”

Hotch stepped around the desk slowly, leaning his hand on the edge near yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low.

You smiled wider. “And yet…you’re not asking me to leave.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t move.

Just let the air thicken, let the pause stretch between you.

The tension pulsed like electricity.

“You planning on behaving today?” he asked quietly.

You leaned in just slightly. “What gave you the impression that I ever behave?”

He exhaled through his nose--

One of those barely held-in laughs.

You glanced down at the file on his desk. “Is this one of those murder-y cases, or are you free for coffee?”

“I have ten minutes,” he said, voice raspier now.

“Perfect,” you said, already spinning on your heel. “Meet me in the lobby. I’ll buy. FBI discount, you know. One wink at the front desk, and they practically roll out a red carpet.”

“Of course they do,” he murmured as you reached the door.

You paused before leaving, glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh--and Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

You let your eyes rake over him with unmistakable heat. “This whole authority figure, stern jaw, badge and brooding thing? Works waaayyy too well on me.”

You were gone before he could answer.

And when he looked down, he realized you’d left a single bloom on his desk--

A blush-pink carnation tucked beside the file.

Yearning, he remembered distantly from one of your flower lessons.

Of course.

Of course you did.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @thebestqueenoftheworld @superlegend216

418 notes · View notes