hotchscoffeecup

[hotchscoffeecup]

tbr

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader

Summary: You spent a large part of your life taking care of people. Between a test to grade, a phone call to calm Spencer down, and the problems of everyday life, there was never any time left. And honestly? You never cared about investing in your own love life. Love (in the intimate sense, between two people) was something for other people. But it seems that destiny had other plans. Warnings: Reader is Spencer's older sister. Mention of parental abandonment, premature maturation. Second part here WC: 5 363 *ops*

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When you were a child, you liked to imagine that you were a great designer. You would create fancy dresses out of blankets, glue anything shiny to your neck – aluminum foil was your favorite. And when you didn’t have real makeup, you would use blackberries from the garden as lipstick. A contrast to Spencer who, at the same age, lived for any neutral-colored sweater and a good giant book, no matter the subject.

As you reached your teens, you explored your artistic side even more, staying up late at the clubs that your school offered – painting, reading, woodworking. Grabbing hold of any hobby that could explore your creativity.

But such trivial things ended when your father left. It wasn’t that your mother was bad, quite the opposite, she was extremely loving. It turns out that as the schizophrenia progressed, the episodes became more frequent and longer, causing her to lose her job. Spencer needed stability, something safe and constant to hold on to.

You could give him that – you needed to give him that. So you chose a profession that would give you the security of a good salary, so he wouldn’t have to worry, things were already hard enough. And that’s what you did for the next few years, studying and working countless hours, sacrificing what was most precious to you – your time and dreams.

You made sure he had clothes, food, a roof over his head and as many books as he wanted. Trying your best not to freak out with college and two jobs.

But in the end… you were missing.

You didn’t notice when he started coming home from school later.

You didn’t notice when he stopped telling you about the new theories he was reading, or when he started apologizing for rambling – as if your words were a nuisance.

When Spencer finally gathered the courage to tell you what was going on, his voice was so low that you thought he was just joking.

“I… didn’t tell you before because I thought it would be better to ignore it,” he mumbled, playing with the hem of his shirt. “But that didn’t work.”

You frowned, placing your dinner plate in front of you. “What are you trying to say, Spence?”

He looked at you, hesitant, before looking back down at his food. “They say I talk too much. That it’s annoying, that my books are stupid, my clothes are funny. And that’s why Dad left… because we’re all weird.” You felt your floor crumble.

For a second, you thought — wished — you’d heard him wrong. How could someone treat your most precious thing so carelessly? How could someone have the nerve to try to shame you for one of your brightest traits? Or worse, how could someone have the nerve to blame a stupid, cowardly adult on a child?

He interpreted your silence negatively, quickly correcting himself, “Sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping these silly things on you, I’ll figure it out myself.” Your eyes softened, “No Spence, you don’t need to apologize for this, I’ll always have time for you dear”, you put your hand on his shoulder, giving him a caress, “I’ll figure this out.”

To say you were furious would be an understatement. You’d threatened teenagers, yelled at some parents and threatened to set the school on fire if the principal didn’t do something about it – things you weren’t proud of, but certainly didn’t regret.

The prejudice the neighborhood had towards your family was horrible – the stares, the whispers and the teasing. But you learned to use it to your advantage, after your little outburst no one dared to provoke Spencer again. You took care of him as if he were your own son – even though they were only seven years apart.

A few years later he left home and with your mother in a mental institution, you found yourself alone for the first time in years. It was strange at first, the silence was uncomfortable, the house felt colder – eerily lifeless. It took a few weeks to get used to the idea of ​​living alone.

After a few months, you started to enjoy your life, the house seemed more cozy, and you now had the freedom to decorate it the way you wanted – which meant you could move the furniture around as much as you wanted and there would be no one to complain, saying that things had a “life of their own”.

You learned to love your profession and, over time, you discovered that sharing knowledge was your true purpose.

You replaced the old blanket with designer clothes, shiny things with some discreet jewelry and the blackberries in the garden with a makeup collection.

You had time to take care of yourself now.

-

Despite the age difference, you have a lot in common with your brother. A passion for books, languages ​​and the human psyche are some of them. But there are two things that are the complete opposite.

Style and personality.

You followed a ritual every morning.

First, you would take a shower – hot enough to almost make you pass out. Then you would apply your favorite moisturizer, a perfect blend of lychee, berries and lily.

You would apply moisturizer and sunscreen to your face with your fingertips – making sure to use circular motions and lightly dragging your fingers upwards over the eye area, concealer only on the dark circles, a little liquid blush on the apples of your cheeks and compact powder to set the skin. Nothing too extravagant on your eyes, just a well-blended eyeshadow, thin eyeliner and mascara.

This was your therapy, your way of connecting with your child self.

And honestly? You loved it. It was by far one of the best moments of your day.

You were putting the finishing touches on your makeup when your phone vibrated on the vanity.

Spence: Hey, are you going to be at school today? Can I come over during my break? I'd like to borrow your Neuropsychology textbook, the one with the black cover and the blue brain, the one with the notes in the margins. I think it's on the second shelf of your bookshelf.

You rolled your eyes, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. If it were anyone else remembering such a specific detail, it would probably be creepy. But this is Spencer we're talking about.

Checking your watch, it was still an hour before you'd be at school. Perfect.

You: Can I bring it to you, is it in the office yet? Spence: Really? Like, right now? You don't have to do that, I can stop by the school later. You: It's okay Spence, just make sure they let me in (preferably without pointing a gun at me). Spence: You know that's not how it works, right?

You, apparently, got all the good humor in the family.

You put your phone in your bag and head to the office to get the book – which, of course, was exactly where he said: second shelf.

-

Your heels echo on the cold marble as you walk to the reception desk, attracting the attention of the agents who pass by you – all of them looking as friendly as the grinch on Christmas Eve.

Before you can introduce yourself, the woman behind the counter looks up from her computer, smiling as she looks you over from head to toe.

“You have to be Miss Reid.”

You blink, surprised – and slightly scared. How could she know that? Telepathy? Is that some kind of mandatory course for anyone working at the FBI?

“How did you…?”

She smiles, holding out a badge in your direction. “Dr. Reid called earlier. He said: You’ll smell the perfume before she arrives, you’ll probably be the only one smiling.”

You take the badge with a half smile, and carefully pin it to the lapel of your overcoat, mumbling a “thank you.”

“Elevator on the left, sixth floor. You’ll see a sign: Behavioral Analysis Unit. Just go straight.”

You nodded, thanking her once more before walking away towards the elevator.

Honestly? The place is creepy. Some dark oak details on the wall, portraits of important people in expensive clothes hanging in a row. The white light makes the mood even worse.

As if the people who work here weren’t intimidating enough already.

If the Batcave had a bureaucratic version, it would definitely be here. Where are the interior designers?

You followed the path the woman at the reception indicated, spotting Spencer a little further ahead of the sign. He was leaning against a table near the entrance, looking like he’d just been punched by a hurricane and a cyclone (spoiler, he lost).

Wrinkled shirt, slightly disheveled at the shoulders, having been at odds with the iron for years. His tie was to the side and his curls were a mess.

You frown, pressing your lips into a straight line as you look Spencer up and down. “Let me ask you, did you get ready while running away from a shooting?”

Spencer turns toward the voice, his brain taking a moment to process what you said. He opens his mouth in disbelief. “What? No!”

“Really? Because it’s not what it looks like.” You move closer to him, fixing the collar of his shirt and straightening his tie.

“You always do that,” he sighed, pouting the same way he did when you showed up to tell him it was time for bed.

“Spence, you’re practically begging me to do this.” You correct him with a half smile, brushing the thread that insisted on falling into his eyes.

“Okay,” he murmured, waiting as you finished trying to straighten the fabric of his shirt.

You take a step back, watching approvingly. “Much better. Now no one will think you were raised by wolves.”

Spence snorted lightly, but the corners of his lips betrayed him in a half smile. “You know… I can do this myself now, right?”

“I know you can,” you agree, picking up the book and holding it out to him. “But apparently you’re not willing.”

You’re brothers, after all. No matter the age difference, the teasing never ends.

He takes the book, his eyes wandering over the title before returning to your face. “Are you going to be busy this weekend?” he asked, his tone hesitant, avoiding your eyes.

You tilted your head, studying his reaction. The way he holds the book and avoids your eyes is familiar – exactly how he used to be before he asked to sleep in your room after a nightmare.

“You don’t have to ask to sleep over for the weekend Spence. We can always binge-watch Doctor Who,” you finally say, reading between the lines of what he meant to ask.

He blinks a few times, genuinely surprised. “It’s bizarre and extremely creepy how you still know these things before I even tell you.”

“A mother knows her children,” you joke, poking him under the ribs before pulling him into a hug. “Eat something decent. Get at least six hours of sleep a day, and… fix your hair, it looks like you got a shock.”

He hugs you back, tucking his head between your hair and shoulder. “Yes ma’am,” his voice is muffled.

There’s a brief comfortable silence before he clears his throat. “Um… can you let me go now? Your perfume is intoxicating me.”

You laugh, pulling away from him, “Okay, I need to go or I’ll be late,” you point to the book in your hand, “take care of my son.”

“Yes ma’am.” He repeats in an ironic tone, just to tease you.

–

Across the bullpen, Emily was the first to notice — actually, feel — your presence. Your scent spread silently, sweet and citrusy. Filling the usual smell of paper and reheated coffee.

Without taking her eyes off you, she fumbled around on the table, searching for anything she could throw on Morgan’s desk.

The sound of the pen hitting the keyboard was enough to take his focus off the report, and he looked up, irritated. “What the-”

Emily just pointed her chin discreetly in your direction. He frowned, following her gaze before freezing. “Okay… who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” JJ approached, looking away from the pile of reports she was carrying, looking for what they were both staring at.

Emily pointed discreetly to the entrance. “The woman in the structured coat, probably tailored. Expensive perfume. Heels. Impeccable makeup at eight in the morning.”

“It’s not just any shoe, it’s a Louboutin.” JJ looks more closely, before looking back at the two of them. “Do you know anyone who has a thousand dollars to spare for a shoe?”

They both shake their heads. Morgan turns to the two of them, slightly confused. “She doesn’t look lost… Who is she here to see? Rossi?”

JJ shook her head. “I don’t think so, he hasn’t even arrived yet. Besides, if this was a formal meeting Garcia and Hotch would be here too and– Wait, is Spencer going to her?”

The three of them leaned over the table, side by side, like children watching a very interesting episode.

“Did… Did she just grab his tie?” JJ asked, her eyes slightly wide.

“And he let her.” Emily nodded, astonished. “She touched his hair. His hair. And he didn’t flinch.”

Emily blinked slowly. “She must be a witch.”

“Maybe a girlfriend?” JJ suggested, still unable to take her eyes off the scene.

Morgan laughed, straightening up to lean back in his chair, incredulous. “Girlfriend? If prettyboy managed to do that I need to reevaluate everything I know about him and seduction techniques.”

In front of them, Spencer was waving goodbye to you with a smile. You grimaced and gestured at his shirt before turning and walking away – which he responded with an eye roll. Then he returned to the table as if nothing had happened. He sat down, opened his book and turned a page. Completely oblivious to the commotion.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan crossed his arms, his expression falsely serious – his eyes sparkling with amusement. “We need to talk.”

He frowned, looking up at him. “About what?”

“The James Bond meets Audrey Hepburn thing.”

“Who?”

Emily rested her face on her hand. “The woman who literally just hugged you.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, averting his eyes back to the book. “Oh yeah. She just came to hand me a book.”

Morgan leaned forward with a wide smirk. “Tell me the name of this library, because I want to sign up. Maybe I can get a kiss.”

Spencer groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “First of all: ew. Second, shut up, she’s my sister.”

The room was silent for a moment. Morgan, Emily and JJ, frozen – almost comically like in a cartoon, exchanged a look before turning back to Spencer.

“Your what?” The three asked in unison.

“And you didn’t think it was necessary to tell us that this being… I don’t even have adjectives to describe it. Why didn’t you tell us that this was your sister?” Emily asked, incredulous.

Spencer cringed, already expecting this reaction. “I talk about her all the time,” he muttered, defending himself. “I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

“We thought she’d be more like you.” JJ muttered, glancing at the entrance where you had been standing for a few minutes. “Now I wonder how you didn’t become a fashion expert growing up with her. Because I’ve never seen anyone so flawless at eight in the morning.”

Spencer clicked his tongue with a shrug, returning his gaze to the book. “I have a different style and she respects that. But whenever she sees me she still says that self-esteem is a shield against institutionalized mediocrity.”

Morgan laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, Penelope will love her.”

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You hate renovations.

Construction, leaks in general. In fact, anything that involves noise and dust, even if it has the classic promise of “It’ll be worth it in the end”. They are inconvenient – ​​the constant sound of hammering in the background, furniture being dragged from one side to the other. The smell of cement and fresh paint – your nose burns just thinking about it. And all this without mentioning the layer of dust it leaves on the furniture – even after it’s been cleaned. Your eyes itch, you sneeze as much as you breathe and the visual chaos leaves your head throbbing at the end of the day.

With each step inside the apartment, you can feel the fine grains of sand on the soles of your shoes. You love this place, you really do. This is where you spent the first years in the city with Spencer, after leaving Vegas; every corner of this apartment carries a memory.

You ignored the first signs of degradation. When the heater broke, you spent the entire winter wrapped in blankets, telling yourself that it was a time to test your resilience. Then you forgot about the cracked tiles in the bathroom and the strange noise of the shower. But when the plumbing in the wall burst, turning your apartment into an unlicensed water park, it became clear that living there was no longer a viable option, you needed to move.

The elevator door opened with a soft creak, Spencer stepping out first, balancing one of your boxes with clumsy care.

“I still think you should have stayed at my apartment for a few days to look around more calmly,” said, your voice quick but low, as walked down the slightly dusty hallway of the new building. “You know I hardly ever stop at home, there would be space, and… well, at least I would know you would be in a safe place.”

“Spence, I really appreciate your concern but I wouldn’t ruin my clothes by leaving them in suitcases or boxes,” you said, putting the box you were holding on the floor to grab the set of keys and unlock the door to your new apartment. “Besides, where would I leave my furniture?”

Spencer let out a grunt of agreement, as if he had forgotten that detail. “Not that this building is bad, of course. In fact… yeah, it’s a good building,” he said, as if trying to convince himself, his eyes wandering over the door hinges and the reinforced lock. “I asked Penelope for a list. Of the safest buildings in the area. I mean, nothing too invasive, just the basics: police incident rate, presence of a doorman, security cameras, distance from police stations.”

You laughed, placing the box on the counter. “Spencer, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be fine,” he agreed, mimicking your gesture, “but with my job you can never be too careful. This one was number five on the list, which is good… good enough. But the one on the corner with Laurel was number two, and it had those bulletproof glass doors, remember? Not that you need bulletproof glass… but, well, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

“Spencer.” You hummed in warning.

“Okay.”

“Thanks. But now help me find the coffee before I throw this box out the window or decide to jump.”

–

All in all, it took a week to finish tidying up the apartment. And you certainly owe a – huge – apology to all your neighbors. You could almost feel them peering through the peephole, hoping that this would be the last piece of furniture, the last noise, the last night someone would wake up in shock to the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

By the seventh day, you were exhausted. Sitting on the living room floor, knees bent, surrounded by duct tape, trash bags with burst bubble wrap, and tools lying around. The apartment had finally started to feel like a home, and not like the set of a failed home improvement show.

You were leaving the house when your cell phone vibrated in your coat pocket. You grabbed it, sliding your fingers across the screen as you read the first few lines of what looked like an urgent email. Turning the corner, you didn't see the body in front of you until it was too late.

The impact was strong. Your heel slid across the floor, making you lose your balance. At the same moment, two arms reached out towards you, a pair of strong hands gripping your shoulders with precision, preventing you from falling.

"Are you okay?" His tone was low, slightly alarmed.

You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the shock. Your heart was still racing inside your chest – surprise and embarrassment competing to see which would push you over the edge first.

The man in front of you remains still, his hands still close together, suspicious that you won’t be able to keep your balance if he lets go of you completely. His serious face, etched in firm lines, adds an air of authority – or maybe it was just the absence of expression.

“Hmm… yes. Considering other realities that could be worse.” You murmur automatically, still a little bewildered.

“Worse…?” He repeats, confused, as he slowly pulls his hand back.

“I could have fallen, hit my head, broken my heel, torn my tights, hurt my back…”, you started to list.

Did you think about all of this now or do you have a list of tragedies saved in your mind? The question echoed in your mind, but he remained silent. Aaron watched with a frown, his dark eyes following every feature of your face, trying to remember if he had seen you in the building before. Coming to the conclusion that no, this was the first time he had met you, he would certainly remember if he had crossed paths with you before.

You notice his expression, staying quiet immediately, biting the inside of your cheek to try to prevent the blush on the top of your cheeks from intensifying. “And I digress. Great.” You sigh, before smiling. “Anyway, I’m sorry. And thank you for preventing a fall that would have been incredibly embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to thank me, it was my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he waved, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, giving a small smile as you walked back towards the exit. As soon as you entered the elevator, you leaned against the wall and discreetly pulled out your cell phone.

You: Spencer, as if the noise I made this week wasn’t enough, I just bumped into my neighbor in the hallway. And to top off Murphy’s Law, he’s also a DILF.

The answer came almost immediately. What most people don’t know is that Spencer Reid is a huge gossip.

Spence: What’s a DILF?

Oh dear, it’s better if you don’t know.

You: Well, that’s irrelevant. Anyway, I think I’m in love.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Appeared again. Gone.

You could almost see Spencer at his desk, frowning, the gears in his brain turning, mentally reviewing everything he had ever seen about love at first sight.

Spence: Is it smart to date someone on the same floor as you? What if it doesn't work out? What about mental health?

He was right about that.

You: Mental health is a thing of the past, Spence. Something cavemen looked for, now what brings a couple together is shared trauma. Spence: I really hope this is a metaphor. Please tell me it is a metaphor. You: No, this is me saying I need your help to find out who he is, because I'm going to marry him. Spence: You need (psychiatric) help.

Spence put his phone down on the table, trying to get back to work, but the nagging feeling was still there, in the back of his mind. He read and reread the message again, as if the meaning would magically appear on the screen.

“DILF,” he mumbled, trying to remember if he had ever heard or read that word before, “maybe a character name…” Emily walked past him, returning from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee.

“Emily,” he called, whispering, trying not to attract the attention of the people around him.

“What?” he whispered back, bringing the cup to his lips. Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“I’m having doubts about the semantics of a word, do you know what a… DILF is?”

Emily choked on her coffee, coughing slightly. “What?” she repeated, surprised.

“A DILF, do you know what it means?” he analyzed her reaction for a second, before continuing, “I don’t know what it means but it seemed important to understand the context.”

Her lips opened in a wry smile. “Oh Spencer, who is corrupting your beautiful brain?”

Spencer ignored the provocation, curiosity overcoming embarrassment – ​​big mistake. “Is it some kind of acronym?”

“Yes,” she replied, smirking, “it stands for ‘Dad I’d Like to…’” She paused, waiting patiently for his brain to fill in the rest.

“Oh,” he blinked, remaining completely still. Despite the lack of words, his face was turning different shades of red. “I-I, um, thanks.”

Emily walked away shaking her head, an amused smile on her lips.

Spencer: I figured out what DILF stands for, and I have two things to say. First, Freud must be turning in his grave right now (and he would love to meet you). Second, you owe me a lobotomy.

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud in the elevator when you read Spencer’s last message. Putting your phone in your pocket, you took a deep breath, trying to get your thoughts in order. You could still feel the touch of his hands on your shoulders, the way his dark eyes had examined you for a second longer than necessary, as if he wanted to make sure you were really okay.

Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, another realization dawned on you: the man lived right next door. He was there all the time. And you had spent a week making a hell of a lot of noise.

Great. Perfect first impression.

You continued on your way to college, but your mind was on your new apartment, mentally rehearsing what the next time you bumped into him would be like. Maybe a formal apology? A cake? An anonymous note slipped under the door?

Fate seemed particularly generous, because when you were returning home at the end of the day, a woman and a little boy were walking towards your neighbor’s door.

Instinctively, you slowed your pace, watching the interaction. The woman – who you assumed was a close relative, or probably the boy’s mother – glanced briefly in your direction, offering a polite smile.

You smiled back, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, taking a deep breath before taking the last few steps that separated you from their door.

Oh, he’s married, God isn’t in all things.

“Hi, I live right across the street,” you pointed to the door, smiling at the little boy before turning your gaze back to the woman. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Apology? Why?” she asked, her tone gentle, despite the clear confusion on her face.

“For the moving noises,” you smiled, a little embarrassed, “and also for almost knocking over what I assume was your husband in the hallway.”

She laughed, shaking her head as if that was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. “Oh, you mean Aaron? Oh my God! Husband? No, I’m just Jack’s aunt.” She bent down a little to adjust the backpack on the boy’s shoulders, casting a mischievous look over him. “And he’s single, by the way.”

Well, maybe he is.

You felt your cheeks burning at the insinuation, smiling as you turned your gaze back to the little boy. “Well, anyway, I thought I’d make up for it with a proper apology.” You crouched down a little to be closer to Jack’s height. “Do you like cookies? Cake?”

The boy’s smile widened now, his eyes lighting up. Before he could answer, the woman laughed softly. “Oh, he loves chocolate chip cookies.”

“Really?”

Jack nodded. “Chocolate chip cookies,” he said, whispering as if it were an important secret.

You placed your hand on your chest, leaning closer to whisper, as if this were a secret mission. “Understood, Mr. Jack. Chocolate chip cookies. I’ll make the best cookies, with double the chocolate.”

The woman smiled amiably, unlocking the door. “I’m sure he’ll love it. And don’t worry about the noise, moving is chaotic. Welcome to the building, by the way.”

“Thank you. See you soon, Jack. See you soon…”

“Jessica,” she added, with an amused smile. “See you around.”

–

Saturday morning started like any other in the Hotchner household: Jack – still in his pajamas, with his hair messy – dragged his feet to the kitchen, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Aaron was already preparing his son’s breakfast when he heard a soft noise coming from the door – a sound almost imperceptible.

He frowned curiously. Gesturing for Jack to wait in the kitchen, he walked to the front door and opened it slowly, alert.

On the floor, there was a glass jar filled with cookies that looked homemade, golden brown, with generous chunks of chocolate. Tied to the jar was a note tied with a simple bow, written in beautiful, slanted handwriting:

“Mission accomplished, Mr. Jack. Hope you like them. Note: If they’re good, I made them. If they’re bad, oh what an evil bakery, selling bad food.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, a laugh escaping before he could contain it. For a second, he stood in the doorway, scanning the silent hallway, hoping to find some clue. Who would leave food on the doorstep of someone they barely knew? He glanced at Jack, who now seemed fully awake, his eyes shining with satisfaction at the sight of the gift.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked in an amused voice, shaking the jar of cookies slightly.

Jack nodded excitedly. “When Aunt Jess came to pick me up yesterday, we ran into our neighbor from across the hall. She apologized for the noise and for almost knocking you over the other day.” Aaron raised an eyebrow, listening intently to the explanation. “She asked me what I liked, and I told her I liked chocolate chip cookies. So she said she’d give me some along with her apology.”

He inhaled slowly, carefully opening the jar, taking out a cookie, and taking in the smell and texture—and the bounty of melted chocolate chips. “Oh, so now we have a neighbor who makes secret deals with you?”

Jack laughed, shrugging. “Aunt Jess said she’s nice.”

Aaron stared at the jar for a few more seconds, his mind torn between the tempting smell of chocolate and the invisible weight of caution. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the gesture. It was the kind of gift his younger self would have accepted without a second thought. But after years of seeing the worst in people, it was hard to believe that someone would take the time to bake cookies just to apologize.

“Yeah…” he said finally, reaching for another cookie a little hesitantly. “She seems really nice too.”

He broke the cookie in half, offering it to Jack before taking a bite. As the smell had already given away, they were very good, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, just the right amount of sweet. You clearly knew what you were doing.

Jack finished the cookie, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his pajamas before reaching for another. “Can we get her a present too?”

“How about a card? You could draw something. I’m sure she’d like it.”

–

You were heading to the kitchen to make some coffee, still a little sleepy. You needed a generous amount of caffeine to grade your tests – if you received another email asking about your grade, Spencer would have to come and get you with his work friends. Something caught your eye on the floor, a small colorful envelope was resting under your door.

You bent down and carefully pulled out the card: A piece of cardboard folded in half, covered in colorful stars and a rosy-cheeked sun with a big smile in the center. When you opened it, the message written in the adorable handwriting of a child:

“Apology fully accepted. The cookies were very good, thank you! I just realized I forgot to ask, what’s your name? Your new friend, Jack.”

You stood there, still for a moment, smiling at the card as you felt your chest immediately warm. Maybe you could reframe your thoughts on construction work, because now, maybe deep down, you’re glad the pipe burst.

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I've been writing this since April *biting fist emoji*, and to be honest, I've changed the script so much that I don't even know how to continue. I'm only posting this because I know myself and I know I'm one step away from freaking out and deleting everything :) When this is over I'll probably write a sequel.

Anyway, I think this is my favorite (cover your ears, alien superstar).

[hotchscoffeecup]

tbr

Snow At The Beach, I. Day One: Arrival

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: you knew doing things without thinking was bad. so now, of course, your impromptu trip to iceland gets ruined by a man who claims you have ruined his.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (late 20s/late 40s), (eventual) smut, s2l, forced proximity, one bed, tons of angst, MATERIALISTS SPOILERS +more specific to be added per chapter!

word count: 3,266 words

side note: i feel like a man who fathers too many kids who he can't take care of lmao very fitting since it's father's day in my country!! i do have a present loving dad so i'm afraid my dilfism has been earned by other worse reasons. fun fact, it's also my 21st bday! yey (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ🎂 shot out too to the daddiest non-dad out there, pedro pascal!!!! (i know some of these things like hotel mishaps don't make sense since it's supposed to be a luxury place but idc do it for the plot!)

part: prev | masterlist | next

He feels stupid. Sitting at the airport with luggage for a week and a ticket to Iceland that felt more like a reckless choice every passing hour and less like the romantic getaway he envisioned. Surrounded by families, friends, couples and people by themselves who certainly don't look as miserable as he does. Lonely. His gaze lingers on the lovers, as some sort of punishment. He thinks of his brother and his recent marriage and the girl who got away. Lucy. He still doesn't know how to feel about it, but he definitely isn't feeling sunshine and rainbows.

Just stupid.

Harry Castillo, billionaire, deceived by the promise of love, taken away from him by a broke waiter of all people.

He boards the plane with rage, holding his handbag so tightly, the stewardess posted at first class asks him if he's okay. He nods, but he knows he's far from it. Spends all the five hours checking his email and pending files, yet he also knows he cares about it as much as he cares about his brother's Things To Do In Iceland list. Hiking, whale watching, romantic waterfalls and the promise of a wet enchanted kiss. Those were things to do for couples. Harry is fucking alone.

Sitting next to him is a man who snores. Too loud. His eye ticks. Who sleeps on a fucking five hour flight? Alright, Harry is irritable at the moment; he thinks he's right about this though.

The plane lands in between the views of white-coated mountains and green grass. Some people clap. Harry hates people who clap when a plane lands.

Who would've thought a real romantic and composed businessman could be this full of hate?

It's Lucy's fault.

Now, Harry's moved to the stage where he blames everyone else. Not shared guilt, just her fault. Entirely hers. For her icy blue eyes, like the lakes behind his window. As well as cold. For fawning at his apartment but not at his kisses. For acknowledging he was great. Because even then, she chose not to stay.

As the car drives to his chosen hotel, the Torfhùs retreat, he thinks about her again. Lucy and him. Blames her for not opening up. But, he didn't either. Slept facing the other side after their first night together, hiding scars under expensive bed sheets. On his knees and on his heart. Hard to love, wanting to. Embarrassed to feel all at once and even more to admit it out loud.

This time, as the car parks outside and he asks the driver for a few minutes to get out and accept he's on this trip completely by himself, Harry's at the stage where he takes all the blame. For expecting. For wanting. For forcing himself on her, because she did say she wasn't what he needed. But they did work out. Maybe he didn't try too hard. That he should've been honest about the surgery, despite it being eight years ago. Maybe he tried too hard.

Either way, Harry has lost.

He sighs one last time and gets down the car. His bags are already inside the lodge.

He's about to get inside the lobby when a figure walks past him, touching the handle before him.

"Sorry. You go first" to the unknown woman, then reaches his hand, because despite the quiet anger and heartbreak, Harry Castillo's still a gentleman. Then holds the door open for them.

"Thank you" voice impossibly soft. To be confused with meek, but it sounds rather resigned.

They go inside, and that's when Harry notices it's a woman.

He notices other things, always an observer. Her walk, composed. She's pretending, he thinks. Her hair, held tight by a ponytail and the way it swings with each step she takes. But it's her floral perfume that catches his attention the most. He hates cheap perfume. Still, Harry can deduce it's not expensive yet not cheap smelling either. Just... natural. As in effortless. He decides he's okay with that.

"Hello" he follows behind closely as if they came together, unable to resist a weird pull. "I made a reservation last week. Room 10"

Direct to the point. Harry hates people who talk too much. Who bullshit and lie. Which is funny, given his... Nevermind. Embarrassing.

Harry would like this, if it wasn't for the fact that number 10 is his exact same room.

You are not an spontaneous person.

Not boring either, just nothing that makes you stand out in a crowd. Another young adult with a career, a cat, and a boyfriend.

You jog every morning and pay your taxes on time. You do groceries on Sundays and cleaning on Mondays. Your circle of friends is small and you hang out every two weeks at brunch. You take the same route to work, having memorized it by now. You have goals, dreams, ambitions and a clear mind.

Keeping a straight head won you a job that allowed you to buy an apartment in lower Manhattan. Home.

You remember the first thing you bought: a small forget me not that died three weeks later. An omen of the heartbreak to come.

What died was the most important thing one should nurture.

Love.

It was a slow death, too quiet to even notice. Subtle. Late office nights, arriving at a house cold and silent. The darkness that awaits the ones who aren't being waited for. Silk sheets replacing cheap ones but gone the warmth of two bodies who searched each other even when the weather wasn't cold.

You can't remember the last time he held you close like someone worth to keep. The last time you went on dates, first because of time and then nothing at all. Just not doing it. Like you didn't eat together anymore. Or that he kept forgetting your favorite things, things he held before close to his heart, as sacred as a prayer or a secret language only you could understand.

The language written in vows. The one when you swear your heart to only one person for the rest of your life.

Then it came down with a scream. Even later nights, but the previously occupied bed was now empty. It filled in the morning, but your heart stayed empty. In the tense air lingered the things unsaid and a perfume that wasn't yours.

You threw things, bit back like a wounded dog. And he returned the pain, doubled it.

"I'm seeing someone else"

You felt the shame and anger reside in your veins. Deceived. Almost a decade with him but she had taken the last dying months, and somehow, even if she had less, in the end, she won. The other woman. The one who was this prettier newer shiny toy that had taken your spot.

"I love her"

Words you thought would always be only yours. The promise of a husband to a wife.

So, in spite, childishly maybe, you took the saved money you had in your bank account and booked a flight to the farthest place you could come up with.

That's why you're sitting at Keflavík airport alone.

Iceland.

Booked a one-week stay in one of Iceland's most expensive hotels. Torfhùs retreat: cozy cabins in Selfoss, dressed in modern luxury.

"You could've used that money for a good lawyer" your bestfriend Danna chastised. "I know one. Her office is in upper Manhattan. She's a nepo baby, but trust me, she's great. Amazing"

But you needed to get away.

For just a moment, five thousand kilometers away, you could pretend everything was fine and your life hadn't turned upside down in a matter of weeks.

That your cat meowed in anguish, asking for his absence, present in his empty side of the bed and lack of clothes in the closet.

That seeing your pictures replaced with hers didn't bring you to tears.

That there wasn't a permanent ache in your heart.

Among the waterfalls, mountains and green grass, you could show the world you weren't crying in bed for what was already over.

No, twenty-seven year old Y/n, soon to be a divorcee, could have fun among one of the greatest sadness a person could experience.

"So, Iceland?" Danna asks, finally after you had sent a picture of the airport bar you were sitting at. Well, camping at. Trying to gather some courage to face a divorce and that getaway you always imagined, but by yourself.

"Yeah, mother fucking Iceland"

You had never traveled alone before. Took a long gulp of your Brennivín and prayed for courage.

Upon arrival, you lowered your expectations and hoped just for a good trip. When a man walked before you, almost colliding into you, but realized and held the door, a gesture so small yet one you hadn't experienced in so long, it made flush rush to your cheeks.

"Sorry. You go first" and his voice is so deep and raspy, every hair in your body raises to its command. It wraps you. Soothing. Like velvet.

"Thank you" you manage to say, and even if you sound tired, you try to express the warm feeling of gratitude.

You don't think he notices your voice crack, or how each step you take is labored. That you haven't been okay for a long time and that his gesture has had an effect on you, bigger than you'd like to admit.

As you walk to the front desk, you notice the man walking close to you, his perfume and faint smell of cigarettes wafting through the air.

"Hello" you pull out your printed reservation (yes, printed. You were just that prepared). "I made a reservation last week. Room 10"

You hear the door guy stop. The man from the desk hands you the key. A throat clears up behind your back.

"No, that can't be" and a little nervous yet entitled laugh.

You turn around. "Sorry, where you talking to me?"

The man nods, smile condescending.

"I think you're mistaken, miss"

"Y/n" you cut a bit harshly, the small chivalry long forgotten.

You're tired, sad and angry. You just want to go lay down and sleep your sorrow away.

"Y/n" he repeats, and you shouldn't enjoy how much it sounds on his gravely voice. Not when he's treating you like this. How was this the same man who held the door for you?

"Yes?"

"I said I think you're mistaken"

"I don't understand" you blink, slowly.

The man behind the counter starts to look distressed. "Allir, róið ykkur niður" (everyone, calm down)

"Room 10... That's my room"

You laugh and dangle the key in front of his face.

"No, it's mine"

The man looks at you like you're a naive kid.

"Here" he pulls out his own reservation paper. Printed as well. You ex-husband used to say it was a waste of paper. You'd like to prove him wrong and make this a silly Look, we're the same! moment, except this man is far from your friend. "Now you believe me?"

Room 10.

"Ég held að það hafi orðið mistök" (i think there's been a mistake)

You start to loose your patience. "Listen, mister-"

"Harry" with the same icy tone you'd used.

"Harry" you repeat, hating how smoothly it slides across your tongue. Almost as if you were born to say it. "I made this reservation last week"

The smug grin he sports irks you. "I did it a month ago"

"Kannski var það tölvan. Eða nýjasti gaurinn" the man says. He's started to sweat by now. (maybe it was the computer. or the newest guy)

You tap your feet against the floor, both impatient and annoyed. "So?"

The man smiles, enjoying this.

"By that logic, the room's mine" he replies cooly, pleased.

The color drains from your face. What are you supposed to do? You don't know the country or the language, not to mention the obscene amount of money you've wasted.

"And what am I supposed to do?" you ask, helpless.

"Book somewhere else" he drops, carelessly.

"Do you think money grows from trees!?" you raise your voice, losing your temper. Maybe it's the accumulated stress, because you never shouted at anyone. At least, not since you last argued with your ex-husband.

He doesn't answer to that.

"If you expect me to search for another place right now" you find your voice again, lower yet still sharp, "you're dumber than you look"

He scoffs. "You're dumb if you think you can book a place a week before your trip"

You laugh dryly. "Says the guy who's telling me to book a hotel right now"

He chuckles, a bit less meaner. "Fair"

"You're forgetting something, though"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

You grin, victoriously. "I got the key"

"I still have more rights to it" he says with a bit of a whine.

"What about manners? Women go first!"

"And your own? Don't be a child and accept I booked it first so I deserve it"

"You're ruining my trip!" you protest, spiteful.

Harry is as angry and irritable as you.

"So are you!"

The man behind the lobby, an elder man with ashes for hair who introduces himself as Axel the housekeeper, stands in between.

"Wait!"

You both turn at the man who had remained behind the safety of his desk, both nervous and distressed.

"You speak English?" Harry asks.

"Little" he replies, more embarrassed about the situation than his language knowledge.

"Thank God" you sigh, a little too relieved. "Please, help us"

"I try, just stop shouting. Guests don't like"

Your face feels hot and Harry's ears turn red at the tip. For some reason, seeing the once intimidating man who could easily own a room blush out of embarrasment is kind of adorable.

Ugh. You so need to get laid. Get yourself a viking, Danna had said.

"Sorry. We got nervous. A bit altered" you utter.

"I apologize as well" but he isn't looking at you. "We just want to understand why we both have the same room"

"I told her. Bad idea" he sighs, shaking his head. "Wife cares of this. She sick. New guy came. He ruined it" Axel points to the computer. "I not good with this. Nor english. Wife is"

You can't help but smile at the hint of hidden adoration the explanation carries. "She sounds like a great woman"

"A true keeper" Harry agrees. He can't help but be a romantic, despite it all.

(Despite never falling in love. Not knowing how to love. What it is to be loved)

You look at the him, stunned for agreeing with you or maybe at the way there's yearning laced within his words. Your eyes briefly dart to his finger without a ring, wondering. He catches your view when you raise it, which makes you turn away, embarrased.

"The best" Alex agrees with both of you. "Anna is the love of my life"

Something about growing old and counting wrinkles on the face of a lover. The tale of years passed but love standing across time. All that's left is the ache of the person you imagined spending the rest of your life with, slipping through your fingers until he wasn't yours. Like he never was.

"Hey, I have solution" he takes out another key from the drawer and hands it to Harry. "Here"

Harry takes it, examines it and then looks back at Axel, confused.

"It's for Room 10"

"Yes" like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He blinks, slowly. "I'm not getting it"

Axel smiles, as if the answer is easy.

"Yes. You two share room"

It takes a few seconds for both of you to react.

"What?!" you shout in unison.

"That doesn't make any sense" Harry says.

"Yeah" you concede. "There's no way I'm sharing a room with him"

Harry scoffs, crossing his arms.

"What makes you think I would share a room with you?"

"Is the solution I have" Axel shrugs. "I apologize but it's only one"

You sigh, sitting on a chair while rubbing your temples. Your head and feet hurt. Your eyes are heavy and you feel like crying.

"I can't believe it... this is why I plan things on advance"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Maybe you learned your lesson"

"Oh, definitely" you roll your eyes as well, standing up in front of him, tone daring. "Never book a luxury hotel full of snotty and arrogant people like you"

"Yeah, and I'd choose better than a hotel who allows anyone"

"Actually, we have policies-"

You both interrupt Axel with a hard "Shut up!"

He backs away, raising his hands in defeat. You finally react then.

"Look" you say, taking a deep breath and clapping your palms together for any semblance of peace. "Shouting won't take us anywhere"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, tired. "Alright. What do you suggest then?"

You take out your phone, asking Axel for the Wi-Fi. Once you get signal, you do a quick search for hotels in Selfoss. All of them are as expensive if not more than this one. Why even bother? Not like you had any money left.

"The closest hotel is almost three miles away. And it's small" you comment, looking at the picture. "I'm pretty sure it's all booked"

You give him a little look. The disarming look, as Danna would joke. The look that won you free drinks and your ex-husband to look your way the very first time.

"No" he picks up, immediately. It seems Harry might be the only man inmune to it.

"It's the only way" you speak, stern. "Don't think I'm happy about it"

"Good" Harry seconds, acidic. "Neither am I, just to be clear"

"Just to be clear" you replied, annoyed. Probably at the fact it feels like a subtle rejection. Not like you care, anyway.

Harry looks at his bags on the floor and you look at your own. The clock reads nine, and after such an emotional rollercoaster, you feel the need for a good bath and a comfy bed. After a few moments of silence, Harry speaks, defeated.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Unless you want me to drive twenty miles to the biggest hotel in Selfoss. And pay for it"

I could, he thinks, but chooses to remain silent. "I'm not cruel"

Your lips curve up slightly. "I'm sure if good ol' Axel wasn't here, you would've wrestled me for this key to death"

Harry rolls his eyes, but a faint smile adorns his face.

"You're lucky I skipped Taekwondo classes"

"Taekwondo?" you chuckle, in disbelief. "I'd never imagine so. You look like a... finance guy"

"Can't a guy be both?" voice lighter, almost playful.

You giggle. "A millionaire fighting? Only if you're Batman"

He sends a wink your way, disarming you. "Maybe I am"

There is something about the man standing before you. Something that makes it impossible to hate him, even as annoyed as you are. Something that draws you to him. Impossible to ignore. A pull that bent knees and hearts.

Axel's raspy voice cuts the moment. "When room is empty, I'll give you new key"

"I like the sound of that" you agree. Then, you hold your hand up. "Temporary roomates?"

Harry chuckles at your antics, but accepts your hand nonetheless. His palm is so big, it practically swallows yours. It's firm and warm, the security of his dominant handshake engulfing you. You haven't realize you've held for longer than necessary until Axel intervenes about showing you your room.

"Temporary roomates it is"

Yet some things are meant to be forever, and you had a feeling Harry hadn't just crashed your runaway plan but your life.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / dts: @thecamiladiazuniverse @kaliispunk @manuymesut

[hotchscoffeecup]

Emily in Into The Woods

[hotchscoffeecup]

Yoir Aaron FanFiction got me screaming, I loved the elevator one

omg just saw this! thank you so much! i’m glad you enjoyed! ❤️

[hotchscoffeecup]

pillow talk

pairing: javier peña x DEA!reader

word count: 3.2k

tags: thunderstorms, there was only one bed, fluff no smut, near car accident, no y/n

summary: when a severe storm causes you and javier to have to stop off at a motel for the night, a game of two truths and lie as you both struggle to fall asleep reveals some hidden feelings for one another.

incredibly huge shoutout to @bau-muffin for always beta-ing my fics and encouraging me. i hope you all enjoy! this fic is open ended, so if you’d like to see a part 2, let me know in the comments!

You jolt awake gasping, reaching out a hand to steady yourself. It takes all of five seconds to grasp your surroundings and remember you’re still in this fucking car.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, princess,” Javier grumbles from beside you in the driver’s seat. His knuckles are clenched around the steering wheel and his back is rigid, muscles stiff as he focuses on the road as rain slams down against the windshield.

You swipe your hair back with one hand and rub your temples as you lean forward and peer out the window. “Jesus Christ, it’s really coming down.”

“Yeah, no shit. Thought I was going to have to check your pulse here in minute sleeping through the end of the fucking world like that.”

“Someone needs a cigarette,” you mumble under your breath.

“You’re telling me,” he says, eyes not once leaving the uneven pavement.

Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating everything for a split second and you don’t miss the way the trees bend under the force of the wind.

“How long do you think this will last?”

Javier shakes his head. “Fuck if I know. It hasn’t let up in the last hour, so I doubt anytime soon.”

Thunder explodes like cannon fire and another streak of lighting crackles in violently jagged patterns. There’s a crack, like a whip, and you barely scream out Javi’s name in time for him to jerk the wheel to the left and avoid the massive tree as it falls into the road.

The wheels screech as Javi veers off the road and slams on the breaks. You lurch forward and feel your heart hammer so hard against your chest you’re certain that it will shatter your ribcage.

Blood pounds in your ears and you look down to find an arm stretched across your chest. In slow motion, you process the arm as Javi’s and turn to look at him and his eyes, shining in the dim light and full of concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks, clearly shaken as well.

It takes you a second to find your voice, but you clear your throat and nod. Javi nods curtly and glances down at his arm across your chest. He quickly pulls his arm away and drops into his lap. “Sorry, reflexes.”

Rain continues to slam down diagonally in torrential sheets.You strain your eyes to try and see through the downpour, but even with the windshield wipers continuing to swipe at their highest speed it’s difficult to see anything.

“How about we pull off at the next town and grab a room at whatever hostel or motel they’ve got?”

Javier reaches up and jabs the overhead light. He yanks the crinkled map down from the dash and glances between it and the clock. “We’re only three hours from Bogotá. The ambassador wanted us back for the briefing at 9am.”

You glance at the clock on the dash and in the dim light, make out the time: 3:19AM.

“Javi, the only reason we’re driving from Medellín to Bogotá in the first place is because all flights were grounded on account of this incoming storm. What the ambassador should’ve done is just push everything until we were in the clear.”

Javier chuckles wryly and tosses the map back onto the dashboard. “Something tells me the President of Colombia wouldn’t appreciate being told to wait on account of two DEA agents because there’s a storm in Medellín.”

You heave a sigh and lean back into your seat with your arms folded across your chest. “He would if we had any new intel actually worth sharing.”

“Yeah, well we don’t, so—”

“So, then we should just stop for the night! The briefing will happen with or without us. We don’t have anything new to share anyway. The ambassador doesn’t give a shit that we have to drive for ten hours. He’ll bitch at us for following what ended up being a bogus lead. Basically, we get our wrist slapped in front of the president or we get our wrist slapped without an audience. Frankly, I like the latter.”

Javier drops his head back against the headrest and holds up a hand to silence you. “Okay, okay! Stop the lecture, please! We’ll stop.”

Your lips quirk into a smug smirk and you have to admit that you feel quite satisfied with yourself. “Damn, Javi, you fold easier than expected. I thought I was going to have to beg.”

Javier huffs and inclines his head as he shifts the car into drive and pulls back on to the road. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

•

“Goddamn, could you open that door any slower?” You stretch your jacket up over your head as the short awning extending over the perimeter of the motel does little to keep you dry in the face of the rain pelting sideways across the building.

With a grunt of effort, Javier turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open. You stumble in after him, nearly tripping over his heels in your rush to escape the rain.

A shiver rushes down your spine as the chill from your damp clothes settles into your bones. You shrug out of your rain jacket and rub your hands up and down your arms as Javier dropped your two duffel bags by the door with a heavy thud.

He slaps at the wall for the switch and a single bedside lamp flickers to life, illuminating only half of the room in a dull yellow glow.

“Hey, Jav.?”

He doesn’t turn as he kicks out of his boots by the door to avoid tracking any mud into the room. “Hmm?”

“There’s only one bed.”

Javier turns, looks at the bed, then looks at you, and shrugs. “Astute observation there, agent. There is indeed one bed, that’s correct.”

You aim a dagger sharp look at him and he smirks. He swipes a thumb across his lips and scratches at the few days of stubble on his jaw. “You’re not going to find many double bed lodgings this far out from the capital. It was this or nothing.” He shrugs out of his rain-slicked leather jacket and tosses it over the small table that was meant to serve as a dining area. “Listen, if you’re really that uncomfortable I can sleep on the chair,” he says nodding towards the worn lounger in the corner.

You stare at him for a little while longer and roll your eyes, relenting as you release the tension in your shoulders. He’d been driving for hours without complaint. It would be unfair of you to ask him to sacrifice even more tonight. “No, we can share the damn bad.” You point at him with steely determination, “Just remember I have a gun.”

He chuckles low in his throat as you dip past him and scoop your bag off the floor. “We have the same gun.” As you duck into the bathroom to wash your face and change clothes, you hear him laugh again softly to himself.

When you emerge from the bathroom in a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top you don’t miss the way Javier’s eyes glance over your figure. He’s already in bed, shirt off, and lower body hidden under the faded floral quilt.

“Peña I swear to God, you better have pants on under there.”

He lifts an eyebrow and then pulls the covers back, revealing a pair of loose gray sweatpants. He inclines his head towards you as he pulls the blanket back over himself. “I was torn between Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse for the sort of pajamas you’d have.”

You ignore his comment and climb into bed beside him, realizing just how small a queen sized bed can actually feel.

“Come on,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “I’ve got some pajamas with Tweety Bird on them back home. Flannel just doesn’t do a whole lot down here in Colombia.”

You stifle a laugh picturing hard edged Javier Peña in Tweety Bird patterned anything.

“Come on, what do you usually wear to bed back in D.C.?”

You roll over abruptly, catching Javier off guard. You look him in the eyes, offer a coy smile, and say, “Nothing.”

His stunned silence is so loud as you turn around and settle into the pillows with your arm tucked under your head. You smile to yourself as Javier clicks off the bedside lamp and for a while all you hear is the rain slamming against the tin roof.

You close your eyes and just as you feel like you’re about to drift off, Javier says your name, breaking the quiet stillness that had settled over the two of you.

“Go to sleep, Peña,” you mumble against the crook of your elbow.

The mattress shifts as he rolls onto his side. “Can’t.”

“Try.”

“I did.”

“Try harder.”

“Think I’m still coming down off the adrenaline rush of nearly getting crushed by a falling tree.”

You groan and turn over to face him. A lazy smile hangs on his lips and you feel an extremely strong urge to punch him, but also, with the way the dim light streaming in through the slit in the curtains illuminates the shine in his eyes, you can’t help but soften a touch.

“Jav, you’ve been in a firefight with how many sicarios? We’ve come back from a bust and I’ve seen you fall asleep at your desk without even realizing it.”

He blows out a breath and falls back onto the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. He breathes out a short laugh. “Yeah, I have done that, haven’t I?”

You prop yourself up on your elbow and rest your head in your hand. “Is something on your mind?”

He makes a disapproving sound and waves a hand in the air before letting it drop back to the mattress. “There’s always something on my mind, but I don’t want to keep you up. We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover before the ambassador hands our asses to us for missing the briefing.”

“Well, then, we’ve got time to sleep in. Tell me.”

He clicks his tongue, again, trying to avoid whatever it is that’s eating at him. “Same shit, different day. Every lead turns out to be a wall. More people end up dead. Escobar remains out of reach.”

You press your lips together, nodding in understanding. You reach out with your other hand and place it over his, folding your fingers around his palm and offering it a comforting squeeze. “At least we’ve got each other through the bullshit.”

Javier tilts his back into the pillow, shifting his eyes to look up at you. “Careful, there, someone might actually think you like me.”

His words strike an uncomfortably awkward chord in you and you feel your face flush. Your brow pinches. “Of course I like you, dumbass. You’re my partner.”

He strokes his thumb across the space between your thumb and forefinger and you tense before withdrawing your hand and falling back onto your pillow so that you’re also looking up at the ceiling.

Javi is the first to break the silence. “Hey, I’m sorry—”

“And Steve!” you blurt.

“What?” Javi questions, brow pinched.

“Steve is also our partner.” Oh my God, would you just shut the fuck up and stop rambling? Why are you short circuiting over a fucking thumb stroke? You were just being nice, friendly.

With your coworker.

Who was shirtless.

In bed with you.

Right next to you.

Your skin tingles where his thumb brushed against the top of your hand.

“Right,” Javier says, drawing out the T.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan internally. Before your internal dialogue can take over and embarrass yourself further, Javier speaks up.

“Do you want to play a game?”

The question is so unexpected, it abruptly halts the runaway train inside your brain.

You tilt your head to look at him. “What?”

He nods as if that’s exactly the right thing to ask at 4:30 in the morning. “Two truths and a lie, you ever played it?”

You scoff, but smile all the same. “Not since high school.”

He smiles. “Good, so you remember the rules then. I’ll go first.” He clasps his fingers together in front him, steepling his thumb and forefingers as he takes a moment to think. After a moment, he perks up. “Got it, okay, so, I broke my collarbone falling off a roof, I played football in high school, and in the same year asked a girl out in front of the whole cafeteria with a dozen roses and everything, the whole nine yards, and she rejected me.”

You can’t help the hiss of air that flows through your teeth. “The last one has to be true,” you say. “Seems like a pivotal event in the life and times of heartbreaker, Javier Peña. I’m going to say that it's definitely true.” You pause, thinking. “Men love talking about their glory days, so I think I’d have heard you mention being a football player at some point or another. I think you’re foolish enough to be me up on some roof you shouldn’t be, so falling off and breaking your collarbone sounds plausible.” You pop your lips as you make your decision. “Football. You never played it.”

Javier grins beside you. “Running back.”

“No shit.”

He nods, “I was a scrappy kid who could run fast and run hard.”

“No wonder you love a foot pursuit, then. Alright,” you start, turning over and propping your head up in your hand. “What was the lie?”

“I only had one rose.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Of course you did.”

He sits up, propping the pillow up behind him and leaning against the headboard. “Maybe if I’d had the whole dozen, she’d have said yes.” He taps your forearm with the backs of his knuckles. “Your turn, go ahead.”

It doesn’t take you long to come up with your responses. “Okay, I have seen the Red Hot Chili Peppers in concert three times, I was a competitive dancer, my favorite flowers are roses.”

Javier’s eyes brighten. “Roses. That’s the lie.”

You baulk at his quickness. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen your CD collection at your apartment. You have every Chili Peppers album.” He pauses and looks you up and down, though most of your body is concealed by the quilt. “Have you seen your legs? Of course you were a dancer.”

You blush and hope he doesn’t notice in the dim light.

“Plus, I know for a fact your favorite flowers are carnations.”

You turn sharp eyes on him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs, “Overheard you talking to Steve when he was thinking about what sort of flowers to get Connie after that big fight they had. You got all doe-eyed and said something about how sweet carnations are.”

“I do not get doe-eyed,” you insist and playfully slap Javi on the arm.

He nods, chuckling. “Oh, you do.”

You wave him off. “Alright, fine. You got me. I love carnations. Your turn, go on.”

Javier swipes his thumb across his lip. “Got it.”

You give him the floor. “Lay it on me.”

“My partner has feelings for me.”

Your heart stills in your chest.

“I might have feelings for my partner.”

Incredible heat rushes to your cheeks.

“I can breathe underwater.”

Your eyes drop to his chest, flickering across the skin of his neck and shoulders as if there’ll be some sort of answer spelled out there amid the smattering of freckles and moles dotting his skin.

Javier looks at you from beneath his lashes, drawing your attention back to his soft, brown eyes. “If you’re looking for gills, you won’t find any.”

“I—” you start and stop. “We should really go to bed.”

You move to turn away from him, but his fingers find your shoulder and the way your name sounds on his tongue is nothing but genuine. A few beats of silence pass between you before he says your name again and you close your eyes.

“Javier,” you breathe out on a sigh.

“No, don’t say my name like that. Like you don’t feel it too.”

You open your eyes and find his are still focused on yours. His pupils dart back and forth across your face, irises flickering in the cool darkness of the room.

“Jav, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just caught up in—” you gesture between the closeness of your bodies and the room. “All of this, what’s happened tonight. It's an infatuation you’re feeling, nothing more.”

“You think I’d fight with the colonel to ground Steve and let me go on this wild goose chase of an operation if I was only infatuated with you?”

You blink hard, thoughts clearing. “What?”

“It was supposed to be Murphy on this with you, not me. They wanted me to follow a tip we got on La Quica.

Your eyes widen, “But you’ve been on his trail for months!”

Javier presses his lips together and nods as he waits for the realization to dawn on you.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Javier echoes.

The space between you narrows and for a while, the only sound is the rain against the tin roof and rumbling of thunder in the distance.

You finally break the silence and speak up, smiling sheepishly. “You, uh, sure you’re not hiding any gills from me, Javi?”

He cracks a half-smile and inclines his head towards himself. “You're welcome to take a look for yourself.”

You laugh, a little uncomfortably and a little unsure of what to do now. You drop your chin to your chest and before you can say anything else, Javier clasps your face in one of his hands, thumb caressing your jawline, and draws you in to press his lips against yours.

You freeze, but only for one stunned moment before you return the gesture. He tastes like mint and menthols and his mustache tickles the skin above your lips as he deepens the kiss.

A moan escapes your lips into his open mouth and you break away, breathing hard. You rest your forehead against his and don’t even remember when you’d looped your arm around his neck. You brush your fingers against the skin of his throat where your hand curls around the back of his neck and swallow hard. “Javi, we ca—”

He kisses you, stifling the words as they form. “Don’t,” he whispers, a quiet plea. He swipes his thumb across your cheek. “Don’t say anything, not now at least.”

He does something then that surprises you. He kisses your forehead, the space right above your brow. “It’s all out in the open now. Think about it. Just don’t,” He pauses, and you’re stunned by how shy he suddenly looks. “Just think about it, okay?”

Unable to think of anything else to say, you can only nod. “I will.”

Javier smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good, let’s try to sleep some, huh? The road to Bogotá isn’t going to get any shorter.”

You stare at his back as he turns over and settles down onto the pillow, concentrating on a mole on his shoulder. After a couple seconds longer, you turn so that your back is to his. And though you’ve never been closer to him, you can’t help but feel like some incredibly wide chasm has opened up in the space between you.

You just have to figure out if you’re brave enough to take the leap.

[hotchscoffeecup]

Blushing [Aaron Hotchner x Shy!Reader]*

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 7k|| AN: Here is the full version of this story I have been working on...since December? Smut is just so not something I feel confident with in my writing, but I did add a bit at the end here, so hopefully, my fellow smut-lovers will enjoy it! Also, this is likely filled with errors since I have come back to and abandoned this like 30 times. Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, smut, sexual tension, established relationship, hotch is a flirt, shy!reader, kinda fade to black smut, alcohol tw, reader is shy but like...only to an extent? idk she might not even be categorized as shy but that was the intent lol Summary: Hotch likes making you blush.

You thought Aaron Hotchner was supposed to be the serious one--the unreadable, stoic, always-in-control one. That's what you had signed up for when the teasing turned tangible, when subtle glances turned into late nights and when the soft-spoken tension finally broke, leaving you tangled in his sheets.

Tonight, you were at his apartment. It wasn’t unusual--things had been happening between you and Hotch for a while, nights spent together whenever cases allowed, secret moments exchanged between cases and jet rides.

But tonight was different. Not because of where you were, but because of how he was looking at you.

You stood in his kitchen, clad in one of his dress shirts draped loosely over your pajama shorts, the soft fabric brushing against your thighs with each movement. You scrolled through takeout options on your phone, the bright screen casting a glow against the dark granite countertop. The air was filled with the subtle scent of coffee left over from the morning, mingling with the faint, lingering spice of his cologne.

You felt him before you saw him--his presence warm behind you, his body just close enough to make your stomach flutter.

"What do you feel like eating?" you asked, your voice casual, scrolling through the options.

There was a beat of silence. Maybe he hadn’t heard you? 

Then--

"You."

Your fingers fumble, nearly dropping the phone, your pulse spiking like a live wire.

You turned sharply, eyes wide, because no way did you just hear that right--

Only to find Hotch, completely calm, watching you like he hadn’t just shattered your ability to function.

"Excuse me?" you finally managed.

His lips curved slightly, his voice smooth, measured, just the slightest bit flirtatious--

"You asked what I wanted."

You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting, because Hotch--the man known for his restraint, his control--had just completely unraveled you in two words.

And he knew it.

Oh, he absolutely knew it.

His gaze didn’t waver; just watched you as you scrambled for a response, his lips twitching in the smallest smirk when you failed spectacularly.

"I meant for dinner."

"So did I."

Your breath caught.

Because fuck, that was not fair.

That was not the way this was supposed to go.

You were supposed to be the one making him blush, the one teasing him until he snapped.

Not the other way around.

And then--to make it worse--he stepped closer, his hand coming up to trace the hem of the shirt you were wearing, his touch barely there yet sending electric shivers down your spine. His voice was low, smooth, devastating. "You look good in my clothes."

Your stomach flipped.

Your throat went dry.

Because fuck, this wasn’t fair.

Aaron Hotchner was not supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be composed. Reserved. Contained. 

Not this.

Not smooth and utterly wrecking you with a few choice words.

And yet, here he was--watching you squirm, his touch slow, deliberate, entirely in control while you were the one standing there blushing like a damn rookie.

Sure, you would have never considered yourself the type of person who took on the contained, reserved, mysterious persona--but you were unraveling right before his eyes.  

And that?

That was the moment you realized--

You had never been in control of this game.

Aaron Hotchner had been playing you the entire time. And he had tricks up his sleeves. 

xoxoxo

The first few times Aaron Hotchner caught you off guard, you convinced yourself it was a one-time thing.

A fluke. A slip of restraint.

A rare moment where he let himself say what he was thinking instead of keeping it locked behind the walls he’d built for years.

But now?

Now, sitting in the BAU bullpen, surrounded by agents, the hum of paperwork being shuffled and keyboards clicking filling the air--

You realized you had been very, very wrong.

The office was alive with the usual post-case exhaustion, a strange mix of relief and tension still lingering in the air.

The team had only gotten back this morning--after a case that ran for days, a case that left you exhausted but wired, adrenaline still flickering beneath your skin.

Most of the team was wrapping up reports, lingering in the bullpen with coffee cups and sighs of relief that they finally had a few days to breathe.

And you?

You were sitting at your desk, typing up the final notes, trying to focus but finding it impossible.

Because you could feel him. It was this magnetic pull. This energy shift. 

Hotch was in his office, his blinds half-drawn, his body partially turned toward the window.

And he was watching you.

You knew, because every time you glanced up, you found him already looking.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

Not in a way that said, “hey, something’s happening here!” 

But in a way that sent a warm, twisting pulse through your stomach, in a way that made your fingers hover just slightly over your keyboard, in a way that made you forget what you were even supposed to be typing in the first place.

Damn it.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus, fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, the words forming on the screen feeling far less important than the heat creeping up your neck.

And then--

"Agent, a word?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain must have shut off and lost track of time or the atmosphere because, for one moment, he was up at his desk looking at you with those eyes--now? Now, he was standing at his door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your scrambled, less than work-appropriate thoughts. 

Because fuck, that voice.

That low, even tone--just professional enough that no one else would think twice about it, but you?

You felt the weight of it.

You exhaled carefully, schooling your features before standing, aware of Morgan’s knowing smirk as you passed his desk.

"Getting called to the principal’s office?" he teased.

You shot him a pointed look, but it lacked any real bite, because truth be told, your brain was already spiraling.

Because Aaron Hotchner wanted to see you in his office.

That should not have been a big deal.

But God, it was.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the usual scent of coffee and paper filling the space.

Hotch was behind his desk, one hand resting on a case file, the other rolling a pen slowly between his fingers. The faint sound of the air conditioning hummed in the background, a stark contrast to the palpable silence that fell between you.

"Close the blinds."

You blinked, confusion mingling with the sudden spike in your pulse. The blinds filtered the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across his stoic face, giving him an almost ethereal glow that didn't suit the gravity of the moment.

"What?" you managed to stutter out, your hands unconsciously tightening at your sides.

Hotch lifted his gaze slowly, and fuck, the weight of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

"The blinds," he repeated, calmly, smoothly, like he wasn’t already unraveling you from across the room. "You don’t want an audience, do you?"

Your pulse spiked.

Because Jesus Christ.

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline coursing through you as if you were on the edge of a precipice. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls inching closer, filled with the scent of leather from his chair and the faintest hint of his cologne--a sharp, clean smell that was all too familiar.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly against your side, your throat suddenly dry, because this was not the Hotch you were used to.

This wasn’t the man who delivered briefings with an unreadable expression.

This wasn’t the Unit Chief who kept his emotions locked down so tight that you sometimes wondered if he ever let himself feel anything at all.

This was someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And fuck, you weren’t ready.

"I--" You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat spreading through you, the fact that your hands were trembling slightly as you reached for the cord and tilted the blinds shut.

When you turned back, Hotch was still watching you.

But this time?

This time, his head was tilted slightly, his gaze slow, assessing, his fingers tapping against his desk in an almost lazy rhythm.

"You’re blushing." It was less of an observation and more of a fact. 

Your breath hitched.

"I am not." You moved to go sit at the chair in front of his desk, but your legs felt wobbly. Your palms sweaty. 

Hotch hummed--low, thoughtful, like he knew you were lying, like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don’t know," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping slower against the wood. "I think you are."

Your stomach twisted.

Because what the hell was happening right now?

"Did you need something?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady, but fuck, it was so much more complicated than it should have been.

Hotch just watched you for a second longer, his expression unreadable--except, this time?

This time, you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"Yes." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like this was some mild inconvenience to him, and God, that only made it worse.

Then--

"Come here," he instructed, his voice not commanding but inviting, which was somehow more unnerving.

You blinked, startled, your fingers pausing against the back of the chair you had barely pulled out.

"What?"

Hotch didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

He just sat there, calmly watching you, like he had all the time in the world, like this was nothing unusual at all.

And fuck, something about that made your pulse kick up.

"Aaron--"

"Come here," he repeated, smoother this time, his tone velvet over steel. Your stomach flipped, heat curling low in your spine at the way he said it--smooth, even, just a little too controlled.

Like he already knew you were going to listen.

You exhaled, cautious, unsure, but you stepped forward anyway, the room suddenly too quiet as you stopped just in front of his desk.

Hotch didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, assessing, his gaze dragging over you, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And then--

He reached out.

His fingers hooked into your belt loop, pulling you forward, slow, unhurried, until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. The touch was light, but it might as well have been a chain for all the escape it afforded you.

Your breath hitched.

"Aaron."

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you all morning." 

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him, pulse hammering in your throat, because Jesus Christ, what?

"You--" You swallowed, brain short-circuiting, your fingers gripping the desk for support. "We’re at work."

Hotch hummed, unbothered, his thumb skimming lightly over your waistband, just the slightest touch, but God, it burned. "And?"

"And--" You exhaled shakily, completely thrown, because what the hell was happening right now? "And the door isn’t locked," you finally managed.

Hotch’s lips curved, his gaze flicking up to yours, something dark and knowing glinting behind his eyes. "Would you like me to lock it?"

Your stomach dropped.

Your breath came uneven, your fingers gripping the desk tighter, because fuck, you were losing this so fast.

"Aaron," you hissed, voice quieter now, because you could feel your face burning, and God, you could not afford to be flustered right now.

Hotch just watched you, so damn pleased with himself, his fingers still resting against your hip, his throat bobbing slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. "See, you are blushing." 

Your heart nearly stopped. "I am not."

"You are." His voice dipped, smooth and devastatingly confident. "And it’s because you like it."

You gaped at him.

Because holy shit, when did he start talking to you like this?

When did he become so damn sure of himself, so deliberate, so utterly` unbothered by the fact that you were two seconds away from completely losing it in his office?

"You’re impossible," you muttered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened slightly, keeping you right there, pressed against his desk.

"You love it." Your entire body locked up. Your breath caught.

And before you could even process that, before you could think of something--anything--to say back, there was a knock at the door.

Your stomach plummeted.

The moment snapped like a rubber band, Hotch’s hand releasing you instantly, his expression falling back into something neutral, completely composed, like nothing had just happened. As if he was able to use some sort of remote and hit the pause button on whatever version of himself he became around you these days. 

Like he hadn’t just spent the last minute ruining your ability to function.

You took a step back just as he called--

"Come in."

The door opened, Morgan stepping in with a file, his brows raising slightly at the sight of you still standing in front of Hotch’s desk. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," you rushed, your voice a little too high, stepping away before Morgan could get any funny ideas.

And Hotch?

Hotch just hummed, flipping open a case file, unbothered, completely unaffected, like he hadn’t just wrecked you. "We were just finishing up."

Morgan shot you a look, but you ignored it, too focused on trying to steady your breathing, on forcing the heat in your cheeks to fade.

And the last thing you saw before stepping out--

Was Hotch’s smirk, just barely hidden behind his coffee cup.

And fuck, you were so, so screwed.

xoxoxo

You’d kissed him before.

You’d slept with him before.

You’d spent nights wrapped up in him, tangled in sheets, learning the feel of his hands, the weight of his body, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath in the dark.

But this?

This was something else.

This was Aaron Hotchner in daylight, in his office, in the middle of a workday--fully dressed, fully composed, and still completely ruining you.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

He liked it.

And now, it seemed, he had absolutely no plans to stop.

After leaving his office, you spent the next few hours actively avoiding him.

Not obviously--you weren’t that obvious--but strategically.

You kept busy, buried yourself in reports, made coffee runs just to stay occupied.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Hotch wasn’t doing anything.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t following you around, wasn’t pushing further, wasn’t going out of his way to tease you again.

No, he was just existing.

Existing in the same space as you, taking up too much room in your mind, leaving you hypersensitive to every moment he was near.

Like now.

Now, standing in the elevator, the doors about to close, your mind was blissfully Hotch-free--

Until, at the last second, he stepped in. The doors slid shut with a soft whoosh, sealing you inside the small, confined space. The air shifted, becoming charged as he pressed the button for his floor. The soft glow of the elevator buttons cast a dim, amber light across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. He slid a glance toward you--subtle, casual, nothing outright provocative--but your body reacted anyway.

He exhaled, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh that you felt more than heard, and shook his head slightly. “I’m surprised you’re not avoiding me anymore.”

Your stomach flipped, pulse quickening, because so he noticed. You kept your expression neutral. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Hotch made a low hum, unconvinced. “You were.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’d say you lasted a solid three hours.”

Your throat went dry. Because Jesus Christ, was he keeping track?

Your fingers curled into your palms, but before you could fire back, the elevator jolted to a stop. Hotch barely reacted, shifting his weight slightly, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other pressing against the wall behind you.

You tried to focus on anything but the fact that he was close. Too close. His body just inches from yours, the weight of his presence too heavy to ignore. The faint smell of his aftershave mixed with the sterile scent of the elevator, enveloping you in a cocoon of unwelcome intimacy.

You swallowed. “You like this.”

He tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in a way that was almost amused. “Like what?”

You huffed, your arms crossing. “Making me flustered.”

The moment stretched, his gaze flickering over your face, assessing, calculating, like he was debating whether or not to humor you. And then, slowly--

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, his voice low, quiet, meant just for you. “I like watching you realize you’re not as in control of this as you thought.”

Your stomach twisted, heat licking up your spine, your breath hitching before you could stop it. And fuck, he heard it.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his fingers brushed your hip, just the slightest touch--barely anything at all--but God, it was enough. Enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your body sway slightly toward him, enough to make you forget how to breathe for a full second.

And then--

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. Hotch straightened, unbothered, stepping out like nothing had happened at all. Like he hadn’t just left you wrecked against the back wall of an elevator.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tightening into fists, because Jesus Christ, this was your life now. Hotch, already walking down the hall, turned back just briefly, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips before he disappeared into the bullpen.

And you? You were so damn screwed.

xoxoxo

You were still recovering from the elevator incident when it happened again.

It was later that evening, most of the team having already packed up for the night, the bullpen quieter than usual.

You had planned to finish one last report before heading home, but apparently, Hotch had other plans.

Because he showed up at your desk, leaned down, and murmured--

“Come over.”

You blinked, your pen pausing mid-word, your brain completely blanking for a full second.

You turned, staring at him, because surely he wasn’t just asking you to come over like it was nothing.

“I--” You swallowed. “Tonight?”

His lips twitched. “Unless you had other plans.”

Your pulse skipped.

Because technically, no.

You didn’t have other plans.

But fuck, this was still new.

Navigating this whole blending your lives thing, figuring out what it meant to go from stolen nights to actually knowing each other on a different level.

Still, even though your brain was short-circuiting, your body was already answering for you.

You nodded, clearing your throat. “Okay.”

Hotch hummed, satisfied. “Good.”

Then, just because he could, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“You might want to finish that report before you get to my place.”

Your stomach flipped.

Your breath caught.

Because Goddamn him, he was doing it again.

And before you could even process what he meant, he was already walking away, leaving you to sit there, completely undone, pulse racing, trying to figure out what the hell you had just agreed to.

xoxox

By the time you showed up at his apartment, you had spent far too much time overthinking everything.

But as soon as he opened the door--standing there casual but effortless, his tie long discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his expression unreadable--

You knew.

You were in trouble.

So before he could get ahead of you, before he could smirk and tease and say something that left you breathless--

You stepped forward, pushing your palm against his chest, making him back up just slightly, your voice quiet but firm. “You like this.”

Hotch arched a brow. “We’ve already established that.”

You shook your head. “No.” Your fingers tightened slightly against his shirt, your breath uneven, because God, you weren’t used to feeling this way.

You had thought he would be the restrained one.

The one holding back.

But he was not holding back at all.

You exhaled. “You like seeing what you do to me.”

The moment stretched too long.

Too thick.

Then--

Hotch’s lips curved, his hands settling firmly on your waist, his touch warm and steady. “Of course I do.” His hands holding you like they were meant to. 

Your breath faltered.

And when he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and so damn sure of himself, he sealed your fate entirely. “I love watching you fall apart for me.”

And God help you, you knew then...

Aaron Hotchner was going to be the death of you.

xoxox

The team had known for a few weeks now.

After the initial teasing, the sideways glances. 

The endless smirks from Morgan. The numerous questions from Spencer. The poking for details from Penelope and JJ. The knowing eyebrow raises from Rossi. Emily was honestly the only one who remained… reasonably quiet. 

Things had finally settled into a new normal.

No one made a big deal about it anymore.

No awkward comments. No pointed jokes. No Hey, you two gonna behave? remarks at briefings.

It was just a fact now.

You and Aaron were together.

So, really, tonight should have been easy.

A casual night out after wrapping a case, a chance to unwind, a chance to drink, laugh, and just exist outside of work.

And it was easy. For about ten minutes.

The local bar was a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the undercurrent of music that was just loud enough to make you lean in to hear the person next to you. The dim lighting cast everyone in a soft glow, the neon signs flashing intermittently, reflecting off the polished surfaces.

You were seated in a large booth, a round of drinks on the table, the air filled with the residual adrenaline of the case just closed. Hotch was beside you, his presence both a comfort and a source of tension. His arm was casually draped over the back of the booth, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

And it was nothing.

It should have been nothing.

But you knew better now.

You knew what he was doing.

And when you glanced at him, eyes narrowed slightly, he didn’t even look at you.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge what he was doing at all.

Which, of course, made it so much worse.

You were mid-conversation with JJ when you felt it--

You felt his fingers lightly touch your arm as he reached for his drink, a simple gesture to anyone watching, but to you, it was a direct challenge. His touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his fingertips tracing a path down to your wrist, barely noticeable under the hum of the bar.

You caught your breath, the sound drowned out by a burst of laughter from Morgan. Hotch’s touch was feather-light, yet it ignited a fire that you felt all the way to your toes. You glanced at him, his expression unreadable in the low light, his eyes a shade darker than usual.

He was watching you, a slight tilt to his head, assessing your reaction. You knew this game, the push and pull of it, and you hated how well he played it. The warmth from his hand seeped through the fabric of your sleeve, spreading slowly up your arm.

His thumb brushed casually against your pulse point, a touch so light it might have been accidental. But nothing with Hotch was ever accidental. Your heart hammered against your ribs, betraying your calm exterior.

Under the table, his knee pressed more firmly against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the tension crackling between you. It was a bold move, given the company, and it sent a clear message: he wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared.

You took a sip of your drink, the cold liquid doing little to cool your flushed skin. The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. You tried to focus on the story Rossi was telling, the familiar timbre of his voice usually so soothing, but tonight it was just background noise to the silent conversation happening between you and Hotch.

As Rossi's story reached its finish, the team's laughter filled the air, but you barely heard it. Hotch’s fingers were still on your wrist, his presence enveloping you, pulling you into an undertow of desire that you weren’t sure you wanted to resist.

Just kept listening to the conversation, completely unbothered, completely compossed, while you sat there actively trying not to combust.

Finally, as the laughter died down and the team’s attention shifted to the next round of drinks, Hotch leaned closer. His breath was warm against your ear, his voice a low rumble that only you could hear.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

Your stomach flipped.

Because Goddamn him, he knew exactly why.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay level.

"Just listening."

Hotch hummed, his fingers brushing over your thigh, absently, unhurried, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

"You always get this quiet when you’re distracted?"

Your throat went dry.

"I’m not distracted."

That time, he did smirk.

Just the tiniest curve of his lips, still out of sight from everyone else, still completely subtle, but God, you felt it.

"No?" His fingers pressed just slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Then why are you gripping your glass so tight?"

You hated that he was right.

Your fingers were wrapped tightly around the glass in your hand, your grip white-knuckled, your body burning alive.

And Hotch, fully aware of it, just sat back, composed as ever, taking a slow sip of his drink.

Like he hadn’t just wrecked you in public without anyone noticing.

By the time the team was wrapping up, you were fully over it.

Your face was warm, your heart was pounding, and Hotch was still sitting casual as ever, like this hadn’t been a test of endurance.

And maybe you could have left it alone. Perhaps you could have brushed it off.

But then--

As everyone stood to leave, Hotch leaned in one last time, his hand settling lightly against your lower back, his lips brushing just barely against your ear.

"If I didn’t know better," his voice was smooth, dangerous, "I’d say you like it when I do this to you."

That did it.

Your face burned, your body tensing, and before you could stop yourself, you whipped around, voice low and warning.

"Aaron Hotchner, if you don’t stop--"

Hotch blinked at you, mild, unreadable, the picture of innocence.

"Stop what?"

You glared. "You know what."

And then--

Then, the bastard smirked againl.

"No, I don’t think I do."

And fuck, you knew then. You had completely, utterly lost.

The car ride home was silent, the air thick, the tension tangible.

And Hotch knew it.

You knew he knew it, because he was smirking the whole damn way back to his apartment.

Finally, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you turned toward him, voice exasperated.

"What was that?"

Hotch didn’t even look at you, "What was what?"

"Don’t play innocent, Aaron."

He exhaled, amused, shaking his head slightly. “I was just enjoying a night out.”

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “You were trying to make me lose my mind.”

Hotch made a low hum, thoughtful, "If I had been trying, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did."

Your brain short-circuited.

Your body locked up.

Because Jesus Christ, he was serious.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling into your lap, because if you responded now, you were going to lose even harder.

Hotch, of course, knew this.

Which was why--when he pulled into the parking garage and put the car in park--he finally glanced over at you, his gaze slow, dark, knowing.

"Come inside," he said simply.

And fuck, that was all he had to say.

xoxoxo

You had barely gotten through the door before you felt it--the weight of his presence, the air charged, his demeanor too casual, too confident, like he already knew how this was going to end.

You should have walked away. Should have seen it coming.

But you had walked right into it.

You had let him pour you a drink, let him pull you onto the couch beside him, let yourself breathe in the warmth of him, the sheer gravity of him.

And then--

The first move.

He had leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that would call attention to itself

But enough to make your breath catch--to make your body react before your brain could catch up.

And Hotch? He had noticed immediately.

His lips curled slightly, his voice lower than before, “You tense up every time I touch you.”

Your stomach flipped.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I do not.”

Hotch exhaled a quiet, amused sound, shaking his head. “You do.”

His fingers brushed lower, skimming along your forearm now, his touch light, unhurried, deliberate, “And you don’t even realize it.”

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you instantly because Jesus Christ, this man was dangerous.

“You’re fighting it.” Hotch shifted, his voice smooth, devastatingly confident.

Your throat went dry.

You hated how right he was.

But you couldn’t let him win.

Not yet.

So you exhaled sharply, tilting your chin up, “And what exactly am I fighting?” Giving him your best unbothered expression.

Hotch smirked.

And then--

He leaned in.

His lips ghosted just along your jaw, his breath warm, deliberate, controlled, and when he finally spoke--

It wasn’t fair.

“You want me to ruin you.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your pulse spiked so hard it nearly made you dizzy.

Because fuck, that was it, wasn’t it?

That was exactly what this was.

You had spent weeks trying to endure him, trying to pretend you could keep up with him--

But now, you realized--

You didn’t want to keep up.

You wanted to lose. You wanted to fall apart for him.

And Hotch knew it.

It happened so fast.

One second, you were holding onto your last shred of restraint, trying desperately to pretend like you weren’t completely and utterly wrecked by him.

And the next--

You snapped.

You turned on the couch, grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you with zero hesitation.

Hotch barely had time to react before your lips crashed into his, your hands fisting into the fabric, pulling, needing, demanding.

And fuck, he gave in instantly.

A sharp inhale against your mouth, a low sound deep in his throat, his hands gripping your waist, grounding, steadying as he pulled you closer.

You shifted, straddling him without a second thought, your fingers tangling into his hair, and God, the way he groaned against your lips, the way his grip tightened around you--

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

This was everything you had been holding back, everything he had been pushing you toward--

And now, neither of you were pretending anymore.

You pulled back just slightly, breathless, your body burning, alive, completely consumed by him.

And Hotch?

He tilted his head up toward you, his gaze dark, heavy, knowing, his breath warm against your lips.

“I told you.”

Your chest heaved, your hands still gripping his shirt, and God, he looked so satisfied.

So pleased with himself.

So infuriatingly smug.

And that?

That just made you kiss him again.

And this time--

You weren’t holding back at all. Hotch’s hands tightened, fingers digging just slightly into your waist, his breath warm against your lips as he murmured--

“I knew you’d break eventually.”

Your pulse spiked, your body thrumming with heat, your entire world tipping off its axis--

Because fuck, he was right.

And you hated that he was right.

You gritted your teeth, your breath uneven, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt as you yanked him closer, your voice low, warning, desperate.

“Shut up, Aaron.”

Hotch chuckled--low, dark, impossibly knowing--his fingers tracing slow circles along the bare skin beneath your shirt.

“Make me.”

You did.

Your lips crashed into his, teeth and heat and hands grasping at anything solid, your body pressing into him, needing more, needing all of him.

And fuck, he let you take what you wanted--

For about five seconds. Until, he took over.

Hotch shifted, his grip tightening, his body twisting, and before you could even register it, you were suddenly on your back against the couch, breathless, pinned beneath him.

You gasped, your fingers fisting into his shirt, because fuck, when had he learned to move like that?

Hotch smirked, his breath brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice low and completely unfair.

“Now that’s better.”

Your stomach flipped, a breathless sound catching in your throat as his hands skimmed up your sides, slow, controlled, deliberate.

And then, his lips brushed over your pulse.

Just a whisper of contact, not enough, never enough, but God, your body arched instinctively, your breath catching, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Hotch hummed against your skin, pleased, “You’re so easy to unravel.”

Your breath stuttered, your mind blanking, because Jesus Christ, he was doing it again.

And the worst part?

You loved it.

You hated how much you loved it.

Hated how effortlessly he could reduce you to this--

To breathless gasps and frantic fingers, to helpless tension, to something desperate and completely undone beneath him.

Hotch, of course, knew it.

Which was why, after another slow, deliberate brush of his lips against your throat, he murmured, “Tell me what you want.”

Your stomach twisted, your body shaking beneath his, because fuck, he was making you say it.

You swallowed, your fingers trembling against his shoulders. “You.”

Hotch hummed, “Say it again,” pleased but not satisfied, his lips dragging along your collarbone, his hands smoothing down your sides, taking his time, making you burn.

You hated him (you didn’t).

You hated how much you loved this (you did love it).

You hated the way he was completely in control of you without even trying (you’d let him control everything).

You hated how badly you wanted him to never stop (you hoped he didn’t).

“Aaron,” you gasped, half a plea, half a demand, your fingers tugging at his belt, desperate, impatient.

And the walk to his bedroom was a blur.

Your back hit the wall, his lips crashing into yours, hands grasping, pulling, anchoring, never letting go.

Your shirt hit the floor, his hands skimming every inch of you, learning, memorizing, his breath hot and desperate against your skin.

And God, he wasn’t just toying anymore.

This was real.

By the time you made it to the bed, you were burning alive, your fingers desperate to strip away everything between you, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Hotch hovered over you, watching you, his hands framing your face, steadying you, his breath ragged, uneven, barely controlled.

Your breath shook, your fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheek, memorizing the moment.

And then--

You smiled, soft, cheeky and completely breathless, “You’re flustered, Hotchner.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing, his fingers curling against your skin.

And then, with a low, rough sound--

He kissed you like he was never going to stop.

You gasped against his mouth, your own hands grasping at his shirt, fisting into the fabric, yanking him impossibly closer.

His voice, low, rough, almost teasing, broke through the haze, “So impatient.”

You bit his lip in retaliation.

Hotch groaned, deep, guttural, wrecked, and fuck, that sound sent heat surging through you so fast you nearly melted into the mattress. 

He dragged his lips slowly down your jaw, his breath warm against your throat, his hands firm on your waist as he pinned you in place.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, dark, unbearably smooth, “how long I’ve wanted you like this today.”

“Then stop holding back.”

His jaw tightened.

And then, with zero hesitation--

He didn’t.

The rest of the clothes hit the floor in a blur of movement, hands grasping, mouths searching, heat building with every breath.

You pulled him flush against you, your hands everywhere, your nails skimming down his back, pulling him closer, desperate to have him right where you needed him.

Hotch groaned against your lips, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.

And God, you had never seen him like this.

Never seen him completely, utterly undone.

Never heard his voice this raw, never felt his hands this desperate, this needing.

And fuck, you wanted all of it.

Wanted him to ruin you.

Wanted to ruin him right back.

Your lips dragged down his neck, tasting, taunting, savoring, and when he groaned, his hands gripping your hips harder, you smirked against his skin.

“You always so composed, Hotchner?” you murmured, your voice breathless, wrecked.

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head as his hands slid lower, his breath ragged and completely destroyed.

“Not with you.”

And God help you, that was the moment you knew--

This wasn’t just about giving in.

This wasn’t just about breaking tension.

This was something else entirely.

And now, there was no stopping it.

His hands were everywhere.

Rough. Desperate. Needing.

And God help you, you weren’t any better.

The heat between you was consuming, spiraling into something neither of you could stop even if you wanted to.

Hotch wasn’t gentle now.

Wasn’t careful.

He was fully, completely undone.

And fuck, you wanted him like this.

You wanted all of him.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing firm, anchoring, pulling you flush against him, bare skin meeting bare skin, and Jesus Christ, he was solid.

Strong. Unyielding. Overwhelming.

Your lips crashed together again, the kiss messy, starved, like you’d been waiting for this your whole damn life.

Hotch groaned against your mouth, low and wrecked, his hands sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing into your skin like he never wanted to let go.

Your stomach tightened, your breath shaky, your body already burning alive beneath him.

And when he moved lower, when his lips ghosted down your neck, his breath hot against your skin--

You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair, your entire body shuddering as his lips brushed lower, then lower still.

Tasting. Exploring. Claiming.

You arched beneath him, your body seeking, aching, and fuck, Hotch noticed instantly.

He chuckled against your skin, his voice dark, knowing, completely unfair.

“So eager.”

Your breath hitched, your nails digging into his back, because, God help you, he was taunting now.

And he knew it.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, and when he groaned, his grip on you tightened right back.

“If you don’t stop talking,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless, “I will make you.”

Hotch huffed a laugh, his lips dragging along your collarbone, slow, deliberate, completely in control.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You did.

You flipped him over, your hands pinning him down, your breath ragged, your lips crashing into his like you were determined to make him unravel this time.

His breath stuttered, his hands gripping your waist, his body tensing beneath yours, his control cracking at the seams.

And God help you, it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Hotch’s hands skated along your sides, his touch slow, reverent, exploring, like he was memorizing the feel of you beneath his fingertips.

You shivered, your breath coming in soft, uneven pants, your pulse skipping every time his fingers traced over newly exposed skin.

And fuck, he was taking his time.

His lips dragged along your collarbone, warm and open, his breath heavy, steady, consuming.

His fingers gripped your waist, grounding you, his body solid against yours, heat radiating between you in a way that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t long until you were back beneath him, bodies pressed so close together. 

And God help you, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

Needed more.

So you arched beneath him, your body pressing up into his, your fingers skimming down his back, gripping, seeking, pulling.

He groaned, low and wrecked, his breath catching, his fingers tightening against your hips. He lifted his head, his gaze dark, heavy, completely unreadable.

And fuck, he just looked at you.

Just stare.

Like he was taking you apart with his eyes alone.

Like he was seeing you for the first time and still somehow knowing exactly how to touch you. Like you hadn’t already been under him, over him, and all around him before. 

His voice, low, thick, almost strained, "Are you sure?"

Your stomach flipped, your breath hitching, because fuck, how could he even ask?

You let out a soft, shaky exhale, your fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him down, closer, needing him right where you wanted him.

"I need you to stop asking questions and just--"

Your words were cut off as his lips crashed into yours, swallowing whatever remark you were about to make, leaving nothing but heat and wanting and absolute, complete surrender.

His hands slid lower, his touch burning and slow, his body pressing into you, against you, against every part of you that had been waiting for this, aching for this.

And God help you, you let him. You gave in completely.

You let him take you apart, piece by piece, breath by breath, kiss by kiss--until there was nothing left but him.

Much later, long after the tension had snapped, after the air had settled, after the last remnants of desperation had faded into something warmer, slower, softer--

You found yourself laying against him, your body tangled with his, your skin still thrumming from the aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms were wrapped around you, his fingers trailing lazy, absentminded circles along your spine.

And for the first time--

Neither of you spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Because every word had already been spoken in the way his hands had held you, in the way your body had moved against his, in the way neither of you had let go even once.

Your fingers traced along his ribs, your breath steadying, your body finally settling into his.

And then, barely above a whisper--

He murmured against your skin, soft, quiet, so damn real, "You’re dangerous."

You huffed a breathless laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. "Me?"

His arms tightened slightly, his lips brushing your temple, his voice gravelly and warm.

"I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you." Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, because that wasn’t teasing anymore.

That was something else entirely.

And now, there was no going back.

That was real.

That was something else entirely.

And God help you, you felt it everywhere.

His hand rested against the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, thumb absently brushing over your skin--a slow, reverent kind of touch, the kind that felt more like grounding than claiming.

You swallowed, your fingers tracing light, thoughtless shapes over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, still just slightly uneven.

You should say something.

You should respond, should acknowledge what he just said, should do anything but lay here drowning in the weight of it.

But all you could do was stare at him, at the way his jaw was still tense, at the way his throat bobbed slightly, like he was bracing for whatever you were going to say next.

Like maybe he wasn’t sure if he should have said it at all.

So you did the only thing you could think to do. 

You reached up and cupped his face, fingers tracing along the sharp line of his jaw, your thumb brushing just under his cheekbone, slow and deliberate.

Hotch exhaled, heavy, measured, but he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull back.

Just watched you; waiting.

Your voice came soft, quiet, barely above a whisper, "You mean that?"

His brow twitched, like maybe he expected you to brush it off, to tease, to challenge, to do anything other than meet his honesty with honesty.

But you didn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Not with him.

Not now.

His fingers curled just slightly against your back, like he needed something to hold onto, and when he finally spoke--

"Yes,” his voice was low, careful, unwavering.

The breath pushed out of you, your fingers tightening just slightly where they rested against his face, your body warming from the inside out.

Because fuck, there it was.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Just truth.

And that?

That was more dangerous than any teasing remark he could have thrown your way.

You swallowed, unsure if you were steady enough to speak, but knowing you had to anyway.

"I’ve never wanted someone like this either."

His jaw tensed beneath your fingers, his throat bobbing again, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Like he was committing every word to memory.

Like he was afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile moment had settled between you.

But then--

Your fingers slid lower, tracing along the column of his throat, across his collarbone, down over the scars and stress and everything that made him who he was.

And you whispered, "I think I might be in trouble."

Hotch huffed a breathless laugh, shaking his head, his lips twitching just slightly, but his fingers tightened against you, his voice lower, quieter, something dangerously close to soft.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, your own smile breaking through, "yeah,” your forehead falling against his as you exhaled.

And then, before he could say anything else--

Before either of you could ruin the moment with too much thinking, too much overanalyzing, too much wondering what the hell you were supposed to do now that you’d both admitted this out loud.

You kissed him.

Slow. Steady. Intentional.

Not desperate, not rushed, not frantic--

Just this.

Just you and him.

Just something that neither of you were pretending wasn’t real anymore.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the most dangerous thing of all.

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

[hotchscoffeecup]

Put Your Trust In Me

Part II: ‘Til Tomorrow

Part I | Part II

Rating: M

Relationship: Javier Peña/Reader

Tags: No Y/N, Reader works at the embassy, Reader is undisclosed age- suggestive content

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: After Javier’s confession, tensions are high and strange. Luckily, there’s nothing to take your mind off of things like an emergency after Steve and Javier come back from a mission.

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who gave part 1 some love, and for being so patient as I wrote Part 2! You guys are the best *blows kiss* also, special thanks to Cait, Ash, and Shane for reading the fic and hyping me up as I wrote it! You guys are the best <3 I hope part 2 lives up to expectations! xoxo - Muffin

“Ah, you for me, me for you (I'll still care)

Ah, baby, we'll be going through (I'll still care)

Love so deeply 'til tomorrow

You have stolen my mind completely

Have a heart, hey, hey, hey, hey

Hold me sweetly, now until tomorrow (I'll still care)”

— “Til Tomorrow” by Marvin Gaye

-=- -=- -=- -=-

A week passed, and it was like nothing had happened, or anything had been said. You caught him gazing at you a few times at work, and now you had a little insight as to what he was thinking during moments like these- it was flattering, and yet… overwhelming. You couldn’t deny the magnetic pull you felt towards him.

Then, one day, Steve and Javier had left to go on a mission after being tipped off, while you were left behind at the embassy to file away paperwork.

You weren’t worried, really, it was pretty routine for them to go on missions, but a gut feeling told you to stay at the embassy until they got back. You didn’t get those gut feelings a lot, but when you did… well, you knew better than to bypass them.

When you saw Steve and Javier bust into the bullpen, battered and bruised, you knew exactly what that urge was for.

“Are you guys okay?” You asked, panic threatening your voice with a strange tightness.

Steve nodded. “I’m alright, I’m just dirty and a little bruised up. I’ll probably have Connie check over me at the clinic. Javier here, however…”

“Steve,” Javier said, the warning clearly in the tone.

“Jav, you need help- let someone help you for once, instead of being so goddamn stubborn-“

“What’s wrong with Javier?” You interrupted.

When Steve said “Bullet grazed his bicep,” Javier said “Nothing, don’t worry about it” at the same time. You shook your head with a huff, ushering Javier to sit on your desk.

“You got a first aid kit?” Steve asked as he watched Javier willingly perch on the desk.

“Yeah, I keep one in my drawer. I’ll take care of Javier, you get somebody to drive you to Connie at the clinic- you don’t need to be driving in that state,” you instructed firmly. He rolled his eyes at you, a small smile on his face.

“Yes Mommy,” Steve said sarcastically as he turned around to find a coworker to take him to Connie.

Javier sat on your desk, slouched and dazed. You reached for his tac-vest as you stood between his knees.

“Hey, I have to get this off. Your shirt too, actually,” you said gently, your fingers beginning to undo the clasps.

He nodded and didn’t pull away, so you could only take that to mean that you could continue. You set to work getting him out of the tac vest, but he was oddly quiet.

“Talk to me,” you said, “something’s pinging around in that head of yours.”

“It’s nothing, I promise.”

“Javier, please.”

Javier shifted on the desk a little, his wince apparent on his face. His eyes moved to where your hands were undoing the clasps, watching you.

“I wonder sometimes if this is all worth it,” he said quietly, “if we’ll ever catch the son of a bitch. Am I wasting my time? Are we all wasting our time?”

“No,” You slipped the tac vest off of him, setting it on the desk, “we’re not wasting our time. Escobar has to slip at some point or another, and we’ll be there the minute he does, trust. It’s just going to take time.”

Your hands reached for the buttons of his shirt before pausing. “I’m about to take your shirt off, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Your fingers fumbled a bit while undoing his shirt buttons, but eventually, you managed to get his shirt completely unbuttoned. You pushed it aside and off his arms, revealing his smooth chest and arms. It didn’t take more than a glance to see that he wasn’t insanely ripped, but strength was apparent nonetheless. You shook off your thought as you looked for the bullet graze wound- and there it was, on his left bicep.

Opening your desk drawer, you pulled the first aid kit out and opened it, finding the packet of antiseptic wipes.

When you began to gently swab his bicep, you looked up at him.

“No snarky comment about how this isn’t how you imagined me taking your shirt off?” You asked, a small smile threatening your lips.

He chuckled, though not heartily. “Sorry- I’m a bit preoccupied right now.”

“I couldn’t possibly imagine why.”

You began dressing the wound, and he fidgeted, shifting on the desk again.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I had a serious crush on a guy?” You asked.

Javier raised an eyebrow, and his mustache twitched. “No, I don’t believe you have.”

“I was thirteen at the time. The guy? My friend’s older brother.”

“You would be the one to have a crush on your friend’s brother, wouldn’t you?”

“Shush. Anyways, I had the crush for months, and months. Until eventually, I wrote him a letter.”

“What did you say?” He raised his eyebrows in interest.

“You wanna know the worst part?” You leaned closer to him, “I can’t remember. I just hope that guy threw the letter away, because I’m sure it was embarrassing.”

“What happened after that?”

You chuckled, “His sister called and told me that he wasn’t interested in me like that. Now? He’s married and got a kid. Probably even two now.”

“Ouch. Were you brokenhearted?”

“Not at all- it helped me get over him, actually,” You finished securing the dressing and smiled,“You can put your shirt back on now.”

Javier began shrugging on his shirt, securing the buttons as nimbly as possible.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?” He asked suddenly.

You paused, racking your brain. Back in the States, you had gone on dates before, some that you were into more than others, and was more than a little bummed out when either you or them found some reason not to continue going out together. You had even, honest to god, been in a couple of relationships, but they were all very casual, and they dissolved quite naturally and painlessly.

You shook your head. “No. I’ve never had my heart broken.”

Javier went about tucking his shirt into his pants. “Me either.”

“Have you ever broken hearts?”

He ceased movement for a second. “Yes. Once a bit worse than the others.”

“Tell me about it?”

A small, infinitesimal smile tugged his lips. “That’s for third base.”

”You mean I’ve taken your shirt off after you were almost turned into swiss cheese, dug deep into my lore to help make you feel better, and you can’t even satisfy my curiosity? Rude.” You smiled at him, making it clear you were kidding. “Do you need help getting home?”

“I might. I think I’m a little shell shocked.”

“Let’s go, then,” you ducked behind your desk to get your purse. You held your hand out for him to take, and he slid off the desk.

“Thank you,” Javier said softly.

“No problem, it’s all good, I promise,” you reassured him as you moved through the embassy to escort him to your car- an old toyota sedan.

He eyed it uncertainly as he noted the dents and dings in the door, as well as the chipped paint.

“Maybe I can drive-“

“Javier.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You opened the door for him and he slid into the passenger seat obediently. He reached behind his shoulder, but you had to stop him.

“Sorry, there’s no seatbelt,” you said sheepishly.

“What year model is this car?”

“Uh, a ‘77 I think?” You rounded the front of the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

Javier looked at you only a degree shy of incredulously. “She thinks it’s a ‘77. Jesus Christ.”

“In my defense, one of the officials heavily suggested it to me. Said it was his pal who owned it and wanted something newer. Thought I could trust him.” You cranked it, and it came to life hesitantly. Leaving the embassy’s parking lot, you migrated into the traffic.

Javier leaned his head back against the headrest of the chair, his eyes closing as the weight of the day fell on him like a ton of bricks.

You glanced at him a couple of times throughout the drive to his apartment, but he seemed only mildly disgruntled- you left him be.

When you finally reached the apartment and put the car into park, you gently nudged Javier, careful not to jostle the arm that you had patched up.

“Hey, do you have any ibuprofen in your apartment?” You asked gently.

He shook his head. “Most I got is some tequila. Keeps the cold away.”

You helped him out of the car gingerly.

“Your arm is going to kill you tomorrow, I can almost guarantee it. I’ve got some ibuprofen in the car, hold on.”

While he watched you from the sidewalk, you opened your glove compartment and filched out the bottle of ibuprofen.

“And this will help me? I thought that stuff was for just… headaches and stuff.”

You walked with him to his door. “If you take enough of it, it’ll help moderate to severe pain,” You watched as he pulled out his keys, flipping through the ring until he found the right one, and unlocked the door, “Do you want me to stay? To help get you settled?”

“Yes. Please.” There was a note of desperation in his voice.

Within fifteen minutes, you had him on the couch lying down, glass of water in hand, and Advil ingested. He had chosen to take his shirt off for comfort sake, and you had fought to keep composed.

He was in pain for god’s sake, it wasn’t right to be hot and bothered while he’s in pain, you told yourself while you picked up a book that was on a random table and curled up in a rickety chair.

Javier looked at you through slitted lids from where he was lying. “You ever thought about going into nursing?”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “I once considered becoming a doctor, actually. Didn’t pan out.”

“You’re really good at taking care of people. Accommodating, you know. What do they call it? Good bedside manners?”

Something in his voice sounded almost… impressed. You chuckled a little.

“Are you surprised?” You asked, laying the book down.

“Sure. You can be a hard ass at work.”

“Well, yeah. But I’m dealing with your stubborn ass there.”

“You’re not dealing with my stubborn ass here?”

“Sure I am, but you’re in pain so it’s a little more understandable. You have to deal with things according to context and causation.”

He shifted on the couch to sit up. “Is that why you’re hesitant to get involved with me? Because I’m an ass?”

That came out of nowhere. “You really want to have that conversation, here?”

Javier physically hesitated. “It’s something that’s been weighing on my mind. I… want something with you. I want you. It can be casual, if that’s what you want, I’ll do anything you want, but I swear to god… I can’t let you slip through my fingers. It’s going to drive me crazy if I can’t know for certain.”

You gaped at him. “Javier.”

He beckoned you closer as he fully sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. “Please, I need an answer. If it’s “no”, I’ll understand and respect that- but these unanswered silences are driving me crazy.”

You got up and sat next to him. “Javier. You’re sure, you’re positive you want this? That you want me?”

His right hand, as though of its own accord, caressed your cheek, holding your face. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

“We… we should start off slow,” you said a little shakily, gazing into those large brown eyes of his, “we can go anywhere we want from here.”

“We should,” he nodded. His eyes dropped to your lips. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Nothing too strenuous. You need to heal.”

Javier chuckled as he moved his face closer to yours. “Believe me when I say that I’m more aware of that than anyone.”

He finally plunged, his lips seeking yours like he had been thirsty for days, and you were the mirage he had seen from afar. You groaned into the kiss, but quickly it had devoured into a whimper as he began nipping at your bottom lip.

Javier let go of your face only for a second to use his hand to pull you into his lap. You scooted with his movement and settled, hooking your legs around his waist.

“You’re so fucking delicious, baby,” he murmured against your lips as his hands wandered your side restlessly.

Your fingers quickly found his hair, grasping them and squeezing the curls as he continued his ministrations. His hands meandered from your waist down to the curve of your ass, grasping you and pulling you in as if he was trying to get you under his very skin.

Your hips rolled against Javier, seeking for friction and relief, and he groaned against your lips, the guttural vibration sending a shiver down your spine.

Too soon, his lips left yours, and before you could protest, he pressed a kiss to your jaw, and began peppering your neck until his lips found the juncture where your neck and your clavicles met.

His hands slid under your shirt and you leaned into the coolness of his hands on your waist, but it wasn’t long before his wandering fingers found the band of your bra and began fiddling with it. He reached for the hem of your shirt.

“May I?” Javier murmured against your ear.

“Mhm.”

“Give me a “yes” or “no,” I want clear and concise consent, baby.”

“Yes, you may take my shirt off,” you said, clearly agitated with want.

He chuckled at your urgency. “Patience,” His face became serious for a moment, “I just don’t like grey areas when it comes to giving and receiving permission. It’s… my thing, I guess.”

“Basic consent is your thing,” you mused cheekily, “good to know.”

“Imp,” Javier nipped at your jaw again before he began lifting your shirt over your head.

“My middle name.”

He tossed your shirt to the side with his non-injured arm, and gazed down at the sight of you in your bra. The lingerie was a lot like you, if it had struck him to think about it- simple, supportive, not over stately or lacy, but a goddamn delight to see.

“God, you are gorgeous,” Javier murmured as he leaned his face closer to your breasts, smirking when they hitched at his praise. “You’re a sucker for praise, aren’t you?”

“No more than the next person,” you protested.

He chuckled, his fingertips caressing the skin above your bra mindlessly as they memorized your curves while his darkened eyes watched your face. “We‘ll see about that, sweetheart.”

Your face blushed as his hand slowly began meandering to the clasps in the back. Deftly, he unhooked it and slingshot your bra across the room.

“You’re totally going to fetch my bra after this is all over,” you murmured.

“I’m an injured man,” Javier feigned incredulousness, “you wouldn’t actually make me do such a thing, would you?”

“I’m a hard ass, remember?”

“You’re not the only one that’s hard,” he smirked, shifting slyly so that his erection was pressing into your ass.

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

“Now, what else is it you’re into? Other than praise, obviously. Is it pet names?” Javier mused aloud, his hand cupping your chin to tilt your face towards him, “Or maybe a combination of praise and pet names?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you sassed.

He chuckled, his thumb smoothing over your jawbone, his eyes boring into yours. “Only one way of finding out.”

“Is there really only one way?”

“Clever girl,” he grinned as he watched you visibly shudder, goosebumps trekking down your arms, “you like your intellect being praised. You want to be seen as more than just a pretty sack of bones. It’s part of why you’re so driven at work, why you were so hesitant to become involved with me.”

“Other than the whole “I’m aware of what you get up to with your informants” thing. Speaking of which, are you..?”

“I got tested the other day. Results were clean, and… I haven’t been with anybody since then.”

“Must have been torturous,” you murmured, “I know you have a big…” you subtly ground against his erection, “libido.”

Javier tilted his head back, an intermingled sigh and gasp escaping his lips. You took this opportunity to kiss the underside of his jaw, moving down his neck and to his clavicles. You leaned back for a moment to appraise your work, his tan skin splotched with soft pink.

“If I could take a picture of what I see right now and hang it in the Louver, I would- but I’m too damn selfish,” you remarked.

“Your idea of “taking it easy” apparently involves making me melt under your very whims,” Javier murmured, “Like a candle on fire.”

“Never took you for a poet.”

“I never took you for someone who could bewitch me like a goddamn oracle, yet here we are.”

“I think you’re delusional,” you rubbed his collar bones with your thumbs.

“It’s so funny. You underestimate yourself. You’re approximate with the skills you have in the embassy and your work, but you completely underestimate how charming you can be, or how beautiful you are. You’re confident in your work, but you hide behind it like a shield because you wonder if who you are, when you put your purse down in your apartment after work, is enough.”

Your fingers continued probing at his collar bones in a circular motion. “You think you have me figured out.”

“You’re a driven woman, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that you need someone to take care of you. You’re vigilant,” Javier leaned forward to brush a kiss against your cheek, “You’re hard working, and you take care of other people. But it’s almost like you’re trying to run away from yourself.”

You closed your eyes and leaned in for a moment, his forehead leaning against yours. “You see me.”

“I have,” he murmured, “I do.”

He tilted his head to place a kiss at your hairline. You hummed in satisfaction, surprised at how a simple gesture seemed so fulfilling.

Javier chuckled at the sound you made. “How long has it been since someone has touched you? And I mean in any way, platonic or romantic, aside from handshakes at the office.”

You leaned away for a moment. “Far too long. I think… Steve may have hugged me a few weeks ago? And that was brief.”

“Hugging Steve definitely does not count.” He looked into your eyes. “How long has it been since you’ve been… intimate with anybody?”

“Before I left the States.”

“Dios mío,” Javier murmured as his thumb hovered over your cheek, “why is that so hard for me to believe? You’ve been scavenging for minimal crumbs of affirmation and affection. But you could have had it. I would have taken care of you,” He tucked some loose hair behind your ear, “I would have taken good care of you.”

“I know. But I think it was important for me to be by myself for a little while. Well… myself and my wand.”

“When you used your wand… what did you think about?” His voice ebbed an octave lower, and you shivered at how velvet it felt.

“Sometimes I wouldn’t think about anything, I’d only focus on the vibrations and the sensations.”

“And… the other times?” Javier rumbled, his nose against your ear.

“You,” you whispered, “more recently, I’d think of you. I imagined what you would be like.”

“And what do you think I would be like?” His hand moved to your neck, grasping it gently.

You hesitated. “I feel vulnerable,” you admitted.

“I want you to be vulnerable. I’ll be vulnerable with you, I just ask for the same in return,” Javier murmured.

“I think… you would be firm. You… you wouldn’t be rough, but not necessarily gentle. You’d start your kisses gentle though, and… and they would devolve into being rough and messy.”

He smiled as he nuzzled his nose into your ear, then dragged his lips across your cheek to plant a kiss in the corner of your mouth. Tilting your head towards him, he began kissing you- simple and deceivingly innocent pecks at first, but increasingly mounted in passion as his tongue swiped along the seam of your lips, requesting entrance. Without a hesitation, you granted him access.

With a growl that reverberated into your mouth, Javier pulled you into himself, the friction between his erection and your pussy causing you to whimper. His large hands gripped your thighs as though he was the only thing tethering you to this earth. If he let you go, the angel in the hell that the tumultuousness of the embassy was, you may leave him behind, lonely and broken.

Javier pulled back from the kiss, his face landing into your shoulder and kissing the skin there. Your fingers found his hair, grasping the curls.

“What’s going on,” you murmured, your voice hoarse.

He looked up at your eyes. “If anything ever happened to you, do you know how torn up inside I would be?” Shaking his head, he continued, “I would probably quit the DEA, do you understand? Even the idea of anything happening to you… it scares me. You’re more than just a habit to me, you’re a ritual.”

A shiver chased down your spine at the intensity of his words. “Do you want to take this to your bedroom?” You whispered, “maybe you’ll be more comfortable there. We can stretch out. Have a little more room.”

“What more did you have in mind?” He said, a little snarkiness coming back into his voice, despite his last words being little less than a vow.

It didn’t take a moment for Javier to lead you to his room, where it was sparsely decorated, if you could call it that. His covers were thrown back haphazardly, and clothes were piled in a simple straight back chair in the corner of his room. On his little side table sat a clock, a pack of cigarettes, and a flat ceramic pottery piece, glazed and bright orange colored, clearly meant to hold his keys. You were surprised to see that he had curtains, but you supposed it would make sense for a DEA agent to cover his windows.

You were about to crawl into his bed, but he stopped you.

“Pants off,” Javier said firmly.

Rolling your eyes, you began unbuttoning your bottoms and slipping them down your legs, folding them gently and setting them in a free and open spot on the floor. Left in your simple cotton panties, you turned to him- it was too obvious he had been watching you from the edge of the bed with bated breath, unable to tear his eyes off of your form.

“Happy now?” You smiled.

Javier pulled you by your hips towards him to stand between his knees. “Happier than I've been in a long time.”

“Good.”

He hoisted you into the bed, though a wince was obvious as pain shot through his arm.

You gently laid down, pulling him down with you, his head between your breasts. Your fingers ran through his hair again soothingly before stroking his cheek.

“I don’t know what it is about you, but you make me feel like a little boy again. I feel… I feel safe,” Javier chuckled, “I’m the big bad armed DEA agent, and yet you make me feel safe, safer than I've ever felt holding a gun.”

“No wonder you keep me around as an assistant at the embassy,” you said teasingly.

You could feel his face heat up under your fingers. “Well, about that…”

“Mm?”

“I’m the one who convinced Steve to request for you to be brought into our section semi-permanently. I liked you even then, from our fleeting interactions- and from there, my expectations have never failed me. You’ve never failed me.”

“If I didn’t know better, Javier Peña, I would say you had a crush on me,” you murmured, a smile tugging your lips.

“Had?” He scoffed “Woman, are you blind? Are you not catching what I’m throwing? There’s nothing past tense about it.”

“I would have thought you’d be above a schoolboy crush,” you said softly.

Javier’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m usually scared of anything that’s more than a fling, a dalliance. But you… it’s different. You make me want to step into deeper waters, you know?”

Your fingers moved up his head and began caressing his hair again, your nails gently scraping his scalp. “Are you going to break my heart, Peña?”

“I don’t want to. I might, along the way, but I don’t want to.”

“You know, you never did tell me about the time you broke someone’s heart,” You smiled, “you said that was for third base, and I think we’re working on a home run right now.”

Javier hummed. “Back in Laredo… I left a bride at the altar. Chickened out.”

The smile slowly slipped from your face, but you continued massaging his head. “That’s pretty severe.”

“I wasn’t ready to be married, and it wouldn’t have been fair to her if she was married to a man unfit to be a husband, and it would have been a tragedy if she was married to a man who knew he was unfit to be a husband. I haven’t seen her since the day I left her there but… according to my dad, she’s engaged to another man now. I’d say she recovered.”

The only sound now was your fingers against his scalp.

“Did you love her?”

Another hum reverberated. “I think in a way, I did.”

“But not enough?”

Javier swallowed, aware that how he answered this next question could affect the next few moments with you. “No, not enough.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” You took a deep breath, “I should be terrified to deal with a man like you.”

“Are you?”

“Oddly enough, no. I should be, but I’m not.”

Javier’s eyes slipped closed. “I’m terrified of you, in a way I didn’t know I could be. What if karma is real, and all the times I’ve broken hearts and led girls on comes back to bite me directly in the ass?”

You chuckled. “As delectable as your ass has always looked to me… we won’t let that happen to us, because we’re going to take this slow. You may be unused to that, but that’s how I’m dealing the cards at the moment.” You pressed a kiss to the top of his head before suppressing a yawn.

“I think you’re too tired for any action tonight,” Javier teased.

“I think the same could be said of you, actually,” you shot back with a small laugh.

He rolled you over so that he was spooning you from behind, pulling you in by your waist even closer.

“Good night, my flower,“ Javier whispered into your ear.

“Good night, Javi.”

The next morning, you drove him back to the embassy, although he complained about your car more vocally now that he was fully conscious.

When you guys walked into the bullpen where Steve was, it was clear he didn’t notice anything unusual, at first. He began chatting about how Connie had cleared him at the clinic of any injuries, but he just had a raging headache he had to sleep off. However, it was obvious he sensed something was even a little off.

“Wait a damn minute,” Steve said, looking between you two before landing on you, “why are you wearing the same thing you wore yesterday?” His gaze turned towards Javier, “why did she drive you to work? Oh my god-“

“Steve, don’t bust a gasket,” Javier warned.

“You slept with her, didn’t you?” he was clearly getting upset. His usually pale complexion pinkened. You had to stifle a giggle- the man looked like the spitting image of strawberry milk.

“Yes, although not… anyways.”

“God dammit, I owe Connie $15 now!”

—————————————————————

I hope y’all enjoyed that! if you guys have any requests or anything to say about the fic or just want to chat about what’s happened, feel free to send me stuff in the inbox!

Don’t forget to check out my time accurate playlist for the fic!

Thank you for reading xx

- with love, Muffin

[hotchscoffeecup]

Put Your Trust In Me

Part I: Sexual Healing

Part 1 | Part 2

Rating: M

Relationship: Javier Peña/Reader

Tags: No Y/N, Reader works at the embassy, Reader is undisclosed age

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Javier and Reader work together at the embassy, but there’s a bit of tension there that’s unexplored. That is, until Javier asks reader to meet him at the café for them to organize their notes on Pablo, and his being late leads to the question that Reader’s been wondering for a long time: why doesn’t he hit on them when he hits on anything that’s breathing and stays still long enough?

Author’s Note: Thank you to Habby, Cait, and Ash for beta reading this fic!!!! ily all so so much, and your input has meant the world to me! xoxo - Muffin

“Come take control, just grab a hold

Of my body and mind, soon we'll be making it, honey

I'll be feeling fine

You're my medicine, open up and let me in

Darling, you're so great, I can't wait for you to operate

(Heal me my darling)”

- “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye

-=-

The waitress gave you sympathetic eyes as she filled your cup of coffee up again.

“Stood up?” she asked.

“I’m hoping he’s just late,” you assured her, although your tone bordered on frustration.

“I see. Please let me know if you need anything else, or if you’d like to settle your bill.”

“Thank you.”

The waitress didn’t linger and simply left you to it. You stirred your coffee absentmindedly, your hands needing to do something or else you’d have to stop yourself from finding Javier and cussing him out.

He had asked you to meet him at this café at 4:30 after work to talk about the intel he’d gathered on Pablo so far. He was late to his own appointment, that he set with you- you looked down at your Casio digital watch- by twenty minutes.

You could give yourself three guesses as to his whereabouts, and the last two didn’t count. Instead, you gave yourself five more minutes before you would get up and abandon the appointment.

Javier walked in on minute 4.

“Jesus, you are late,” you scolded him as you took in his appearance- his hair was predictably mussed as though he had been rolling around in bed, and the collar on his black leather jacket was up and concealing the sides of his neck. You rolled your eyes.

“I didn’t realize how late it was after I finished my appointment with… my informant.”

“Was this revelation before, or after you used your ‘informant’s’ thighs as earmuffs?”

Javier sat down opposite of you, a smile tugging on his lips under that mustache as he pulled off his aviator glasses and tucked the leg of it into his pocket. “Well that was vivid imagery.”

“I had almost half an hour to think about it- spare me,” you retorted.

“Oh, so you thought about it?”

Before a halfhearted defense could slip off your lips, the waitress stopped by to get his order.

“Just a cup of black coffee, please- as strong as you can make it, yeah?”

“Of course.”

He studied the badge on the pocket of her dress before looking up at her and flashing a big smile under that mustache of his as he was handing over the flimsy menu. “Thank you, María.”

You didn’t miss the way color rose to her cheeks. “Your order will be right out.”

After she left, Javier pulled out his pack of cigarettes and plucked one out. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively as he gestured to his pack. You shook your head.

“No, thanks.”

Your eyes roved over his form while he lit his cigarette, studying him as the flame caused a glow on his face- Describing your relationship with Javier was insanely difficult. You’d tried describing it to your mother, to Connie Murphy, hell, to yourself even, and yet… still came short of what the relationship actually felt like.

When you’d started working at the embassy after moving from the States - a lifetime ago it seemed - you were a “floater” for a while, doing whatever tasks and fetching whatever paperwork for whoever needed it. Then, as the Escobar case evolved, you’d been planted indefinitely as an assistant for Steve and Javier as more evidence and files rolled in. You got along well with Steve, and after you met his wife, Connie, you’d all become good friends, simply happy to have someone else a little reminiscent of home around. But Javier… Javier was a different story.

You don’t think he quite knew what to make of you at first. He’d flirted with you, of course, but after you became better friends with Steve and Connie, and you worked actively with him and Steve on cases, it ebbed to a halt.

You knew what he got up to with his informants, the brothels, the prostitutes, and the fact he had probably slept with everyone else in the office- save Steve, that you knew of at least. He was grumpy, he was charming, he had a heart at strange times. You didn’t hate Javier, you weren’t best friends with him or vying for his attention. He was just… Javier. He was there, he was dependable.

And he wasn’t ugly. Lord knows you didn’t think that at all- he had a profile chiseled by a god, broad shoulders that tapered down to a slender waist, and long legs that were perpetually shown off with tight fitting jeans. But when work calls… Well, you don’t eat where you shit. So, you settled for a strange sort of chemistry with him that couldn’t be labeled as a sibling-like camaraderie, but certainly not romantic. He was just Javier, and you were… you.

María interrupted your thoughts as she carefully placed the steaming hot mug of coffee in front of him. He murmured a “Gracías” before she left to check on other patrons, her cheeks once again glowing with a flush. You shook your head with a small smile.

“What’s that for?” Javier questioned.

You shrugged. “Just observing, that’s all.”

The weight of his gaze was heavy as he smirked at you. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t think you want to know what I’m thinking.”

He leaned back in his chair, his arms draped over the back of it casually. “I think I do want to know what you’re thinking.”

The sigh that escaped you was far more dramatic than you intended, and you coughed a little to cover it up. “I was just thinking that it’s funny, the way that you seem to have women wrapped around your pinky like it’s nothing.”

“What can I say? I’m a charming man.”

“A philanderer, more like,” you retorted, picking up your coffee cup to hold it with both hands, savoring the warmth that emanated through the ceramic.

He raised an eyebrow as a smile peeked through. “What, are you shaming me? In this new and exciting progressive age of the 90s? C’mon.”

“I’m not shaming you, I’m just acknowledging you for what you are- a philanderer.“

“I don’t know, you sounded pretty accusatory earlier when you made the earmuffs comment. I might beg for an apology.”

“Then beg,” You didn’t miss the intrigue that flashed in his eyes, but you didn’t address it as you continued, “but I wasn’t shaming you for having sex with god knows who, I was shaming you for being late, for your own appointment, that you set up. Really professional of you, Peña.”

“And you’re in a rush to go… where, exactly? Hot date?” Javier poked teasingly.

“Is it not acceptable to want to go home after an exhausting day at work?”

He shook his head, amusement written all over his face in the small crevices and creases as he chuckled. “Exhausting doing what? Playing “gopher” between departments? ‘Go for this,’ ‘go for that’? I was in the field today, sweating up a storm, while you were at heightened risk of paperwork cuts, indoors, in a shady cool building.”

“And you still had the stamina to go visit the brothel? Impressive, really.”

He rolled his eyes at you as he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table and his cigarette between his fingers. “To set the record straight, I was gathering intel. Which is why I set this appointment, right? Let’s go over notes.”

You were almost impressed at how easily Javier swapped tracks. Without protest, you bent over to find your notebook in your bag.

“Don’t even think of trying to find cleavage to look at, Peña,” you said as your hand fished around.

Javier’s chuckle was warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You leaned back up, the notebook in hand, and sat it down on the table, careful to move your half empty coffee cup out of the way. “You know, that really is something I think about.”

He tilted his head at you curiously, silently inviting you to continue your thought.

“Why don’t you ever flirt with me?” you asked hesitatingly, “Not that I actively want to be a recipient of your… attention, I guess, it’s just something I think about.”

Javier clearly was not expecting that question, and he hummed for a moment as he tried filching for the best explanation.

“It’s complicated, really.”

“When has flirting ever been complicated for you?” You raised an eyebrow to emphasize your point, “You usually flirt, sleep, with whoever you want regardless of station, rank, or class. Communists, even.”

He chuckled again nervously as he fiddled with his coffee mug. “You’re friends with Steve and Connie- we’re also kind of partners at work. If I get involved, and things ever go… sour, it could ruin our social circle, make things awkward, and also affect how effective and efficient we are.” He paused his fiddling to look up at you, his eyebrows creasing slightly. “Don’t tell me you thought I didn't make advances because of you or because I find you lacking in some way.”

It was your turn to fidget, messing with the napkin dispenser. “It… did cross my mind a time or two.”

“I promise you, and believe me when I say this, that that is not the case at all.”

You couldn’t pinpoint it, but something in his voice made you pause, detecting some morsel or grain of… poignancy? That was unexpected, especially from Javier.

So, you took a chance.

“What… would you say to me if it wasn’t complicated?”

He leaned back in his chair as he took a long draw from his cigarette. “I would tell you that the blue blouse that you wear to work a lot drives me crazy, because it looks so fantastic on you, and I think you know it, and that’s why you wear it so often,” his eyes lazily meandered over your form as you fought not to blush, “I would tell you that I love when you’re not afraid to stand toe to toe with me, even if it frustrates me to no end when you’re so goddamn stubborn. That I love when I overhear you talking to Connie about making your apartment your own even though you’re so far from certainty and perceived safety. Or hearing you talk about the foods that you miss and makes you homesick.”

You swallowed. It wasn’t quite tears or a sob. “All of those are so innocent, Javier. Although intimate thoughts, for sure.”

He hummed, a small smirk donning his lips. “Sometimes when you call me Peña, I imagine kissing you until you’re breathless and whisper a pathetic ‘Javier.’ Or when you’re restless at your desk and continually shifting around in your seat, I think about pulling you into my lap and making you at home there,” he paused to tame his smirk and discipline it into a polite smile, “are you sure you want me to continue?”

You crossed your legs tightly over each other.

“Please,” you said, a breath above a whisper.

“When you came in for one of the christmas parties at the embassy in that gorgeous red dress with those sleeves that are off the shoulders, there was nothing I wanted to do more than mark your throat and clavicles. When we slow danced? I think I felt the same side effects as ecstasy when you were in my arms and your perfume seemed to linger. I swear I could still smell you on me the next day, but I wonder if maybe my brain was just trying to torture me with what was within reach reach but I shouldn’t have. Do you remember what song we danced to?”

“That song by Marvin Gaye. ‘Sexual Healing.’”

“Yeah,” Javier said, “and I swear whenever I hear that song now, all I can think of is you.”

“And you just… never told me,” you said quietly.

“It would have been complicated, and I… I didn’t want to unravel what we had. Sometimes it’s better to go with what’s easier.” He put his cigarette out with a sigh.

“You’re not in love,” you said askingly.

“No- no. I’m not in love with you. But… I wouldn’t say it’s nearly as topical as lust. We’ve made things more difficult, I think, by being friends and work partners first. There’s a level of care there beyond… desire. To an extent, we literally trust each other with our lives.”

“I think I understand,” you murmured.

He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, his eyes studying you keenly. “So where do we go from here, hm? You know where I stand, I’ve laid out all of my cards on the table- where do you stand?”

You hesitated, your fingers tapping the table. “Javi… I don’t know,” you said honestly, the look in your eye almost sympathetic.

“We don’t have to explore anything, if you don’t want to,” he said soothingly, “you just… opened Pandora's box, is all, and now we can’t put that cat back in the bag. You know what I think about you, and the way that you captivate me.”

“Is “putting the cat back in the bag” even a real saying?” You questioned.

Javier chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re changing the subject,” he pointed out, “I’m onto you.”

“You always are,” You sighed as you bit your lip in thought, “I don’t know, Javier. Just… let me think about it, yeah?”

“Of course, yeah.”

The air was still between you for a moment, and the only noise was the café’s usual scraping of cups being dragged across table tops, clinking silverware and ceramic, and melodic chatter- it all felt so far away, as though you and Javier were in your own little sacred bubble.

Javier reached out and touched your hand for a moment, his intense eyes still on you, then released it.

The two of you began organizing notes that he had gotten from his intel in hushed tones, paid your respective bills, tipped, then went home.

Part 1 | Part 2

So excited for you guys to read part two!!! I don’t know when I’ll finish, but hopefully soon. Fingers crossed I don’t publish part I and immediately get hit with the Fanfic Author Curse.

also, enjoy this playlist to go along with the fic! it’s all era accurate :)

follow me on twitter @withlovemuffin!

- With Love,

Muffin

[hotchscoffeecup]

tied up in knots

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader

rating: m (mdni 18+)

word count: 3.6

summary: after dropping a less than subtle hint (a book on shibari bondage) into your go-bag, prentiss suggests a new and exciting sexual endeavor for you to explore together as a couple. after solving the case, she sneaks into your hotel room to bring this vision to life and you’re more than happy to play into the fantasy.

tags: shibari bondage, vaginal fingering, strap on sex

“Are you alright?” Spencer asks, eyeing you curiously.

You blink out of your momentary stupor and look at your boots before glancing back up at the jet. “What?” You feign a laugh. “Sorry, just wondering what’s taking the stairs so long to descend.”

“I’m just asking because you’re holding onto your bag there like it’s going to grow legs and run away” Reid inclines his head towards arms, which are currently cradling (okay, clutching) the tote bag you usually let hang casually off your shoulder. He snorts a short laugh, “Which is of course impossible.”

You force a chuckle and thank God when the jet doors hiss and the stairs descend. The rest of the team arrives and you don’t miss the intense look Emily levels at you from beneath her long lashes as she silently passes you to ascend the steps onto the jet. Her vanilla almond body wash envelops you and it alone is enough to bring a furious heat to your cheeks.

Or maybe it’s the fact that she’d slipped a book on shibari bondage into your bag in passing in the bullpen like it was a totally normal thing to do. You felt its weight like a stone and worried that everyone around you knew what haughty material you were hiding.

Emily had said nothing when she’d dropped the book into your bag. In fact, you’d not even realized what she’d done until your personal phone buzzed, which was odd. You almost never received any texts or calls while at work that didn’t go directly to your work cell. Prentiss’ name had flashed on screen and you’d wondered momentarily if she’d meant to text your work phone.

I got you a present.

Brow furrowed, you’d bent down to check your bag and found a small book with a black and white cover titled: Shibari 101: A Beginner’s Guide to the Art of Japanese Bondage and immediately panicked, allowing the magnetic snaps of your tote to snap back together and hide it from sight. You’d managed to smack your head against the bottom of your desk and yelped in pain, drawing the eyes of all of your coworkers.

Derek had arched a brow and leaned back in his desk chair to investigate the source of distress.

“Everything ok over there?”

You’d nodded and rubbed at the back of your head, cracking a smile and shrugging. “Clearly, I just need another cup of coffee.”

Derek smiled and returned to his work. “You and me both.”

You swallow nervously and relinquish your grip on your bag, allowing it to swing by your side and remind yourself that none of your teammates have xray vision.

After securing your go bag into the overhead bin, you slump down into the nearest seat and tuck your tote back behind your legs.

Hotch wastes no time passing out Manila folders to everyone. As the plane kicks up speed and soars into the air, he briefs the team on the case they’re heading to in Cheyanne, Wyoming to investigate. While his balanced tenor drones on about what they know so far, you feel your phone buzz in your lap. You carefully click the home button to wake up your screen and read the message from Emily.

I’ve got big plans for you. Check page 102 for a sneak peek.

You gulp nervously and nearly jump out of your skin when Hotch says your name.

You drop your phone back into your lap and look up, eyes searching and landing on Hotch, who looks less than pleased. “Anything you’d like to share?”

Emily snickers softly across the way and bites at her cuticles before pretending to read over the case file.

You shake your head. “No sir, sorry.”

He presses his lips together and nods. As he returns to what he was saying, you shoot Emily a dangerous look and she only smirks in response.

“Thanks everyone,” Hotch says in dismissal and everyone breaks up to return to their preferred in-flight activities.

Reid cracks open a well worn Chaucer novel, Morgan slips on his favorite pair of Beats headphones, and JJ and Rossi join Hotch towards the front of the plane to continue coordinating what will happen when they touch down in Wyoming.

You abruptly rise to your feet and shuffle towards the back of the plane where the coffee pot light blinks warm and invitingly. The coffee mugs clink as you pull one down from the locked cupboard overhead and pour yourself a fresh cup.

Emily sneaks up behind you and passes a subtle hand across the small of your back.

“Have I ever told you how good you look in blue?” She asks smoothly.

You cut her a sideways glance and ignore her as you tear open a packet of Splenda and pour it into your coffee.

“Oh c’mon,” she croons with a playful jab at your ribs. “I gotta be honest, I’m hot just thinking about it.”

Your eyes fly open and you take one step into her personal space, so close that you can feel her breath on your lips.

“Jesus, Emily!” you hiss. You glance over your shoulder and no one is looking in your direction. You grab her by the wrist and abandon your coffee on the counter to drag her further away towards the restroom. “You can’t just drop bondage books into my purse while we’re at work!”

Emily looks down the slope of her nose at you and licks her lips daringly. “Adds a little something to it though. Makes it all a little bit more naughty.”

A furious heat blazes across your cheeks as her tongue pops on the last syllable of the word naughty.

“There it is,” she says, lowering her voice. Her words are all feline as she speaks. “That basal instinct that comes with sex and the urge to explore the more clandestine parts of our hedonistic needs.”

You swallow, feeling her words slide over your skin and elicit goosebumps across your arms.

“Page 102,” she whispers in your ear before stealing your cup of coffee and sashaying back down the aisle towards her seat.

Blowing a strand of hair out of your face, you brace your hands against the counter and wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. Are you wholly and utterly enamored by Emily? Yes. Have these last six months of secretly dating been the most exhilarating (and somewhat stressful hiding it from the team) experience ever? Also yes. She was brilliant and daring with a beautiful mind and body to match. Sometimes you just felt…inexperienced, but you loved exploring your sexuality with Emily. She introduced you to such fun and tantalizing behaviors in the bedroom. Hell, you’d never known pleasure like the kind Prentiss delivered. Just thinking about it sends a rush of heat through your core and you have to bite back the smile spreading across your lips.

“You look happy.”

You startle, smile fading instantly as you clutch your chest. “Christ, Morgan.”

He chuckled and reached over you to get a coffee mug. “Lost in a daydream, huh?”

You glance over his shoulder and see Emily taking a sip from your coffee and a small smile returns to your face. “Yeah,” you answer, letting your mind wander to whatever might be awaiting you on page 102. “Something like that.”

•

You heave a sigh of relief as you step out of the bathroom, a fluffy white towel wrapped around your body while you towel dry your hair with another.

This case had been a whirlwind, but at the end of the day the team had managed to save two women and brought the man responsible for their kidnapping to justice. It wasn’t often you got to see victims return home to their families. It was a victory unlike any other in your field of work.

On top of the win, you’d been able to spend more time working with Emily. Hotch had paired the two of you together to interview the families of the two young women who had been kidnapped. You’d learned a lot from watching Emily and Derek work together and Emily and JJ. Sympathizing without becoming overly attached, knowing what to say to avoid making someone angry, knowing what to do when someone inevitably gets angry because the situation is out of control and you’re the only one that can help bring them a modicum of peace. This was something Emily does with ease, likely the result of growing up under the tutelage of an ambassador.

You don’t even realize the smile curving at your lips as you think about Emily and the way the baby blue scoop neck she’d been wearing clung to the curve of her body.

A knock at the door causes you to jump and you stumble to the bed where the contents of your go bag are haphazardly strewn about.

“Just a second!” You call out as you search for something to throw on.

“It’s Emily!” Her voice is muffled behind the door.

You relax a little and stop frantically throwing your clothes about. Holding your towel tight to your chest, you cross the room and unlock the door.

When you open it, Emily flashes you a smile; her teeth white against her berry lipstick. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, the dark fringe framing the delicate arches of her cheekbones. You look down either side of the hall for signs of the team before pulling her into the room.

Emily chuckles as you close the door to the hotel room and lock it. She inclines her head to kiss you and you let her steal a quick kiss before you step back and point a finger at her.

“You have been extra flirty this week, what gives!”

Emily arches an eyebrow and huffs, though a smile still plays about her lips. “Damn, I knew I should’ve been insulting you instead of complimenting you!” She snaps her fingers and shakes her head. “That’s how you win the girl!”

You roll your eyes and smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s the sweetest. I guess I’m just not used to so much affection being directed my way. It’s—” You take a step towards her and reach for her hand to intertwine your fingers with hers. “It’s nice.”

You press a kiss to her lips and glance up at her dark eyes from beneath your lashes. “I like it when you’re nice.”

“Yeah?” Emily asks. Her lips brush against yours as she speaks, “And what if I wasn’t so nice?”

Your brow furrows at the question and when you meet her gaze again it’s filled with lust as her eyes study your body.

Your pulse quickens as your mind flits back to just before you showered. As you’d pulled out your toiletries kit from your go-bag, the evocative book Prentiss had subtly gifted you had fallen out onto the floor. You’d forgotten you’d hidden it beneath all of your clothes deep inside your go bag the minute you’d keyed into your hotel room. It hadn’t been until you noticed the steam rolling out into the bedroom that you'd forgotten you’d already turned on the shower. You’d just gotten so absorbed in the outrageously complicated positions and knottings of ropes around limbs and wondering where she’d stumbled upon it.

A thud pulls you back to the present and your gaze drops down to your bare feet where Emily dropped her go-bag.

“Do you want to know what I packed?” She asks, her voice taking on a feline quality.

You swallow as you stare down at the bag and images of page 102 flash across your mind’s eye. Biting the inside of your lip, you nod and feel heat pool inside your belly as Emily smiles at you wickedly.

You gasp into Emily’s mouth as she steps forward and captures your lips with hers. Her hands clasp either side of your face as she pulls you in closer and your hands instinctively wrap around her waist.

You taste her vanilla chapstick as your tongue slips between her lips and she chuckles against your mouth as she walks you back towards the bed. When your legs bump up against the mattress, you allow yourself to fall back onto the bedspread; sliding your legs up and around Emily’s ass to pull her down on top of you. Her lips find the corners of your mouth before trailing down the column of your throat before pausing to suckle the top of your breast. Your right leg stays hooked around her waist and you pull her in closer as she pulls aside the towel and sucks your nipple into her mouth.

You moan as she teases the taut peak while her hand moves to palm and tweak the other between her slender fingers.

“Were you thinking about me?” She asks, voice husky as she releases your aching nipple. “In the shower?”

She rubs the pad of her thumb over the swollen area in slow, teasing circles and you whimper out a stilted, “Yes.”

Emily hums satisfactorily as she presses her lips against the soft flesh of your breast. She leans back and pulls the towel away from your body, exposing the rest of your bare skin now pebbled with goosebumps. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder as she tilts her head to admire the curves of your body and when her gaze drops to your core, you can’t help but feel the steady pulse deep inside of you drum harder and she hasn’t even touched you yet. You bite your lip and rock your pelvis back into the mattress to try and assuage the ache, but it only makes you that much more aware.

“You’re glistening for me,” she says, her lips curving into a sinful smile.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You challenge, though it’s extremely hard to keep your composure.

Emily arches a perfectly manicured brow and you know there’s no escaping whatever she has planned for you as she turns to scoop her bag off the floor.

You lick your lips as she reaches into the bag and your eyes widen as she withdraws several coils of black satin cords.

“Page 102?” You ask.

She smirks in turn, “If you’re still game.”

You nod, feeling excitement stir in your belly. “I am.”

“Then just lie back,” she says, “and relax.”

With soft, knowing hands she guides you into a kneeling position with your legs spread wide. The air is cool against your slick heat and you stir impatiently as she weaves the cords in and around your calves and thighs, binding them together so you’ve no choice but to sit back on your heels.

“Where did you learn how to do this?” You ask breathily, your chest already heaving with want.

Emily doesn’t lose focus as she threads the cord around your wrist and tethers it to each ankle, but her berry colored lips curve into a smile. “Would you believe me if I said the internet?”

The laugh you breathe out ebbs into a moan as Emily pulls the knot tight, drawing your wrists down and forcing your chest out. Your breasts ache to be felt by her and a needy whimper eks past your lips as she takes a measured step back to admire her handiwork.

You ought to feel vulnerable, spread out and exposed like this; but you only feel wanted and desired. That isn’t hunger in Emily’s eyes as the deep brown of her gaze admires your figure. No, it’s more than that, an all consuming reverence and you know that she’s about to worship at the altar of your body.

You rock back on your heels and whimper as the bonds tighten around your legs, sending a shiver of need up the length of your spine.

“Are you just going to stand there? Or are you going to come fuck me breathless.”

A daring challenge enters Emily’s eyes. Without breaking eye contact with you, her hands tug at the belted waist of her trench coat. As the garment comes loose and falls about her ankles, a throbbing pulse beats deep in your pussy.

A black lace teddy hugs her figure, accentuating the muscular curve of her waist. The ribbed framing pushes her tits up and all you want is to press your lips against the soft skin of her breast and taste her, but that’s not what surprises you most of all.

You swallow and feel your breathing increase as Emily’s elegant fingers trace the leather straps of a harness down to where a thick, purple strap-on is fastened against her pubic bone. She curves her fingers around the shaft and pumps it gently.

“I think you’ll be more than breathless when I’m done with you.”

She kneels on the bed and crawls slowly towards you. You squirm beneath the binds and watch a devilish grin form upon her face as she presses herself up to kiss you. Your mouth automatically opens for her and as she presses her lips against yours, you naturally fall back into the pillows stacked against the headboard. You feel the heat of your desire slick down your inner thigh and you simper against her mouth as you feel your arousal mounting without her even laying a hand on you.

Emily’s lashes flutter as she glances from you to your slick cunt. “Are we ready?”

You bite your lip and nod resolutely, a needy, “Yes,” gliding off your tongue.

Emily slides one finger into your core and you grind against the movement. Slowly, she pushes in a second and then a third. You take a sharp inhale of breath as you adjust to her fingers stretching you, but there’s very little resistance from how wet you already are.

“God, you’re incredible,” she whispers as she slowly begins to glide her fingers in and out of your core, making sure to curve just right against the soft spongy cleft within you. Each pump of her fingers against that sensitive spot sends electricity through your veins and you can’t fight the moans she easily elicits from you. The pace is wickedly torturous and you need more. You crave more. You rock against her hand, though your movement is restricted by the binds she so expertly wove.

When her thumb begins to circle your clit, your brain dissolves into nothing more than TV static as your body becomes a live wire under her electric touch.

You feel your pleasure mounting, a wave cresting higher and higher beneath her undulating hand. A furious heat blossoms in your chest and tears through your entire being as your heart pounds against your ribcage. You try to stifle the moans erupting from your throat, but it’s hard to control any part of your body as your muscles go rigid and your orgasm rips through you. The cords stretch as you pull against the power of your climax and before you can even catch your breath, she takes to one knee, positions herself up against your core, and slams the strap into you.

You rear forward and bite into the flesh of her breast to keep from screaming out as the strap fills and stretches you. Stars dot the corners of your vision as she grabs the headboard behind you and uses it to propel her hips forward, driving it in deeper with each thrust. Before you know it, you’re climaxing again, but she doesn’t relent. It isn’t until she wrenches a third orgasm from you, that she finally slips out and catches you as your spent body falls forward against her.

Her thumbs splay across your cheeks as she praises you for taking her so well. She presses tender kisses all over your face as she loops her arms around your waist to undo the ties binding your wrists. As soon as they’re free, you reach up and pull her face to yours, kissing her fervently.

You stop and rest your forehead against hers. “So that was—?”

She nods, smiling. “Page 102, yeah.”

You lick your lips and nod, confirming the information. “And how many pages are in that book?”

“About 200.”

“Let’s keep reading it.”

She flashes you a grin. “Yeah?”

You kiss her again. “Definitely.”

She helps untie the remaining cords and slowly helps you stretch out your sore and aching limbs. She massages lotion scented with jasmine deep into your muscles and you groan languidly as she digs into knots you didn’t even know you had.

After wiping you down, she calls for fresh sheets from housekeeping and helps you dress in your favorite pair of sweatpants and borrowed FBI academy sweatshirt. You’d stolen it long ago and she’d never asked for it back.

You sit in the lounger in the corner of the room and watch as she changes into her own comfortable clothing and hides away the evidence of what you’d just done away in to her go bag; the strap already washed and dried. When housekeeping comes, she strips the sheets and remakes the bed and you just watch with a lazy smile plastered to your face.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” she says teasingly.

“I like watching you,” you respond easily.

“Well, why don’t you come crawl in between these sheets and choose something to watch on Netflix.” She pulls your laptop out of your backpack and places it on the bed. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

And so you stand up and crawl into bed. You power on your laptop and choose an early 2000s rom-com and as Emily clambers into bed beside you and wraps an arm around your waist to pull you in to nestle against the crook of her body, you know there isn’t anywhere else you’d rather be than in this bed, sharing these moments with her…even if you were on a case.

But you’d worry about that later.

[hotchscoffeecup]

don’t punch beskar, you’ll break your hand

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Rating: M (18+ MDNI)

Word Count: 6.8k

Tags: Hand to hand fighting, Injury, Burns, Blindfolds, Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mando Takes Off His Helmet

Summary: You’re the Marshall of your small remote town. When you’re injured in a fight with pirates, Mando tends to your injuries. Time spent together in close quarters leads to even closer relations and when Mando suddenly disappears, you can’t help but feel used. (Happy Ending)

A/N: I wrote this back in Summer of May 2023 and am working on bringing my works over to Tumblr from AO3. I’m not super well versed in Star Wars lore outside of Mandalorian, so some details seems a little vague or inaccurate, that’s probably why! Hope you enjoy!

You nod your thanks as the bartender replaces your empty drink with a full one, flipping a few credits toward him from the dwindling tower you’d stacked in front of you earlier. A tentacle shoots out from the barkeep’s octopus-like face and snaps them out of the air. He grunts his assent and disappears into the back room.

You sip the bitter alcohol and revel in the burn as it slides down your throat to settle in your stomach and fuel the delightful buzz trilling through your body. It’s not enough to disorient you, but enough to ease the dull ache in your temples as you pour over the journal you’ve logged each and every one of your arrests in since the day you became Marshall of this godforsaken town. It’s not what you wanted to do with your life, but what else was there to do in the wake of pirates setting up shop on the outskirts of your city. There was no one in charge, never had been, and no one willing to take up the mantle. They were lost, leaderless.

And now here you are, feeling more lost than you ever had before.

You shake off the thought and return to your logs, tracking crime rates and making note of the areas with increasing levels of violence, piracy, and spice usage. Every time you thought you’d rid an area of criminal activity, it seemed as if double the illicit operations popped up in their place. So was the cost of being an independent planet. It made it all the more appealing to set up shop where there was no threat of the Republic stopping you. In a more developed part of the planet, they would’ve had the means to install better infrastructure or hire more of a guard to dissuade this sort of thing. Not here though. Not on your small blip on the map.

Crime rates had increased hard and fast, with pirates demanding protection payment from the shops and people that lived there. They were armed to teeth and operating a small black market, selling and trading spice and weapons to any and all willing to buy. And every day the market grew, attracting more criminals and making it that much harder to corral the growing threat.

You just didn’t have the manpower to take them on, so all you could do was sit and watch as they overtook the city, your city. It may be a godforsaken town, but it was yours damnit and you would die to protect it.

It had been nice once, beautiful even. The buildings sleek and well lit, laughter pouring out of open doors into the street as people and aliens alike drank, ate, and celebrated a life not run by any government or order.

The peace was short lived as pirates moved in, taking advantage of the wayward town often missed on maps by travelers and government officials alike. They were a town off grid, perfect for a crime syndicate to set up shop in. By the time you’d discerned the severity of what was happening, it was too late and it wasn’t long before they’d overtaken the city and turned it into an industrial hellhole; scrap yards piling higher than buildings destroying the views of what were once lush forests, now mines. Pirate lackies stood guard atop high metal walls that overlooked the town, ready to gun down anyone that might step too close until one day they attempted to lay the town bare; collateral damage in pursuit of establishing a central hub so they could expand their operation and make the entire city some sort of a base; the people living within the walls of the city be damned in pursuit of their own twisted little empire.

They’d have been successful if he hadn’t arrived, the Mandalorian. You’d heard rumors of one traveling the galaxy with a small green creature in tow, though the nature of the creature varied widely. When he’d arrived, there was no creature, and you didn’t feel as though it was your place to ask about it. He’d then helped without even having to be asked. No bargains. No payment. He just wanted to help.

Together, you devised a plan, and with a few of his allies in tow, you destroyed the base from the inside out; something you still can’t believe you’d managed to accomplish with so few individuals. But for the Mandalorian, he himself might as well have been the equivalent to an entire fleet of troopers and his allies the same.

You’d suffered some major burns to the right side of your body in the explosion that leveled the base, but it had been worth it to see that pirate filth laid to waste. Everything had still gone according to plan.

In the weeks that followed, the Mandalorian had tended to your injuries and saw to the restoration of the city. Your memory was hazy after the explosion, but you remembered the pain of it all; the gnawing, biting pain that cut down to your bones as he cradled you into his arms and jettisoned you back to the Razor Crest. Your vision had been hazy. blurred by the severity of the injuries and the toll they’d taken on your body. You’d barely clung to consciousness as the Mandalorian worked on the burns, the debrieding sprays and burn gels doing their job, but feeling as though your skin had caught light once more. Strained “I’m sorry’s” and “I know it hurts” had echoed through the Mandalorian’s modulator until you’d finally passed out from the pain.

It was three days until you’d opened your eyes again. And when you did, you were still in and out of consciousness, unable to keep them open for more than a few seconds at a time.

Once though, when you could manage the strength to blink through the haze, you could have sworn you’d caught a glimpse of dark hair and tan skin passing through the corridor. Your vision had been hazy with sleep and the lights dimmed. You still don’t know if that had been a dream.

On day eight you’d regained full consciousness, You awoke to find bandages soaked in some stinking salve coating the right side of your chest and shoulder, winding across your torso and down your arms. A loose sheet covered the rest of your exposed body, though someone had put a pair of loose linen trousers on you. You attempted to clench your right fist and hissed as the charred skin beneath the bandages immediately protested the movement.

You attempted to sit up and very quickly realized that was an equally stupid thing to try to do.

“Woah, stop!” instructed a modulated voice.

Your eyes flicked up toward the door, where the Mandalorian rushed in. “Take it easy,” he said, calmer this time. “Your body has been through a lot.”

“How long has it been?” You asked, disregarding the concern in his voice.

“Listen, you need to stay down and—“

“How long has it been?”

A mumbled curse hissed through the modulator before he spoke up. “Eight days.”

Your eyes flew open, “Eight?” You cried. Using your left hand to hold the sheet over your exposed chest, you forced yourself into a sitting position despite the stiff flesh under the bandages begging you to stop. “That’s unacceptable. I need to leave. I have to help my people. I need—“

“To heal,” the Mandalorian stated, a command. He took the two pillows that you’d disregarded and propped them up against the metal wall at the back of the cot and gently lowered you back onto them. “My people are on it. The black market has been eradicated. Things are being rebuilt as we speak.”

“I,” you started, but weren’t sure what to say. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing all of this? You have no allegiance to us.”

“My allegiance is to doing the right thing.”

“I don’t often find people care about what’s right or wrong,” you said bitterly, “just what will serve their own selfish agenda.” Your eyes found what you were imaging to be his behind the black T of his helmet.

He tilted his head, regarding you. After two minutes of insufferable silence, his Beskar rattled as he bent at the knees to sit on a flipped over crate near the bedside. You’d not even noticed it before he sat down. Had he sat there before during these last eight days? Watching you?

“Listen,” he began. “I’ve learned a thing or two about being selfish and constantly seeking that which would reap the greatest reward. Recently, I’ve found there are things far, far greater than just going through the motions of what you’ve been told is right and what is wrong because someone says so. I want to see the things that I do in this world actually make a difference, not just for me, but for everyone; and to do that I have to do it on my own terms. So, when I tell you I’m just trying to help,” he sighed through the modulator and leaned back against the wall, his armor clanging against it with a dull thud, “I mean it.”

His words sounded genuine enough, but you weren’t altogether sold. Though, he didn’t have to agree to help take down the pirates nor take you in. He could’ve dumped you at the local med bay and been off planet doing gods know what by now, but he stayed. Not only did he stay for you, but for your people.

“Why did you help me?” The words left your mouth before you could think them through.

His answer came fast. “You’re alone here.” He stood and reached for an overhead shelf where he withdrew a med pack. He knelt at your side and released the locks, the pack snapping open with a satisfactory click.

You watched his leather clad fingers withdraw equipment and arrange them neatly along the edge of the bed.

He snapped the med pack shut and turned his masked face in your direction. “I know what it’s like to be in pain alone, to suffer alone. I did not want that for you.”

“Begging your pardon, Mando, but why would you care what I want?”

Your eyes flickered back and forth in the dim light, searching for him behind the mask. You wished you could read his expression.

He picked up a pair of scissors, though his gloved fingers quickly posed a problem as their thick padding didn’t allow him to hold them properly.

“This was a lot easier when you were knocked out,” he muttered through the modulator. He cursed and dropped the scissors, snapping his hand free from the glove. “And my name’s not Mando,” he added, now able to comfortably pick up the scissors with his long pointer finger and thumb. “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

You're surprised when your breath catches in your throat; not at how he’d revealed his name, but that he’d revealed any amount of skin to you; deep tan skin pebbled with scars and calluses.

“Are you allowed to do that?” You asked, voice incredulous.

The scissors slid under the bandages, stinging the burnt skin as they gently glided across. You hissed and he apologized, making sure to lift them higher as he cut away the bandages.

After a long moment, he answered. “I don’t know.” He snapped out of the other glove and made deft work of the bandages, apologizing as they stuck to your mottled flesh. “I don’t know a lot of things anymore.” This he’d spoken more so to himself.

Once the sullied bandages had been pulled away and discarded, you glanced down at your flesh, and sucked a sharp breary in through your teeth at the sight of it. No wonder you’d been out cold for over a week. The entire right side of your upper body was unrecognizable to you the way that the flames had licked and curled around your limbs. Tears stung at your eyes and you forced yourself to look away

“I know it looks bad now,” he said calmly, placing a comforting hand over your uninjured one. You're surprised by how soft it is despite its rough appearance. The gesture placated you and you find your body relaxing. “Over time it will fade and eventually look like nothing happened at all. Trust me.”

“Do what you have to do then,” you consented, knowing the treatment was probably less than pleasant.

He squeezed your hand and when he withdrew it you found yourself longing for its warmth. You brushed the thought aside as quickly as it came and braced yourself for pain as Din coated your wounds in a numbing spray; the effects of which caused your eyes to well with tears.

Flesh numbed, he spent the next hour debriding the wounds of dead flesh and applying a gel that encouraged skin cell regeneration. He then applied bandages that were soaked in a stronger version of the gel in thick layers against and around the burns.

By the time he finished you were barely able to keep your eyes open. This was the longest you’d been awake since the date of the explosion and the treatment had exhausted what little energy you had to give.

“You should sleep,” he recommended as he pulled his gloves back on, and a part of you is sad to see his hands hidden away once more. “When you next wake, we’ll try to get some solid food and water in you.”

He pulled the sheet up higher over your body, his gloved fingers lingering against your neck. Your eyes trailed up the length of his arm before reaching what you were sure to be his gaze behind the mask. He held your stare, only for a moment before he quickly withdrew his hand and stepped away toward the door.

“Get some rest.”

“Thank you,” you said softly. And as he stepped through the door you added, “Din.”

Your eyes fell shut, but not before you noticed how he paused in his tracks to take one last look at you over his shoulder before continuing on his way.

•

“Dank farrick!” Din cursed and threw his hand of cards down on your dining room table as you laughed and pulled in the ever growing pile of credits toward yourself, now easier with the improvement in mobility in your arm over the last few weeks as the burns continued to heal thanks to the Mandalorian.

“Come on, Mando!” You laughed, still not completely comfortable using his given name freely. “You wanna make it triple or nothing?”

He pointed a gloved finger directly at your face, “No.”

“Oh come on,” you begged. “I didn’t peg the Mandlorians as sore losers.”

“We should turn in,” he said, gathering the cards together. “I’ve got a run scheduled with Greef Carga and I’d like to take off before sunrise.” Greef Carga had been one of the Mandalorian’s allies who had helped them level the base. What weapons and spice caches hadn’t been destroyed, Mando had been delivering to Carga’s city where they had the proper means of destroying it. His was a city far more well equipped than yours.

“It should take two trips, right?” you asked, already concerned with the amount loaded onto the Razor Crest. If word had gotten out about the market’s destruction here, roving sects of the cartel or other pirates could be out for blood; especially if they knew the Mandalorian had been responsible. If they caught the Razor Crest with that many illegal arms and substances loaded inside of it, they would do their damndest to get it back.

He nodded. “I should be back by nightfall.”

He gathered all the cards together into a neat pile and held them out for you to take. As your fingers slid over them, the leather of his gloves glided over your skin eliciting goosebumps across your flesh that you wished you could hide better from him.

He dropped his hand. “I should get back to the ship.”

He turned to leave and before you could process what you were doing, you lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around his wrist.

“Or you could stay.”

A long breath escaped the modulator as your name fell from his lips, and you immediately wanted to kick yourself for acting this way. Did you sound as needy as you felt? Weeks now, you’d spent in such close quarters with Mando, working side by side to draw up plans to rebuild the city and renew that which has been lost alongside the very close contact shared with him with the daily burn treatments. With each passing day, you’d found yourself watching the curve of his hips as he sauntered around so confidently with each step; the way his muscles flexed beneath his armor as he hammered reinforced steel into the damaged buildings around town.

Beyond the physical, his gentle demeanor behind the rough and tumble exterior pulled you in with its own gravitational force. Each day, he’d opened up a little more to you, sharing more and more about his life as a bounty hunter and his journey with the Child. You laughed harder than you had in years over the ways in which he recounted the mischievous and naughty behavior of the little green guy. And though you couldn’t see his face, even through the modulator, you could hear the longing in his voice for the Child. Despite having done the right thing in reuniting him with his own kind, you knew that that had torn away a piece of Din’s heart, even if he didn’t say it out right.

“Don’t read too deeply into it,” you chastised before the silence could become even more deafening in the moments since he’d whispered your name. “I’ve got a spare bedroom. You don’t need to sleep cramped up on that cot in the Razor Crest. Gods knows it’s not comfortable.”

He chuckled in response. “Sorry if it didn’t meet your standards, princess. I think it served you just fine, did it not?”

You waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still working the kinks out of my back from that whole experience. Come on,” you said and inclined your chin down the hall. “Stay, Get a good night’s rest, With the way you’ll be traveling tomorrow, you’ll need it.”

Ultimately, he relented and followed you down the hall.

“My room is the last door on the right at the opposite end of the hallway if you need anything. Fresher is the door on the left. Goodnight, Mando.”

“Din,” he reminded you.

You turn toward your room and walk down the hall, calling over your shoulder. “Goodnight Din.”

•

There was no sleep to be found tonight. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you wondered what Din was doing just down the short length of hallway from you.

Was he asleep? Behind the safety of a locked bedroom door, did he remove his helmet and armor and actually let himself rest his body? Or did he still sleep in the same armored, crunched up position, arms folded over chest, masked chin tucked in on itself?

Your eyes burned from lack of sleep and you cursed yourself for letting these thoughts drive you mad. Using your good arm to push yourself into a sitting position, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and pulled a satin robe over your shoulders. Tying it loosely around your waist, you silently opened the door and padded across the stone floor to the kitchen intent on making tea. Maybe after a hot cup, sleep would finally find you. You filled the kettle at the small durasteel sink and before you placed it on the stove, the sound of a faucet turning off set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

“Mando?” you whisper shouted.

No response.

You took a few steps toward the fresher door and tried again. The floor to ceiling metal doors in your home betrayed no light to escape so there was no way of telling if he was in there.

You hesitantly reached forward to press the button to open the door. You tried one more time. “Din?”

No answer. You cursed yourself for being so stupid. He was probably fast asleep and here you were, shouting at your empty fresher in the middle of the night. For peace of mind, you decide to slap the open button before returning to finish making your tea.

You immediately regretted your decision to do so as the door cracked open and a shaft of light filled the hall.

Your eyes fell to the floor, landing on a pair of tan, bare feet. Feet that move faster than lighting as a pair of strong arms wheeled you around and pressed your face into the wall.

“Close your eyes.” His voice was dark and you felt as though you had no choice but to oblige.

“I’m sorry,” your chest heaved, though constricted against the wall slick with steam from the shower. “I’m sorry, Din. I didn’t see your face. I didn’t—“

His grip relaxed suddenly, his touch becoming gentle; more responsive and less reactive. The rough palms of his hands flattened against where he grabbed you and rubbed the skin beneath, easing the sting of his tight grip from moments earlier. “No,” he breathed and for the first time you felt his breath against your skin. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react like that, you just—I thought you were asleep.”

“I couldn’t,” you stated.

A few moments of silence and then he answered, “Neither could I.”

His hands slowly slid down the length of your arms, the one on your right much softer than the left, minding the still healing burns. You couldn’t help your body’s natural response to arch into his touch.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” you asked, breath bated already.

You felt his presence draw nearer to your ear before the air reverberated around the sound of his voice. “I couldn’t stop thinking of what you might be wearing to bed”

His hands slipped off of your elbows and onto your waist. He stepped forward so that his body was flush against you and a small gasp escaped your lips as you felt his erection pressed up against the curve of your ass through the towel around his waist. He reached one arm around you and easily pulled the tie securing the robe around your waist loose, exposing your naked body. He tugged at one end until he’d pulled it free from its loops.

Your breath hitched in your throat as the satin material covered your eyes and he secured a knot tightly, but not uncomfortably, behind your head.

“There,” he said softly, turning you around and holding your face in his wide hands.

Hesitantly, you raised your hands to wrap around both of his wrists, leaning into his touch.

After a moment you reached out in front of you, hand landing on his chest. He was soft beneath your fingertips; muscular, but soft.

He dropped his hands from either side of your face as your other hand found his chest and you began to slowly explore the planes of his body.

Your heartbeat hammered in your chest as your hands traveled up the length of his torso, to the wide V of his shoulders. He was tense beneath your touch and you hesitantly withdrew your fingers to hover above his skin. “I can stop,” you said gently.

His hands wrapped around yours, placing them back on his chest. “No,” he said. “It’s ok. I want you to touch me.” As your hands found his neck, you cautiously continued to his jawline, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your fingers splayed against the sharp lines there.

Your thumb brushed lightly against his lips and he shuddered beneath your touch. You’re shocked to find he’s got facial hair lining the top of his lip and a gentle laugh tumbled out of your lips.

And as your fingers came to hold his face in your hands, you drew him down to you so that his forehead was touching yours.

“Mando,” you breathed.

“Call me by my name,” he said, his words gentle, yet firm.

You didn’t hesitate. “Din.”

His lips rained down on yours with an energy so blindingly hot that stars dotted the corners of your limited vision.

You parted your lips to grant him greater access to your mouth and his tongue slid over yours as his hands fisted into your hair.

Your arm snaked around his neck and when his hands cupped your ass beneath the satin of your robe, you pushed off your feet to jump and latch your legs around his waist.

He bore your weight easily, as if you weighed no more than an infant, and pushed you back into the wall. You hissed into his mouth as pain stung your shoulder blades but your whole body was a live wire at the moment and you didn’t care.

He started to walk, carrying you still, as your lips crashed together over and over; devouring one another as if this was the only taste you might ever get.

The hiss of a metal door opening sent a blast of cool air over the two of you, causing your taut nipples to harden even more against the skin of his chest.

He lowered you onto the mattress and the springs creaked under your combined weight. As he crawled over you and straddled your waist, you could feel his erection firm against your thigh.

Blindly, you reached for it with your good arm and as your fingers barely skim the smooth skin of his cock, your hand is pinned above your hand.

“Not yet,” he growled into your ear and your middle turned to liquid.

He released your hand and began trailing his over your body; the tips of his fingers tracing the outline of your calves, then your hips, your stomach, until he’s got both of your nipples pinched between his fingertips.

A cry slipped past your lips as he rolled the peaks of your breasts between his fingers. When he took one into his mouth and began to tease you, flicking the sensitive skin with his tongue and toying at it with his teeth, you bucked your hips up into his erection.

You could feel the slickness between your thighs spreading with each kiss and pass over your body, though you craved more of him. Your pussy throbbed with a need to be touched by him, filled by him.

“Din,” you whimpered. “Please.” And you swore you heard him chuckle deeply in his throat.

He took his hands and placed them on the insides of your knees. Slowly, he pushed them apart and you knew he was gazing into your core.

“Fuck,” he groaned and murmured your name. Your thighs quivered as his fingers slowly dragged up your thighs. Using his thumb, he ran it up the slick length of your folds, pausing at your clit to rub painfully slow circles and you squirmed beneath his touch. “So wet,” he murmured, “so wet for me.”

He adjusted the position of his thumb so that he could continue his torturously slow massage. His name tumbled from your lips as he, at an equally slow pace, thrust his pointer and middle fingers into your center; in and out, in and out, toying with the spongey soft cleft within you that caused your belly to clench in response.

You writhed beneath his touch, needing more, begging for more.

“Are you ready for me?” he purred, and you nodded vigorously.

“You feel ready,” he said, and you could sense the smile on his lips. He dragged his fingers, slick with you, up the length of your folds once more before pulling them away completely and touching them to your lips. He traced the outline of your mouth before gently pushing them in between your lips, “Taste how ready you are for me.”

You sucked and swiveled your tongue around the length of his two long fingers, tasting the tang of yourself on them and wanting more.

He withdrew his fingers and cupped your chin in his large hand, “Good girl.”

You bucked and cried out as he thrust his fingers back into you; once, two more times, and on the third, withdrew his fingers and slammed into you with his cock.

You cried out from the shock and pleasure of it all, gasping for air as his width stretched and filled you. He’d hit hard and fast only to slow down to a torturous rhythm. He slipped a hand under your right leg and lifted it onto his shoulder, holding you there as an anchor point as he continued to plunge himself in and out of you. His name spilled from your lips as with this new leverage, his cock struck your g-spot with every thrust.

“Yes,” his voice was low in his throat. “Say my name, darling. Say my name.”

He increased his speed and returned his thumb to your throbbing clit where he teased circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves there in a tortuously sweet rhythm with the speed of his thrusts.

Stars dotted your limited vision. Your chest rose and fell heavily as you tried to meet him thrust for thrust, but you lost track of the rhythm as you felt everything inside your lower abdomen start to collapse in on itself until the pleasure was blinding and you exploded around him.

He continued to thrust into you as your orgasm drove through your body in waves. After a few more thrusts his own release spilled out into you and he cried out your name; collapsing on top of you and wrapping his arms around your body, both of you slick with sweat and panting.

You stayed there for a minute, joined together physically, chests heaving against one another.

You both groaned as he slid out of you. Slowly, he maneuvered your arms out of the satin robe that you’d both forgotten about. Gently, he used it to clean you up, before discarding it onto the ground where it fell with a soft whoosh of fabric.

He then collapsed onto the bed next to you and minding the burns to your right side, pulled you nearer to him.

He kissed you softly on the lips and then your temple before stretching an arm behind his head.

Your head rested upon his chest and you could feel his heart beating steadily beneath his skin, the dull thump-thump enough of a rhythm to sing you to sleep, but you didn’t want to. Not now. Not after everything with him had just changed.

His hand lazily dragged through your hair, smoothing it back over your shoulders.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your ear. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The Mandalorian was nowhere to be found come dawn; he’d disappeared without a trace and you were left behind feeling like an absolute idiot for ever having opened yourself up to him.

In the weeks that followed, stray pirates that had barely escaped with their lives began to trickle back in when they’d learned the Mandalorian had disappeared and rumors of the spice and weapons supply you’d still had confiscated reached those still alive and hoping to rebuild the black market.

You’d been able to hold them back, killing them in a shootout in front of your offices.

There was nowhere to safely hide or destroy the spice or weapons. Burying it wouldn��t destroy them, so those hoping to retrieve it could still attain it. Burning them would release a smoke so toxic, it would kill anyone within five clicks of the pyre with the amount they had in tow.

So, there was no choice but to stand and fight. Stand and fight until your deputy was dead and you’d suffered a blast to the shoulder.

With no one left to defend the supply, they’d moved in quickly, raiding your office and burning it down in the aftermath as a warning to leave the market alone. You still don’t know why they didn’t kill you.

Weeks turned to months and they were right back where they’d started; black market and all successfully up and running as your people suffered for it. Heads turned away as you passed through town. You’d let your people down.

And that was why you sat in a bar, alone at two in the morning, going over crime logs and wondering how things had fallen apart so quickly.

So, when that distinct tinkle of metal armor echoed in your ears, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

You froze, heart hammering in your chest so hard you swore it would shatter your rib cage. As each heavy, booted footfall drew nearer, your fingers inched toward the blaster holstered at your side.

When you were confident he’d drawn near enough, you leapt from your seat, kicking it out and whirling around as it knocked his legs out from under him.

The Mandalorian hit the floor with a loud metallic thud and something tumbled from his hands across the floor.

He rolled out of the way as you aimed your blaster at him; knocking it from your hands in the process.

No matter; you slipped the knife from your waistband out and slashed at him. He expertly dodged each swing, but when you raised your leg and kicked him square in the stomach; he flew backwards over a table, shattering it on impact.

You leapt upon him, knife raised, and he knocked it from your hand.

Immediately, you raised your opposite fist and when you moved to bring it down, he caught your hand in his gloved one.

“Don’t punch Beskar,” his modulated voice advised. “You’ll break your hand.”

You sat there, frozen, as he held your fist in his hand. You stared at the black T of his visor, knowing he was staring right back at you. Tears burned your vision, but you would not let them fall for him.

Grunting and cursing, you kicked off of him; dusting off your pants and moving toward the bar.

“Get the hell out of here, Mandalorian.” You spat before returning to your seat at the bar. not minding the destruction you’d just left in your wake.

Tears burned your vision as you tossed back the second shot of liquor you’d left behind. The burn offered no relief from the pain of his return.

Your body stiffened as you heard his armor clanging as he stood and collected himself; but as you braced yourself to hear his steps withdraw, they only drew nearer to you.

He slammed a bag down on the table next to you.

You scoffed, ignoring it. “We don’t want your money, Mandalorian.” As if that could undo the damage he’d caused in his absence.

“Open it,” was all he said.

You swiveled in your seat, eyeing him dangerously before pulling the bag to you. You pulled the strings holding it shut and gasped upon finding the severed head.

Your eyes snapped toward his, or at least where you imagined they were behind his visor. “What is this supposed to—“

He tossed a puck on the table. Your mouth fell shut as a hologram appeared; stunned to see your face in the hazy blue light emanating from it.

You turned back to the Mandalorian, “I don’t understand.”

“He put this hit out on you,” he gestured toward the head. “On the day I left to dispose of the spice and arms with Greef Karga, I was attacked by spice runners. Spice runners who had your face in their hands. I couldn’t let them get to you.”

Blood pounded in your ears. He’d not come back to protect you, to keep you safe. It didn’t stop the damage done in his absence.

“You could’ve made contact,” you bit, venom sharp on your tongue.

Mando used his forearm to push the bag aside and lowered himself down into the seat beside you.

“If I’d pinged you, they could’ve pulled your location. There were already enough trickling back into the city and the hit wasn’t widespread news amongst local crime networks. Gods knows I did my best to hunt down anyone with this puck in hand; and in doing so, it lead me to the leader.”

Your mind whirled; both from the sudden realization of what had actually transpired and the liquor burning a hole in your empty stomach. The fight with Mando had stirred up things both physically and mentally and you suddenly felt sick.

Leather clad fingers brushed your shoulder and you hated how it both set your flesh alight with desire and caused your body to relax. The anger you felt was so raw and biting, but the way your body remembered his gentle touch had your tight shoulders sagging beneath it.

The pad of his thumb circled the thick pink scar tissue from the blaster strike; the shoulder still ached from time to time but overall had healed well.

As his thumb gently probed the tissue, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky breath you’d not realized you’d been holding in.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said after a long while.

You swallowed the growing lump in your throat. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” You turned your body to look at him straight on. “You lied to me.” Thick, hot tears welled along your lower eyelids. Your voice wavered as you continued, “I felt like a whore, Din. Like a plaything that you used once and got bored of.” Tears leaked over your lashes and you cursed yourself for being so vulnerable in front of him. “Damnit!” you slammed your first down on the table and raked a hand through your hair.

“You could’ve left me at the med bay. You barely knew me. You had no obligation to stay. But you, Din, you took me back to your ship and literally nursed me back to health.” You stood to leave then, not bothering to look at him as you did so as the tears flowed freely down your cheeks. “You were the one to stay behind long after you were clear to leave, yet you stayed. You treated me like I was a fucking royal and then left me like a womp rat stuck in a trap that you couldn’t bare to put out if it’s misery.”

As you reached the exit door, a leather clad hand wrapped around your wrist and an unfamiliar hiss caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up. You stood there for a moment, frozen, unsure of what to do.

“What are you doing?” you choked out, refusing to turn around.

“I don’t know what I could say,” his voice was smooth, unmodulated. “That this gesture can’t prove.”

His grip tightend around your wrist, not painfully, desperately.

You closed your eyes and bit your quivering lip. He said your name and it came out of his lips a plea.

Turning around, you didn’t open your eyes. Instead, you loosed yourself from his grip and felt for his other hand which clutched his helmet.

You circled your fingers around the lip of the opening and took it from him, surprised he allowed you to take it from his hand. With your other one, you felt up the breast plate of his armor until you reached the sharp line of his jaw, rough with a few days worth of stubble.

Raising the helmet, you used both hands to lower it down over his face until it hissed and clicked back into place. Only then did you open your eyes, finding them reflected back at you in the inky black of his visor.

“I would never ask you to forsake your Creed, Mando, surely you must understand that.”

He took a daring step toward you, inclining his head as he did so. “That’s not my name,”

“Din,” you breathed, sighing his name out. “Surely you know I’d never ask you to do that.”

His leather clad fingers slipped between yours. “I couldn’t risk them hurting you, I’ve only just found you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips for the first time since he’d stepped foot inside the tavern. “That’s a bit romantic for a Mandalorian, don’t you think?”

You felt the cool steel of his Beskar vambrace through the fabric of his shirt as he drew you near to his body for an embrace.

“I keep finding ways in which I’m not a normal Mandalorian.”

“Good,” you responded as you wrapped your arms around his pauldrons. squeezing and hoping he felt the warmth in your embrace. “I’ve never liked normal.”

[hotchscoffeecup]

those things will kill you

pairing: javier peña x dea!reader

tags: gun violence, broken glass injury, bullet wounds, blood, no y/n

word count: 5k

summary: attacked in a public bar, javier takes you back to his apartment to get you cleaned up and tend your wounds. an almost kiss leads to an exploration of feelings neither of you were prepared for.

as always, big thanks to muffin for always being willing to help beta my fics <3

The bartender places a bottle of beer, sweaty with condensation, in front of you on the bar top.

After uttering a short thank you in Spanish, you leave a couple of bills on the counter and twist your fingers around the neck of the bottle. The beer is cold and slides down your throat easily, but it tastes bitter in your hollow stomach.

You run your tongue over your teeth and tsk, shaking your head wondering how you ended up in this mess. Everything seems like it’s going to hell in a handbasket and all the government wants to do is tie your hands and everyone else’s in the search for Escobar.

You hate how it all keeps you up at night; the cat and mouse. For every inch you eked closer, Escobar always seemed to be a mile ahead. Even when he is right under your nose, he evades capture and disappears without so much as a trace of evidence.

You think too far too deeply about Pablo Escobar and you know it affects your work. How can the same man who built homes and schools for the poor of his hometown be the same man that would blow up a city street full of school children and their families a week before school starts? The thought of it keeps you awake at night because you genuinely cannot fathom how such a disconnect can exist in the human mind. He is a drug lord. A killer. A criminal. But he was also someone’s child, someone’s husband, someone’s father. Could he really justify all of this cruelty and malice? You wonder when enough stopped being enough for him. You wonder if a reality existed where he was just that, a man of the people. A family man. In another life, maybe he could’ve actually maintained a seat in the Colombian congress. In all his posturing and speech making, he really did exude all of the makings of a good politician that wanted to see a better and more prosperous Colombia. Instead, he became that which instilled fear in the hearts of those that called the great nation their home.

The clipped click of a lighter snaps you out of your own mind and the sounds of the bar pull you out from under the sea of thoughts you’d lost yourself in.

“Real sharp instincts there,” Javier jabs as he drags on the cigarette between his lips and settles into the seat beside you. “Glad I’m not a sicario. Getting the jump on you would be all too easy now, wouldn’t it?”

“Fuck off, Peña, I’m not in the mood.”

“What happened? Get in trouble with the ambassador or something?”

You direct a hard stare in his direction and that seems to speak for itself.

“It’s an adjustment for everyone. He’s definitely more of a tight ass, but he’ll get used to the way things operate down here. Give it time.”

You scoff. “Easy for you to say. All you and Murphy have to do is posture and dick swing your way into his good graces. It’s not that easy for me.”

The bartender nears your end of the bar and inclines his head towards Javier. He gestures towards the drink in your hand with his cigarette and says, “Lo mismo, por favor.”

With a drink now in hand, he turns towards you and levels his deep brown eyes on yours.

“Cut the crap.”

Your brow arches toward your hairline. “Excuse me?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as one side of his lips quirks up. “I’m not buying this ‘I’m-a-lady-so-I-have-to-work-twice-as-hard’ bullshit. You’re a damn good agent and that’s why you’re here with me and Murphy. Ambassador knows that. So, why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”

He takes a swig of his beer and swallows hard. Pointing the bottle at you he says, “and to be clear, I’m not swinging my dick around for anyone.” His eyes flicker over your face and a glint of mischief enters his gaze. “Unless they ask nicely of course.”

You drop your chin and shake your head. “Just when I thought you were being genuine.”

“Hey, I am genuine,” he protests. He pops the cigarette between his lips and grabs your shoulder, the warmth of his palm pressing through your jacket. “C’mon, what’s really eating you?”

You grab the bottle in front of you and swirl the pale liquid inside, forming a small tornado when you still your hand. “I just haven’t been sleeping, that’s all.”

Javier drops his hand from your shoulder to take the cigarette from his lips and blows out a puff of smoke, angling his mouth away from you but the acrid smell still manages to burn your nostrils.

“Those things will kill you, you know?”

Javier smirks and you hate how good it looks on his smug face. “We work in Bogotá. A lot of things can kill us.”

“No need to tempt fate.”

He moves from side to side as if weighing his options. “Cigarettes, alcohol, working too hard trying to prove ourselves that we don’t sleep at night…we all have our vices.” His eyes linger on yours and you suddenly feel vulnerable being called out like that.

“Consider the reasons I don’t sleep, Javi.” You drain the last of your beer and push the bottle away from you.

You press your hands against the edge of the bar, but before you can push yourself up and off of the barstool, Javier claps a hand over one of your wrists, stilling you.

“You can talk to me, you know?” The browns of his irises flicker as they bear into yours and the hollow pit in your stomach widens. You know you can talk to him. Steve too. It’s just hard to be too vulnerable down here though when there’s so much pressure coming down from all angles. If you even look like you might collapse under the weight of it all you’ll get rotated back to the States so quickly, you won’t even get the chance to say goodbye. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you and you can’t squander it. So, it stays easy to lock it down, despite the consequences.

So, you do just that and lock it down. Forcing a smile you know doesn’t reach your eyes, you shake off his hand and zip up your jacket. “I’m fine, Peña. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He presses his lips together, but doesn’t say anything more. He nods his head in farewell and you turn to leave.

You take two steps before your name rolls off of his tongue and you roll your eyes. “Peña, I’m—” The words die on your lips as you turn, eyes drifting past Javier to the pair on the motorcycle beyond the glass window that makes up the external wall of the bar. The man on the back of the motorcycle aims an automated weapon in Javier’s direction.

“Everybody get down!” You cry out as all hell breaks loose.

You’re airborne as the glass shatters and the explosive sounds of gunfire fill the space. You collide with a thick wall of muscle and hit the ground hard, covering your head with one arm and shielding his body with the other. The gunfire stops almost as soon as it had started and the sound of tires squealing on the pavement echoes off the street.

Patrons scream and cry out as they scramble over one another to evacuate the space. You roll onto your side and groan as shards of glass cut into your arms through the thin windbreaker you have on.

“Javier,” you groan as you reach for him. He’s moving so you know he’s alive. You lean over him and his shocked visage. “Javi, are you with me?”

He blinks hard out of whatever stupor he’s in and sits bolt upright. “Which direction did they go?” He turns his head to look over his shoulder and the gaping frame where shards of glass poke out of the windowsill like jagged teeth.

“They’re gone,” you say on an exhale. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head or anything when I tackled you?”

He breathes out a short laugh and you fear he might be in shock. “Did I hit my head? No, I didn’t—” He stops and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear away a fog. His brow pinches as he looks around at the damage. Tables and chairs are upended and cast aside. Broken bottles line the floor where they shattered upon impact off the shelves behind the bar and litter the ground. You’re surprised to find that, miraculously, no bodies littered the ground in the wake of the attack.

A hand cups your chin and you reflexively reach for the gun tucked into your waistband.

Peña raises his other hand in surrender. “I think you might’ve hit yours though.” His eyes shift just above your field of vision and that’s when you feel the hot sticky substance drip down onto your lashes. You raise a hand and touch it, surprised to find a smear of red staining your fingertips when you look at them.

“I think that’s just from the glass. It’s all in my jacket.”

Javier clambers to his feet and dusts off his jeans. Bits of glass hit the floor as it rattles off of his leather jacket, a much heartier material that you wish yours had been made from.

He extends a hand towards you and you take it, wincing as he pulls you to your feet. With a grunt, you tug the zipper down and shrug out of your jacket. There’s no saving the ripped and bloodied material so you drop it on the floor.

“Fuck, you’re hit.”

The words don’t register as Javi closes the gap between the two of you and the smell of cigarettes and cologne envelops you in a strange, yet almost comforting cloud of, well, Javier.

He scrubs a hand over his face as he hesitates to touch you. You hear him muttering to himself, but the words don’t quite register. Funny how a moment ago you were worried about him going into shock.

A sharp sting of pain brings you back to your senses as Javier presses a folded up bar towel to your shoulder. “Hold pressure on that,” he instructs. He turns and reaches back to take your hand in his. “Come on, I’ll get you out of here. I need to get you taken care of.”

And that’s how you find yourself in the passenger seat of Javier Peña’s Jeep with blood seeping through a dirty bar rag onto the upholstery of his passenger seat. At some point he reaches over you and retrieves the satellite phone from within the glove box to call in the attack.

“No, Murphy. I’m fine. She’s fine. Minor wounds it seems. No—no, don’t wake Connie. I’ve got a kit at my apartment. Yes, I’ll keep an eye on her. I’ve already called the Ambassador and Martinez. Yeah, yeah. Ok, goodnight. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

By the time he pulls into his garage, the adrenaline wears off and the sharp sting of pain in your shoulder becomes glaringly obvious. Javier gets out and moves to open the door for you. He places a supporting hand under your uninjured arm as you maneuver your way out of the car in the confined space. Your body brushes against the firm plane of his as you do and you don’t miss the way he stiffens in response.

“Let’s get you inside,” he murmurs and drops his hand to the small of your back to guide you towards the door.

His apartment is simple, built in the same style as yours and Murphy’s. They all share the same furniture and simple decorations, though yours doesn’t have quite the number of liquor bottles perched on various surfaces and vaguely remember what he’d mentioned about vices at the bar. The smells strongly of him, of his earthy cologne and cigarette smoke. You’ve grown used to it from sitting across from him at work for the last six months. There’s something oddly comforting about it even though the amount he and everyone else smokes bothers you to no end.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He says, gesturing toward the couch.

You do as he suggests and sit on the couch, only on the edge though. You don’t want to ruin the upholstery like you’d done with his car. Plus, you’re fairly certain there’s still small shards of glass embedded in the skin of your back and the idea of pressing those in any further makes you queasy.

Javi disappears into the bathroom, muttering expletives under his breath in English and in Spanish. He returns with a small red first aid kit, a couple of wash clothes, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

He climbs onto the couch and perches on the back of the sofa, his legs spread on either side of your body. “Hold these,” he says, and doesn’t wait to dump the items into your lap.

With gentle hands, he peels the bar rag up and off your shoulder. “Good,” he sighs. “Bleeding’s stopped. Let’s get you out of this shirt.”

You turn your head over your shoulder to look at him from beneath an arched brow and he immediately doubles back. “So we can clean this properly and make sure there isn’t any more glass. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Funny, I thought you liked it there.” Your lips curve into a wicked smile. “I know what you meant, but it is fun to watch you squirm.”

Javier shakes his head and you turn back around to pull your tank top up and over your head. You try to do it with one arm to avoid aggravating your shoulder, but the movement jostles the joint and you hiss between your teeth. Javi catches your hand as you try to pull it over the injury and takes over guiding it up and over the wound. He discards your tank top on the ground and sucks in a breath.

“What, Jav? You see women in their bras, or without them, all the time. Relax.”

“No, it’s not that. Wait, what—”

You smirk to yourself. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s just on second thought, I think we ought to move to the kitchen. There’s more light there and there’s still some glass stuck in and around where the bullet clipped you.”

He gently lays the towel back down over the open wound on your shoulder and you follow him to the kitchen and drop your keys and gun onto the counter before perching on one of the bar stools. He kicks the nearby waste paper basket next to the empty stool beside you and arranges the first aid items onto the counter, opening the kit and withdrawing gloves, tweezers, gauze pads, and roller bandages. He zips the kit shut, determining he has everything that he needs and places it in his lap as he sits down.

A strange silence settles over the two of you as he snaps on the pair of latex gloves and sets to work. He removes the soiled rag from your shoulder and drops it into the trash. The pinch and sting of him pulling glass from within and around your injuries dulls over time and you watch as the tiny pile of red stained shards grows on the counter next to you.

“You know there wouldn’t be so much of this if you hadn’t fallen directly on top of me.”

Javier scoffs. “You’re right. Next time we’re in a firefight, I’ll let you fall on me.” The tweezers lock on to another small shard and you grimace as he pulls it free. “I think that was the last one.”

He unscrews the plastic cap from the bottle of rubbing alcohol and soaks a washcloth with it. “This is probably going to hurt worse, but we gotta get this cleaned up.”

You nod. “I know, go ahead.”

When he’s cleaning the dried blood from off and around the skin, it just grazes over small cuts and scrapes that feels more annoying than anything else. It’s when he passes over the open wound in your shoulder that a curse slips past your lips and tears well in your eyes.

“Fucking shit, that hurts.”

“I know,” Javi says apologetically. “We definitely don’t want you to get any infection though.” He swipes the cloth over the injury three more times and just when you start to wonder if he’s a sadist, he finally declares he’s finished and drops the washcloth into the trash. The cool air blowing from the nearby AC unit dries the alcohol and relieves the burning sting. He replaces it with a fresh gauze pad and holds it in place with his left hand while his right works the roller bandage into position. He works quickly and quietly as he winds it around your shoulder and bicep. After securing a knot in the bandage, he sits back and nods affirmatively, content with the job he’s done.

“Now let me see your forehead. We oughta get that cleaned up as well while I’ve got you here.”

You’d almost forgotten about the cut above your eye with the adrenaline wearing off and the pain in your shoulder growing more severe. You reach up absentmindedly and brush your fingers against the now dried and flaking blood stuck in your eyebrow. Javi spills some alcohol onto a gauze pad and your breath catches when he touches the tips of his opposite hand beneath your chin to tilt it towards the overhead light.

He swipes at the dried blood and scrubs it free from your eyebrow. When he passes over the shallow cut, you wince and he apologizes. When it’s clean, he peels open the wrapper on a butterfly bandage and uses the tips of his fingers to try to place it so it’ll pull the cut closed. A small smile tugs at your lips as you watch him press his tongue to his bottom lip as his fingers tremble ever so slightly as he makes sure the small ends of the bandage don’t tear.

“There,” he whispers when he’s sure it’ll stay put. His face is so close to yours and the breath catches in your throat when his eyes drop to yours. “Just like new.”

Time slows to an absolute standstill and you feel yourself inextricably drawn to him, as if there’s some tether pulling you towards him and you really start to wonder if you did hit your head harder than you thought in the chaos because you’re pretty sure he’s also leaning in towards you, which would be crazy because he’s your coworker, but he’s also tilting his head and his face is incredibly close to yours…

Reality snaps back into place like a rubber band against skin when the first aid kit resting on his thighs clatters to the ground. You immediately pull away and drop down off of the stool to pick it up and Javier immediately chastises you doing so.

“Dammit!” He curses and your name sounds sharp on his tongue. “You’ve barely stopped bleeding, don’t jerk yourself around like that.” He snatches the first aid kit from you and splays a hand under your elbow to pull you back up to a standing position. He tosses the kit onto the counter and stalks off into the living room leaving you at the bar wondering what the hell is driving this one-eighty in behavior as he paces back and forth across the carpet.

“Damn, Peña. I’m not going to bleed out on your kitchen floor.” You smirk. “Your jeep, maybe,” you suggest, trying to make light of the sudden tension in the room.

Javier either doesn’t or chooses not to hear you. He loops his thumb through one of his belt loops as he shakes his head and mutters under his breath. “I don’t need this right now.”

Your brow pinches and you hate the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You shuffle your weight from foot to foot and suddenly feel like you’re taking up too much space in the small apartment as he increases the space between you and him. This errant behavior is giving you more whiplash than when you’d taken him to the ground and you’re about to call him out on it, when, without another word, he turns and ducks into his room.

Irritation quickly replaces whatever vulnerability you’d just been feeling. “What the hell does that mean?” You ask, your words clipped and demanding. You walk towards the sounds of him rummaging around inside drawers and come to an abrupt halt as he strides out of his bedroom and presses a ball of fabric into your chest. “This,” he says by way of explanation and takes a dramatic step away from you.

“And by this you mean what exactly?” You know exactly what the this in question is, but you want to hear him say it. Frankly, you’re just as surprised by whatever just happened between you and him, but you’ve worked with each other long enough now to know when the other is severely bullshitting their way through a situation and you have no intention of letting him get away with it.

The smell of his detergent wafts up around you from the shirt in your hands and you take the opportunity to try to awkwardly shrug into it without aggravating the freshly dressed wound. It’s hard to start an argument and be taken seriously when you’re standing toe to toe with someone and you’ve only got on jeans and a black lace bra after all.

As you fumble with the buttons on his shirt, he takes a resigned step backwards and collapses onto the couch. He gestures vaguely at the space between the two of you. His voice is softer when he speaks, tired. “All of this. God.” He runs a hand through his hair and falls back into the cushions. “You,” he says, eyes briefly meeting yours and then at the ceiling.

Your fingers pause mid-fastening. “What about me?”

Javier shakes his head. A wry smile pulls at his lips, rife with disbelief, and it fades as quickly as it comes. “You nearly died tonight.”

You arch a brow and direct a knowing look at him. “Javi, not sure if you were paying attention but we both nearly died tonight. I mean, things moved a little quickly for me to break out my calculator and add shit up, but I don’t think all 30 or 40 of those rounds were meant just for me. I think they were aimed at both DEA agents and they didn’t give a fuck who else got caught in the crossfire.”

“That’s not the point,” he responds resolutely.

“Then tell me what is.”

He doesn’t answer, but sits up and pulls the half crushed pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and slips one between his teeth. As he rolls his thumb over his lighter, you feel your already short fuse ignite. Without giving it a second thought you step forward and snatch the cigarette from between his lips.

“Hey!” He protests, nostrils flaring.

You snap the stick of tobacco in front of him and toss it to the floor. “Enough of the theaterics, Peña.” You stare directly into his eyes, refusing to let him get away with ignoring you. “Quit bullshitting me and tell me what’s really on your mind.”

The sound of the wall clock ticking fills the space and the silence is unbearable, but you refuse to be the first to break. Fifteen more uncomfortably strained seconds tick by before he drops his gaze to the floor and scrubs a hand over his face with a heavy sigh.

He slides over on the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “Sit down, will you?”

You do as he asks and situate yourself at an angle towards him with one leg pulled up across your lap.

“Here,” Javi says as he pulls a throw pillow out from behind him and wedges it gently between you and the couch. “I don’t want you to go and tear open anything I got closed.”

You huff out a quiet laugh and thank him, glancing down at his haphazardly buttoned shirt you’ve got on. You notice you’ve completely misaligned what you’d managed to fasten. Ignoring that for now, you kick at his shin and incline your head towards him. “You done with all the tough guy shit?”

Javier presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what happened. I just—”

“Just what?”

He lifts his eyes to yours and you watch the way his coffee colored irises flicker in the lamplight. “There's just some lines you shouldn’t cross.”

“This is Bogotá,” you say, mirroring his words from earlier. “There’s a lot of lines we shouldn’t cross.”

“I’m serious,” he responds brusquely, eyes darkening as he shuts you out once more.

You sit up straighter, undeterred by his obvious attempts to push you away. “Yeah, well tough shit, so am I.”

The way he speaks your name is laced with frustration and uncertainty. He’s holding back and your own frustration mounts. You’re tired, you’re in pain, and frankly, now you’re just feeling plain stupid. You’d heard rumors of Javier’s extracurricular activities with women. Did you really want to be another notch in his bedpost?

You let out a low, wry chuckle and shake your head. “You know what, Javier?” You push yourself up and off the couch, wincing as you do so, and look down at him. “Give me a call if you figure out what side of the line you stand on.”

You turn and swiftly move towards the door, swiping your keys and gun off of the counter as you do so. You use your good arm to shove your sidearm into the back of your jeans and unlock the deadbolt on Javier’s front door.

You’ve barely pushed the door open when Javier appears at your side and yanks it closed. Before you can protest, he pushes you up against the door and presses his lips to yours in a devastatingly desperate kiss.

You can’t control the moan that rushes from your mouth into his as you kiss him back. He tastes like mint and menthols and you suddenly can’t remember why you hate the smell of cigarettes so much. The cuts along your back and shoulder blades sting as the wood rubs up against the shirt Javier gave you, but with his hands pressed against the expanse of wall on either side of your face, you decide it’s bearable.

That is until you reach up unthinkingly to tangle your hand into his hair and a sharp sting of pain reverberates from your shoulder all the way down to your fingertips.

Javi abruptly breaks off the kiss and his eyes flicker across your face, shining with concern. “Fuck, I’m sorry! I just got caught up in the moment. Did I hurt you?”

You place a placating hand against his chest and feel the erratic beating under your palm. “I’m fine, Jav. Really.”

He licks his lips and you already miss the way they felt against yours. He presses them together and nods. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo. “I guess I should head home though, get some rest. God knows the ambassador is going to want a report on all of this.”

“You got shot, the ambassador can get fucked.”

“Fucked, is what we’re both going to be if we can’t figure out who targeted us.” You sigh and shake off the thought. “I better get going. It’s late.”

Javier stops you from turning to leave. “You’re not walking home alone this late at night.”

“It’s down the street, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not walking alone.”

“Then walk me home. Your strong male aura will keep danger at a bay,” you add sarcastically.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what do you suppose I do?”

“Simple, stay here. I’ll drive you home in the morning.”

“And sit on all that blood? No thanks.”

“Okay fine, I’ll walk you home in the morning.”

You consider the implications of that and choose the safest route. “S’pose I could sleep on the couch.”

Javier shakes his head. “I’m not gonna make you sleep on the fucking couch. You’ll sleep in my bed.”

“And you’ll sleep where?”

“Next to you,” he says smoothly. “If you’ll let me.”

You arch a brow. “And we’ll just…sleep?”

Javi shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and shrugs his shoulders, his smile smug. “Tonight, yes.” He steps forward and takes a hand from his pocket to cup your face gently in his wide palm. He places a tender kiss upon your lips. “Tomorrow night might be a different story.”

“I think I’d be quite interested in reading that,” you respond playfully.

“It’s different than what I’m used to,” Javier says and then adds, “but I think change might not be a bad thing.”

You give him a once over and nod. “I think you’re right about that.”

He smiles, somewhat sheepishly, as he says, “I’m sorry for being such a dick.”

The corner of your mouth quirks as you shrug your good shoulder. “I’m not sorry I pushed your buttons like that. It’s about time you open up and actually let yourself feel your feelings.”

He rubs his thumb across your bottom lip and then drops his hand to curve around your hip and rest on the small of your back. “Let’s get some sleep, huh?”

And that’s how you find yourself lying in bed next to Javier Peña of all people, wearing his shirt to sleep while he snores softly beside you; and you can’t help but wonder how many things had to happen for you to end up here at this moment. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you in against the steady warmth of his skin and you find that you quite like the way you fit so perfectly against the crook of his body.

In the comfort of his arms, you drift off into an uninterrupted sleep and for the first time since you can’t remember when you don’t dream of Pablo Escobar.

[hotchscoffeecup]

#toberead

𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒍, aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner x fem!reader (906 words)

in which you get a necklace with aaron’s initial and he’s absolutely whipped for you <3

warnings: none, clingy hotch :)

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

One of your hands holds the generous amount of shopping bags, the other moves to unlock the door. You open it slowly, in case Jack's already asleep. It's just after dinner time but after all the plans Aaron and him had for today, you know he's probably fast asleep in his bed by now.

"Aaron?" You call out gently as you take off your shoes, immediately hearing his footsteps approaching. He appears seconds later, towel draped over his shoulder from doing the dishes.

"Hey, honey. How was shopping with the girls?" He asks with a small smile, leaning over to peck your lips before taking the bags from you and setting them down on the coffee table.

"Pretty good, got everything i needed to get. I also bought Jack a shirt." In your defence, it had a picture of his latest cartoon obsession. How could you resist it?

"You didn't have to." He takes a step towards you and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I disagree." You retort, though you know he doesn't mind you buying thing for Jack. He's not your own, but he's your boy nevertheless. "Is he asleep?"

"Yeah, just put him to bed." Aaron moves to hold your face, leaving kisses all over you forehead. Barely getting to see you on his weekend off feels like some kind of torture and he has plans to not leave your side until Monday.

"Hm, can i go give him a goodnight kiss? Wanna leave his new shirt there so he wakes up to a surprise." You smile eagerly, chuckling at his false annoyed groan.

"Sure, hun. I'll finish the dishes and meet you upstairs." He answers, giving your back a soft tap as you rush to pick up the bag and run upstairs.

You pad into Jack's bedroom, kneeling besides his bed to kiss his forehead gently. Setting the bag at the end of his bed, you leave the room as silently as you came in.

You head to the bedroom that by now is just as yours as it's Hotch's. Gathering one of his shirts before entering the bathroom to get ready for bed.

When you come out, you're met with the sight of Aaron in only a shirt and boxers. Sitting against the headboard of the bed as he waits for you.

"How was your day?" You move under the covers to get comfortable while he starts listing all the activities him and Jack did today.

His hands move to massage your sore legs and you can't help but smile at his thoughtfulness. But they come to a stop once his gaze falls on the gold necklace peaking out from your shirt. He hooks a finger around it, pulling it out from it's hiding place.

Aaron eyes you curiously as it is now completely visible, a small 'A' adorning the middle of the necklace.

"What's this?" He asks, the answer quite evident but he can't get himself to believe it. He looks at you lovingly, brown eyes contrasting with yellow light and making your heart race.

"Oh, i saw it at store and it was too pretty not to get. Besides, you're a part of me and i wanted people to know it." You answer almost sheepishly, fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. "It's also waterproof so i never have to take it off."

Aaron swears his heart might jump out of his chest. He knows you love him, he just didn't know it was this loudly. He hopes you never stop doing it.

He wonders what the best reaction to this would be, but he can't get himself to think about it too much before he's tugging you closer. Lips pressing against yours in a gentle kiss.

"I'll get one with yours." He mumbles a bit too seriously and you can't help but laugh.

"You don't wear necklaces, Aaron." You hold his face gently, making sure he knows you appreciate the suggestion anyway. You don't need him to get one too, you're content like this.

Aaron hums with a thoughtful expression, "I'll get it engraved on my watch then." He insists and you have to hold back another laugh at the way he raises his eyebrows trying to persuade you.

"Aaron." You try to sound stern but it's prove quite impossible when he kisses your cheek over and over again.

"How about on my handkerchief?"

"Please don't. We'll be looking like an old married couple." You tease with an affectionate smile.

"We could be." His answer is way more sweet than you expected it to be, heat rushing to your cheeks. He smiles at that and pulls you impossibly closer.

"Are you proposing, Hotchner?" You tease further, though your heart is beating wildly in your chest. He's way too nice.

"You think lowly of me." He plays along, his own smile never leaving his face.

Silence falls over you two for a moment and you take advantage of it to lay your head against his chest, relaxing at the sound of his heart beating against your ear.

"Thank you, seriously." Aaron mutters with a gentle squeeze on your shoulder and kiss against your hair.

"Don't bother." Your words come out a bit slurred, sleep starting to evade you. "Love you."

"I love you." He pulls the covers up to your shoulders. He makes note to start looking for rings before his own eyes fall shut.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

love you,

cat 🤍

[hotchscoffeecup]

"Okay, I'm all these things. But none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don't."

[hotchscoffeecup]

[hotchscoffeecup]

The BAU on a road trip:

GARCIA: the iPad kid who insists on playing her specially curated playlist the entire trip.

SPENCER: constantly suggests I-spy, and tells random facts about each state they pass through. He and Garcia bicker about her hogging the aux - he has some great books on tape!

JJ: snacking the whole time and getting Cheeto dust literally everywhere.

EMILY: switches between falling asleep on peoples’ shoulders and stabbing people in the ribs with her elbows because she cannot sit still.

ELLE & MORGAN: spend the whole trip trading stories from the club, and suggest stopping at every single roadside attraction.

HOTCH: At the wheel, mediating arguments between the CHILDREN in the backseat.

GIDEON: backseat driving, driving Hotch nuts because he insists his paper map is more accurate than the GPS.

BONUS - Elle and Hotch argue the entire time, and Morgan passes some of JJ’s snacks back to Garcia so she doesn’t fall down an internet hole and forget to eat. Hotch secretly loves all the Spice Girls songs on Garcia’s playlist.

Check out my Masterlist for more BAU scenarios.

[hotchscoffeecup]

Hello! i hope youre ok ❤️ I was thinking about a Hotch x Reader based on that episode after Emily's "death" (6x20) when Hotch makes assessments about how they are after that event... Reader and Emily were best friends and she's the one who's hurting the most, so when Hotch gives her assessment she cries and kind of says she doesn't want to live without her anymore, so he comforts her... I'm sorry for being specific, I really grieved her death lmao

i have a fic similar to this: how do we carry on? the premise is a little different, but i’d check it out! i could probably work out a short more angsty sitting in his office talking on the couch sort of scene tho too with a lot more comfort. how do we carry on? is hurt no comfort

[hotchscoffeecup]

savoring the moment

summary: it’s hotch’s first case back after recovering from being attacked. he returns home to find you caught in the throes of a panic attack. he guides you through it and takes care of you afterwards.

rating: t to be safe

tags: panic attack, hyperventilating, crying, minor blood, implied sex (at the very end), scars

word count: 2.3k

pairing: hotch x reader

the idea to have reader having a panic attack and being comforted by hotch was submitted to me anonymously. thank you for the request! and as a reminder, my fic requests are open!

Pulling your knees against your chest, you wrap your arms around them and rest your forehead against your knees.

“He’s okay,” you tell yourself, repeating it like a mantra. “He’s okay. He’s okay.”

Rain patters against the windowpane and you try to focus on the sound, trying to let it ground you back to reality and failing to do so as the pounding of your own heart threatens to drown out the sound of everything else around you.

These are the early onset symptoms of a panic attack and you know it’s only a matter of time until it hits you with the full force of a storm like the one that’s raging outside. They’d been far and few between lately, but this was his first case back in the field since he’d been attacked and you can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen. You know the risks, and you know he’s capable of keeping himself safe. The team always has each other’s backs and they’ll do anything to keep one another safe. Why hasn’t he called?

You take in a shuddering breath and exhale it just as shakily. Your hands tremble as you swipe them through your hair.

Water. Maybe a glass of water will help. You slide out of bed and stand. The blood rushes to your head, which causes you to waver on the spot.

“He’s okay,” you whisper to yourself. You clench the hem of your sweater, rubbing the fibers between your fingers. “Five things I can see,” you whisper to yourself as you move towards the bathroom. As you reach for the empty glass on the bathroom counter, you take a shaky breath and speak on the exhale. “Counter, cup, mirror,” your eyes flick up and meet yours, the purple rings under them more like bruises. “Myself, sink.”

You take another breath and try to keep moving through the exercise that your therapist taught you. Twisting the knob on the faucet, you place the glass underneath and watch it fill. “Four…four things I can hear.” You struggle to turn the water off for the shaking in your hands. “Rain, the air conditioner…” you pause and try to strain your ears, failing to pick up on any other distinct noises. That’s when you become aware of your racing heartbeat again. It’s so fast; slamming up against your ribcage. You envision the organ bursting free of your chest and your hands start to shake so violently that you drop the glass. It shatters against the bathroom tile and you gasp, cursing as you kneel down to pick up the pieces.

You try to be careful, but your hand slips and a shard of glass slices into your palm. Immediately, you clutch your hand with the other and roll onto your hip. As you watch the blood drip between your fingers, a vision of his blood staining the hardwood flashes in your mind’s eye and suddenly you’re back in the hospital waiting room waiting for him to come out of surgery. The dam bursts then and you can’t fight the monster inside of you that is the anxiety. It bites and claws at your insides until it bursts free from you in an explosion of tears and guttural sobs. You struggle to take in a full breath as you begin to hyperventilate. You’re not sure how long you sit there feeling wave after wave of panic crashing over you, holding you under and dragging you further and further away from yourself, lost in the throes of an aggressive undertow. Your vision starts to blacken around the corners and you don’t even register the hands on your shoulders or the man kneeling in front of you.

Your pupils rapidly dart back and forth, desperately trying to make sense of your surroundings but all you can make out is your name. It's faint and faraway, like a ghost whispering on a midnight wind.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to focus on the sound of your name until it becomes clearer. It’s Aaron.

Aaron. Aaron. Your partner. Your fiance. Aaron, yes, Aaron. You swallow hard and open your eyes, vision blurring momentarily before clearing. He’s on his knees in front of you, brown eyes warm albeit concerned. He’s holding a rag against your bloody hand. He applies pressure to the wound to stem the bleeding and the pain oddly brings you closer to baseline. It’s something real and tangible you can hold onto as the panic tries to pull you back under.

“Honey, breathe,” Hotch prompts. “Listen to my voice. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You reach for him, cupping his cheek in your uninjured hand. Stroking your thumb against the cut of his jaw, you find solace in the depths of his eyes. It’s him. It’s really him. Your lip quivers and you fall into him. His name rattles out of your mouth as you collapse into him. You throw your arms around him and sob into the crook of his neck, the familiar scent of his cologne washing over you.

“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing his hand in circles against your back. “Deep breaths,” he says and you feel him inhale beneath you. He exhales and inhales again, modeling the pattern you need to follow to reach baseline.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “You didn’t call. I was—” You breathe in and release a shaky breath. “I was so afraid that—”

Hotch cradles you against him, one arm looped around your waist while his opposite hand tangles into your hair to hold you close. “My phone died. I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.” He guides you through several more long deep breaths and your temples pound from the dehydration that comes with crying from a place so deep inside yourself.

As your heart rate finally drops back down to normal, the weight of exhaustion slams into you and you feel it dragging at all of your bones leaving all of your limbs feeling leaden.

“Why don’t you take a shower with me, hmm?” Hotch asks gently.

You nod against his chest, feeling the sticky sheen of tears wetting your cheeks. He helps you up and helps you sit on top of the closed toilet seat. He cranks on the shower and disappears out of the room for only a second before returning with a small broom and dustpan. Steam is billowing out from behind the shower curtain by the time he finishes cleaning up the broken glass. He helps you shrug out of your sweater and while he undoes his tie and dress shirt, you shimmy out of your sweatpants. When you step under the steady stream of hot water, you hiss as it stings the open cut in your palm. Blood washes down your hand, swirling down the drain in diluted pink rivulets.

Hotch joins you in the shower, stepping behind you to let you enjoy as much of the warm water as possible. “Let me help,” he says, taking your hand in his. After lathering the soap bar in his hand, he gently cleans the inflamed area. You wince and he apologizes, “I know it hurts.” He rinses your hand and leans out of the shower to grab another washcloth off of the rack. He presses it into your hand and softly instructs you to hold pressure to it.

You laugh weakly, “Aaron, I’m going to ruin all the washcloths.”

He bends down and kisses your forehead. “I’ll buy more. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He turns you around and presses himself against your back, threading his arms through yours and holding you close to him. You just stand like that, under the steady flow of warm water.. You close your eyes and lean back against his chest. Aaron hums and rocks you gently.

“I love you,” you murmur after a while.

You feel him smile against your hairline. “I love you, too.”

You turn then, holding your injured hand over his shoulder out of the stream of water while your other splays against his chest. You feel the raised scar tissue under your hand, bumpy and rough. Your eyes trail down the length of his torso, identifying each scar. Hotch places his fingertips beneath your chin, tilting your face up so that you can look at him. His features are relaxed, his gaze steady. “Honey,” he says, almost sternly. “I’m okay.”

You nod, “I know that.”

“Then let me help you be okay, hmm? Does that sound alright?”

Again, you nod.

He spends the next fifteen minutes taking careful care to wash and condition your hair, massaging your scalp and combing through your hair before rinsing it out. He lathers soap against your skin after, using the palms of his hands to smooth it over every curve and fold of your body; littering kisses across your skin as he does so. For himself, he takes very little time; just a quick scrub and wash of his hair before he cranks the water off.

He wraps you in a fluffy towel before wrapping one around his waist. He dips into your shared bedroom and returns moments later with your robe and the first aid kit you keep in the hall closet. You finish towel drying your hair before letting him help you into your robe, which he loosely ties around your waist. You sit on the edge of your bed and let Hotch work on your hand.

“The bleeding stopped, that’s good” He observes after peeling away the wash cloth. He applies a small bit of antibiotic gel across the length of the cut and places a fresh gauze pad against it, which he then secures by wrapping a roller bandage around your palm and wrist.

“Have you ever thought about quitting the BAU and becoming a paramedic?”

Aaron breathes out a laugh as he tucks the tail end of the bandage in. “Definitely not.”

You pout, sticking out your lower lip. “But you’d look so sexy in that uniform.”

He laughs and shakes his head before placing a quick peck against your cheek. “There’s that sense of humor I love so much.”

He stands and discards the soiled rag and paper wrappings in the bathroom trash can. He washes his hands and uses the towel around his waist to dry them. He puts on a pair of sweats, the words FBI ACADEMY faded and worn running down the one leg.

“How does tea and ice cream sound?”

You smile, and for the first time that evening it feels genuine. “That sounds perfect.”

While he busies himself out in the kitchen, you tie your hair up in a loose knot on top of your head and finish your skincare routine.

As you’re crawling under the covers, Aaron enters the room. He’s cradling two bowls against his chest with one arm while he holds two steaming mugs by their handles in the opposite hand. He crouches awkwardly by the bed, safely placing the bowls of ice cream on the nightstand. He rises to his full height and passes the mug to you.

“Sleepy time tea?” you ask, recognizing the smell.

“I felt like you could use the extra help tonight.”

He tosses the covers back and climbs into bed beside you, placing his own mug down on the nightstand. He lets you take a sip before he takes your cup and sets it beside his.

Taking your hands in his, he strokes his thumb along the back of your uninjured hand. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am now that you’re home.”

His eyebrows turn, “Honey, I can take some vacation time. I know you’ve been doing better since my attack, but it makes sense that my return to work would serve as a trigger and—”

“Aaron,” you chide. “You’re profiling me.”

He presses his lips together and smiles apologetically. “All I’m saying is if my going back right now is too much for you, I can try to limit my presence in the field.”

You eye him knowingly, “Yeah, because that worked so well when your ear was damaged in that explosion.” Your brow pinches as you regard your fiance. “Well, that’s not something every couple can say, huh?”

Aaron chuckles and stretches an arm around your shoulders, drawing you in close to his side. “Definitely not, but nothing about our relationship has ever been normal, has it?”

You lean into him and press a kiss against his jaw. “I’ll be okay, Aaron, really. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a panic attack like that. I think it was just because it was your first case back since…” You hesitate. “…the incident.” You reach over him and grab the two bowls of ice cream off of his nightstand, handing one to him before settling back against the pillows.

You dig your spoon into the vanilla ice cream, stirring it some before taking a bite. You close your eyes and savor its sweetness.

“Are you sure?” Aaron asks.

You open your eyes and look up at him from beneath your lashes. “I’m sure. I’m working with my therapist. I’m coping. I’m taking it day by day, just like I know you are.”

“One day at a time.” He leans down and kisses you softly. “Mmm, you taste like vanilla.”

You smile against his lips. “My therapist did advise us to prioritize living in the present moment.

He sets his bowl of ice cream aside and loops his arms around your waist, heaving you onto his lap. “Did they now?”

You laugh and feel it deep in your belly, the panic you’d felt earlier seeming so far away now. “And how do you suppose we do that?”

He pulls at the tie on your robe. “Oh, I bet I can think of something.”

You dip your spoon back into your bowl of ice cream, an idea of your own coming to mind. “You said you like the taste of vanilla?” You slip the spoon between your lips, amusement glinting in your eyes.

Aaron nods, taking the bowl from your hands and capturing your lips with his. As his hands fold around your body, you feel him smile against your lips. “I love the taste of vanilla.”

And you’ve never felt safer than in his arms right then, savoring the moment.