#aaron hotchner x reader

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[simpforrooster]

i fucking knew it.

aaron hotchner x f!reader

summary: you and aaron have secretly been dating for a while—and the team is starting to suspect it.

t/w: 18+. MDNI. light smut (plz don’t come for me, it was my first time writing something like it), a mention of an age-gap, some cursing, mentions of criminals. i don’t think there is too much gender identifying language, but i did imagine a female while writing.

a/n: i had no idea where this one was gonna go. i hope you enjoy!!

aaron hotchner catches your gaze over the manila folder he’s holding. to the average person, they wouldn’t think twice about this action.

but, you know better.

his eyes hold yours for a few seconds longer, before he resumes reading the details of the case.

the lowlights of the jet’s interior mask the flush that’s appeared on your cheeks. hotch feigns a stretch, his shoe tapping yours slightly as he crosses his leg.

“sorry,” he mumbles, not taking his eyes off the folder.

you wave him off, knowing your voice would betray you.

i saw that, your phone buzzes with a text from jj.

it was an accident, you reply.

yeah right, emily shares.

what! what’s happening? gosh, i hate that i’m stuck in the lair, penelope adds.

hotch smirks at his folder, affirming he knows exactly why your phone is blowing up.

the two of you have managed to keep your relationship under wraps for the past couple of months, but the girls have started to suspect something. rossi too, but you can’t be certain.

aaron caught your eye as soon as you started at the bau. you’d learn that you’d caught his almost instantly. but he was your boss, and there was the age difference.

several late nights of him helping you with your reports and chinese takeout, you fell for one another.

oh, nothing. just hotch thinking he’s being subtle, jj tells penelope.

~

“three rooms?” hotch asks the tired man behind the desk.

“take it or leave it, man. it’s 2 am,” the clerk says on a yawn.

“i call reid and rossi!” derek sticks his hand in the air. emily reaches out to jj’s arm and pulls her into her side.

rossi shakes his head and exchanges a look with aaron. “which one of you boys are sleeping on the floor?”

hotch looks at you apologetically, but you see the underlying want behind those brown eyes.

“i guess that leaves us,” hotch murmurs to his bag, trying to remain unbothered. he grabs your duffle and starts toward the elevator.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

one bedroom trope! emily sends to the group.

epee! penelope replies.

he grabbed her bag, pen! jj shares.

aaron has never once carried anyone’s bag to a hotel room. his gaze catches yours over his shoulder telling you he realizes the implications. his stoic expression returns as you all enter the elevator.

~

the girls, reid, morgan, and rossi get off at the third floor, leaving you and aaron in the elevator alone. not before jj shoots you a wink. hotch visibly relaxes, and gives you one of those smiles he reserves only for you and jack.

"we're on another floor? that's really going to set the girls off," you comment. aaron shrugs like the duffle bag gave it all away and yall should just fuck the secrecy. he takes a step closer to you. back-to-back cases have kept the two of you from any quality time that wasn't outside of a police precinct and the tension radiates off him.

aaron leads you down the hall once the elevator doors open on the fourth floor. his giant hand engulfs yours, and you can't wait to get into the room.

"this is us," he gestures toward the door. dropping your hand, he pulls the keycard from his pocket. swiping y'all in, he pulls you into the room.

as soon as the door closes behind you, you're being pushed against it.

"god, I've been dying to get my hands on your for days," hotch groans against your mouth. you answer him with a small moan you tried to keep in.

you push his suit jacket off his shoulders, then grip his tie. using his tie, you pull him completely flush against you. his tall body is all over you. there is no spot where his body isn't touching yours.

“tell the criminals to take a break,” you breathe. “you almost blew it at the precinct in the last case.”

aaron moves his kisses along the side of your neck. “that officer was getting a little too friendly with you.”

“but a couple hair flips had him on our side, yeah?” you’re breathless with the work aaron is making of your neck. at the mention of your harmless flirting, his arms tighten possessively around you. his mouth moves lower along your collarbone, sucking lightly. he’s learned where most of your shirt collars lie so he can hide the marks he leaves on you.

aaron pulls you from the door, kissing you like you’re his lifeline. he walks you back until the back of your knees hit the bed. “no more work talk, baby,” he says against your mouth. heat pulls in your lower belly at the pet name and a sigh escapes.

the first time aaron called you anything but your last name, you could have climbed him right then. he still uses your last name, or just agent, in the field, but it’s softer than it used to be.

as aaron pushes you back on the bed, you make quick work removing his tie and dress shirt. the white shirt he wears underneath pulls across his chest. your arms move over his biceps reveling in just how nice they are.

“you like what you see?” aaron smirks, his hand slipping under your top.

you answer him with a hand on his chin, guiding him to your lips. “always,” you breathe.

he smiles against your lips. “why don’t we get you a little more comfortable,” he says, pulling your top off and throwing it to the other side of the room. you’re pretty sure it lands on the lamp. this earns a laugh. aaron checks over his shoulder and chuckles along with you.

“i told you, i need to get my hands on you.” he reaches behind you, unclasping your bra. which follows the same trajectory as your shirt.

“hmm, this isn’t quite fair,” you murmur. you push aaron back until you’re sitting up in his lap. your thighs settle on either side of his, and his hands fall to them, giving them a light squeeze.

“tell me.”

“you still have your shirt on,” you tell him, running your hands along his chest. aaron reaches back with one hand and pulls the undershirt from his body. it’s so insanely sexy, your mouth drops open. how is this guy real?

aaron chuckles again. “you never cease to amaze me.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re practically an adonis.”

he rolls his eyes and pulls you flush against him. “you’re talkative tonight.” he presses a kiss under your ear. you crane your neck to give him more access.

“i always talk a lot when i’m nervous,” you admit. truthfully, there is nothing to be nervous about. you and aaron have slept together plenty of times since you’ve gotten together. this is, however, the first time while you’re on a case.

aaron pulls back and studies your face. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, baby.” his brown eyes search yours. the want in his is palpable. you’re certain the same is reflected in yours. your hands knot in his hair and you guide his mouth to yours.

“no, i want to. i need to,” you say, rolling your hips into his, his erection has your cheeks flushing. “i just still can’t believe it’s happening. you and me,” you admit.

aaron kisses you. it’s full of wanting and urgency, as if he’s afraid you’re going to disappear right beneath his fingertips.

“you and me were destined the moment i laid eyes on you,” he says, laying you back and settling between your legs.

~

the next morning, there is just enough time to grab some continental breakfast before meeting the local pd. normally, you don’t like to waste time on something as menial as breakfast, especially with a serial killer on the loose, but you and aaron had a lot of time to make up for and you’d built up quite the appetite.

you left aaron with a chaste kiss on his cheek in the room, before joining everyone in the lobby sans duffle.

“well, you’re glowing,” jj comments as you join her and emily at the table. derek turns from where he’s sitting with rossi and reid. “what’s that?”

emily points to you with her fork. “look at her. a literal ray of sunshine.”

“she looks normal to me,” reid comments. “if not a little worn down. are you feeling okay, y/l/n?” your eyes fall closed, trying to keep your emotions regulated.

“that, reid, is post-coital bliss,” derek says.

“yall have no idea what you’re talking about,” you tell them, praying your cheeks haven’t turned pink, because they’re exactly right.

rossi jumps in to save you. “come on boys and girls. let’s not make claims of our unit chief breaking fraternization rules on a case unless we’re sure,” he chides. he gives you a knowing look. aaron has definitely let rossi know what’s been going on. hell, if you didn’t know any better, rossi was probably the one who pushed aaron to finally make a move. you shoot him a grateful look.

“who’s breaking fraternization rules?” a deep voice sounds from behind you. just the sound of his voice has you wanting to drag him back up to the room. “baby, you’ve got to have more than that,” aaron comments on your lone piece of toast.

your face jerks towards him at baby. aaron curses lightly under his breath. a rare slip up from mr. professional himself. he stands there with both your duffels in his hands, his shoulder slumped in defeat.

derek smacks the table, cause the front desk workers to look over. “i fucking knew it!!”

your head falls into your hands. aaron’s laugh reverberates through the lobby. his real, earnest laugh. “well, i did good for a while there, huh, babe?” he says to you. leaning back in your chair, you tilt your head back to see him. the grin on his face could cause world peace. it’s not everyday the team gets to see aaron’s real emotions.

“you did,” you agree. he leans down and places a quick kiss on your lips before walking over to the desk to turn the room keys in.

as you reface the girls, their eyes are sparkling.

“i fucking knew it,” emily echos derek under her breath.

masterlist.

[ssahotchnerr]

I remember reading somewhere that the first time most men get flowers is at their funeral and I think Aaron would have the sweetest, most flustered reaction to receiving flowers from his girl who just read that same fact and he asks why and she’s just like “I wanted you to know what it feels like to get flowers just because!”

AWWWW you're sooo right 🥹💓🥰

i can just see aaron coming home, seeing flowers on the table and at first he's taken slightly aback - his first thought being ??? who got you flowers 🤨 because it wasn't him, does he have competition??? and now he has to go out and get you two bouquets of flowers 😭 LOL. or of course there's the possibility you got them to have in the house.

you heard the sounds of his arrival; you hurry to him, throw your arms around him and give him his usual welcome home kiss 🥰🥰🥰 but after you pull away though, he grabs you again and gives you another - slightly more aggressive than usual because again he thinks another man is trying to gain your attention 😭

after, he tilts his head towards the flowers, still keeping you in his grasp and asks, "what are those from?" you just look at him all sweetly, and a bit flustered from the kiss yourself, tell him "i got them for you🥹"

aaron's sooo adorably confused. his eyebrows crinkle up, a light blush hits his cheeks, a breathless laugh leaves him and just goes what? why?? and you tell him 🥹 you love and appreciate him, he does so much for you and others, so you just wanted to show him your gratitude. PLUS you add in how he always gets you flowers, so you wanted him to know how it feels. and, this won't be the last time he receives them 🥰

THE WAYYYYYYYY his eyes just soften. he's gazing at you soooo lovingly and is all "sweetheart, you didn't need to do that." you press your lips to his again, and state you wanted to 🥹 hehe aaron's a bit lost for words - a tad overwhelmed and in disbelief of how it's possible to love someone so much - god he loves you. aaron smiles gently, kisses you again and thanks you <33333 that he appreciates the gesture and he's incredibly lucky to have someone like you.

LMAO he does share his initial thought of how at first he was like, 🤨 who do i need to have a talk with 😭😭😭😭 and you assure him, you're all entirely his 💖💓💝

[ssapascal]

me rn, struggling to the ends of the earth

the first draft won’t kill you. it will just chew you up and spit you out and make you better. like emotionally. or like. worse. but in a literary way.

[reidsweetener]

summary: little jet fueled fun with bau's unsmiling boss-man

pairings: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: smut, pinv, public-ish, under the blanker action!

********

The soft hum of the jet was the only sound filling the cabin, everyone else blissfully asleep in their seats. The lights were dimmed, casting long shadows along the aisle. You sat perched on Aaron's lap, straddling him beneath a heavy blanket that draped innocently over both of you. From the outside, no one would suspect a thing.

Hotch's hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding your slow, careful movements. You faced away from him, your back arched just enough for him to admire the subtle roll of your hips as you sank down on his cock again and again. Reverse cowgirl under the cover of darkness.

"Just like that, sweetheart," he whispered, voice low and strained in your ear. "Nice and slow. Quiet for me."

You bit your lip to suppress a moan, feeling him stretch you open with each lazy thrust. The thrill of being surrounded by your sleeping teammates made your pulse quicken. Your breath hitched as his fingers slid around, sneaking beneath your panties to circle your clit with slow, deliberate strokes.

"A-ahh... Aaron," you whimpered softly, the sound barely audible over the quiet drone of the engines.

"Shh," he cooed, voice warm and commanding. "Don't wake them, honey. You can take it, can't you?"

Your head nodded quickly, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle the high-pitched noises threatening to spill out. His thumb pressed firmer, swirling tight circles around your swollen nub, sending jolts of pleasure through your core. You clenched around him involuntarily, earning a soft, broken grunt from behind you.

"Fuck, baby," he breathed. "You're so tight... feel so good."

The blanket shifted slightly as you adjusted your rhythm, grinding down on him, his cock buried to the hilt. The friction against your clit made your thighs tremble. Your breath grew more ragged, your hands gripping his knees beneath you for balance.

"Mmmph... A-Aaron... s-so close," you whispered, your voice a shaky whine.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Come for me, sweetheart. Nice and quiet. Be my good girl."

Your stomach tightened, heat blooming low in your belly as you finally tipped over the edge. Your body trembled, spasming softly as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your orgasm pulsed around him, your face buried into your arm to muffle your soft, choked moans.

Aaron's hands gripped your hips tighter, his own release following shortly after, deep inside you with a low, guttural groan. His chest pressed flush against your back, and you felt his low rasp of breath, heavy and broken, right against your ear.

Around you, the rest of the team remained blissfully unaware, their soft snores filling the quiet cabin. You felt his lips press a gentle kiss between your shoulder blades.

"Good girl," he whispered, voice still thick with satisfaction. "So perfect."

[rauspberries]

THE BEST THINGS COME IN BOWS

summary: it's picture day for your daughter and, just like he is with everything else, aaron is very serious about it. pairing: girl dad!aaron hotchner x wife!reader. word count: 1.4k tags: afab reader, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, pre-established relationship, pushing the girl dad hotch agenda, hotch is a big grump that loves his family, fluff notes: happy late father's day have this tiny lil thing

Aaron Hotchner is extremely serious about everything he does. Described as a drill sergeant with no sense of humor (which you’ve never agreed with), everything has a routine and a high expectation. While it can be annoying at points, it keeps his life running smoothly with only minimal kinks, such as being stabbed brutally by a serial killer when just wanting a drink.

Today was meant to be easy. Wake up, make breakfast for you and the kids, get everyone dressed and out the door by ten in order to make it to the photographer in time, all prim and proper. Get a photo that’d sit framed on his desk at work and the mantle of the fireplace, along with getting plastered in the photobook you had insisted on keeping since the birth of your daughter, Charlotte.

It was a family photo day. How hard could it be for a seasoned BAU unit chief, profiler and former prosecutor?

Except, here he stood, crouched in front of Charlotte’s high chair with a furrowed brow and a discarded bow in his hand, screams and wails filling the open space of the kitchen. “C’mon, Charlie. It’s just a bow,” he grumbles, thumb brushing against her hairline before his hand was swatted away by a sassier, tinier one. 

“You still haven’t gotten it on?” 

Nine and a half times out of ten, Aaron is grateful to hear your voice. It’s like a balm to all of his worries, pulling him out of whatever problem he has curated inside of his mind. However, mixed with the loud screech of your daughter and the faint sounds of Jack making a mess out of his room in an attempt to find his tie, all he can think about is how his planned perfect morning is turning into a Category 5 hurricane and how your family will most definitely be late to the mall.

A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he stands to his full height, the hand with the pink bow in it raising to rub at the wrinkles on his forehead that he swears are getting more pronounced by the second. “She just rips it off and tosses it on the floor. Plus, she hasn’t stopped screaming, as if my hearing isn’t bad enough.” He frowns, chocolate eyes finding the red-faced toddler, nothing but accusatory with a glimpse of adoration. Because as annoyed as he could get at his children, there is nothing that’d keep him from loving them.

You laugh as you make your way over, your white dress swaying and brushing against your thighs with your quick movements. Gently and swiftly, you hoist Charlie out of her high chair, ignoring her softening cries as you twirl once, and then twice. “Are you being a brat, Charlie girl?” It’s a soft coo, followed by a wrinkle of your nose and a poke to her belly that has the girl screaming with a giggle rather than out of anguish. 

“She’s just like her mother.” Aaron deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. It’s a brief glimpse of the surly unit chief everyone but you saw him be, as if he was handling a terrorist rather than a toddler. The same thing, in his opinion. 

Jack had been nine when the both of you had figured out that you were pregnant with Charlie. Approximately seven years since the older man had dealt with toddler tantrums. Plus, Jack had always been an easy kid. He had still gotten zero sleep, sure, but Charlie had been born with an attitude, which he knew stemmed from you and your fiery temper. Reluctance only a father could have sat in his gut about the idea of who she’d become as a teenager.

At Aaron’s grumpiness, you laugh, swaying closer to pluck the bow out of his fingers. With a skilled grace, your fingers splay to widen it before you slide it on her head, poking at her belly again to distract her from whipping it off immediately. “Says the one throwing a fit of his own.” You retort, a playful twinkle in your eyes as you look at him.

His shoulders relax as he takes in the sight in front of him. You, in a flowy white dress with a grin on your painted lips, and Charlie, with that infuriating bow on her head and a matching look of glee at being in your arms, staring at him with identical eyes and smiles. The similarities between the two of you are uncanny, enough to pull any evidence of frustration off of his face and remind him why this picture day is so important. 

For a moment, he allows himself to wish that he had an eidetic memory like Reid, able to remember everything down to the exact detail, just to soak in moments like these and replay them later. For another moment, he allows himself to think that he deserves this.

He steps closer until he can place his hand on the small of your back, pulling you closer with a soft tensing of his fingers and raising his other hand to brush a fingertip against Charlie’s cheek. “My girls,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss to your hairline. “Equally cute and equally frustrating.”

“You love us.” It comes out as a hum as you perch yourself on your tippy toes, pressing your lips against his cheek.

Aaron’s just about to turn his head to kiss your lips when a voice speaks up from the entrance of the kitchen. “Gross. Can someone help me clean my shoes? I spilled my milk on them.” Jack speaks with not a bit of apology, his own attitude growing with his age, although a glance at his face shows the hidden worry of getting in trouble.

You laugh as Aaron takes in a deep breath through his nose to steady himself, handing over your daughter into his waiting hands before shaking your head. “I’ll handle it. Superglue the damn thing to her head if you have to.” A joke coming from your lips, yet he considers it. Before he can admit it, you’re walking out of the kitchen, your deathly tempting dress brushing against your thighs as you lead Jack out with a hand on his shoulder.

As you finish getting Jack dressed in some clean shoes, he adjusts Charlie in his arm as he fixes his posture, trying to smoothen out the pinch in his nerves near the bottom of his spine. Children were heavy, evidenced by the soreness of his arms after holding her for too long, but letting her go to her own devices would end up with all of Charlie’s clothes off, not just the bow. 

Turning, he sets the toddler down on the counter, large hands holding onto her sides to keep her from tipping or falling. Like she hadn’t just been screaming her lungs out, her eyes blink at him as she lets out a giggle around the fingers she had shoved in her mouth. Slobber drips down her forearm, but he decides to pick his battles and just clean her up once they get to the mall.

Calloused fingers reach out to brush an unruly strand of hair out of her face, sighing. “What would I do without all of you, Charlie girl?” He hums quietly, corner of his lips twitching as she beams up at him with her newly-grown, barely-there front teeth. “I’d be a shell of a man, I think.” 

Aaron places a kiss on her head, hand holding the back of it as he does so, just as you walk back into the kitchen, a diaper bag over your shoulder and Jack bouncing on his feet at your side. “Mom said we can get pretzels at the mall if I’m good and help you look after Charlie. Is that true?” The boy huffs, arms crossing over his chest. He may not be your son but blood, but there’s evidence of your presence written all over his pouty face.

His brow raises as he glances up at you, hoisting Charlie back onto his hip. You have a quiet conversation through your eyes, a silent argument about you wanting a snack and using the kids to get it, before he sighs in defeat. “If we can get to the mall in time and you take a good photo, yes. We can get pretzels.”

Jack cheers at the same time as you, pulling a squeal and a giggle out of the girl in your arms. Aaron wishes he could bottle the moment up, pop off the cork every time he has a bad day, remind himself that there’s always something to live for – in the form of two girls in annoying bows and a boy with milk-covered shoes.

[littleslaywrites]

no bark, all bite | aaron hotchner x reader

nsfw, mdni 

summary: you can’t help but bite Aaron when he wears a short sleeve shirt. 

word count: 1.8k

cw: smut, biting (all aaron receiving), unprotected sex, f!reader, holy moly his arms in that gif

based on this post by @l1v1ngz0mb1e

It had been difficult to get used to seeing Aaron out of his suits. Not in a bad way, not at all. But it was difficult to behave yourself when he wore those polo shirts that revealed just enough of his biceps to make your mouth water. 

That’s not to say his suits didn’t reveal a lot. You’d noticed recently his button ups clung to him tighter than usual. A good girlfriend would buy him a size up, but you wouldn’t dream of it. You enjoyed it too much when he’d take off his suit jacket and you could see the seams practically bursting as his muscles flexed beneath his shirts. 

But it was even better when you could see the skin, the veins, the hair on his arms. It was the complete picture, all that you imagined when his long sleeves were covering him. And somehow, it felt even more erotic to get a glimpse of him from beneath a short sleeve shirt than to actually see him shirtless. 

He truly was very distracting. Every day, you wondered how any of his coworkers were able to get anything done while he was around. 

And here you are again, trying to focus on the task at hand while all you can think about is his arms. It was a Friday night, Jack was at a sleepover, and Aaron had invited you over. You’d had dinner at his house, simply enjoying the company, and forcing yourself to not stare at his biceps. 

Your dinners at home are always casual, as Aaron wants to get out of his suits as much as he can and wear something more comfortable. 

(You can relate to wanting to get him out of his suits, although in a different way.) 

Tonight, he answered the door in track pants and a t-shirt. When he opened it, you instantly knew you’d have trouble keeping your eyes off of him. But you smile as normally as possible, setting the wine down on the counter. 

Once your hands are free, he wraps you in a hug, and you can’t help but focus on the strength of his arms around you. You can feel his muscles squeezing your sides, and you almost feel bad that you’re objectifying so hard. You know the tight hug is simply his way of comforting himself, releasing the stress of his job, but it almost makes your eyes roll back as you feel how tight his grip is.

He pulls back, his hands on your shoulders, leaving his biceps right in your sight line. He says something you don’t even hear, and when you nod mindlessly, he leads you to the table. 

You eat dinner, listening to him talk about work. And every time he takes a sip of his water, the sleeve of his shirt pulls up, giving you an even better view. You manage to focus on his stories, even though half your brain power is being used to keep your eyes from drifting. 

After dinner, you end up on the couch, sitting side by side. You might have eaten already, but the sight of him in that shirt is making you want something else to chew on.  His arm wraps around you as he nuzzles into your neck. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, kissing your pulse point gently. 

“Missed you, too,” you say, your hands moving to squeeze his arm. Your grip tightens as he continues to trail kisses along your neck, until he pulls back. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but you lean forward, taking his bicep in between your teeth and biting down before he can speak. 

“Hey!”

You pull back, a grin on your face. “Got you.”

“What was that for?”

Your index finger rubs circles onto the area with the small indents that are slowly disappearing. “You just looked… biteable.”

He raises an eyebrow in fake indignation. “Biteable?” 

You nod, pushing his sleeve up more to bite him again, this time probably harder than you should. 

He hisses softly, staring down at the way his arm turns red in the shape of your teeth as you pull away. 

You almost tell him he’s asking for it with the shirt he’s got on, dressed like an absolute whore in that gray t-shirt, but get distracted by the skin he’s showing. 

You take his wrists, pulling his arm up to your mouth. You bite his upper arm again, then move down, biting from his bicep to his forearms. Each time, you nip a bit harder, slowly getting addicted to the feeling of his skin pulling between your jaws. 

You take extra care when you reach that vein on his forearm, tracing it with your tongue before taking it in your mouth, gnawing on him like a puppy with its favorite chew toy. 

“Stop that,” he says with no real fire behind his words. It’s what he always says when he wants something but is too embarrassed to admit it’s turning him on— as if you can’t feel the hardness forming beneath his pants. 

“No,” you say, eliciting a small laugh from Aaron. 

You nip at his neck, getting him right in that spot you know he likes, so he doesn’t argue when you slip his shirt off and push him down on the couch. 

You graze your teeth from his collarbone to his chest, biting on the flesh of his peck. He gives a groan in response as you lick the spot to soothe it. 

He nearly whines your name as you slide off his pants, then take his underwear off. When you gaze down at him, it becomes clear he’s enjoying it more than he lets on. 

“I just want to nibble on you,” you say as you nip at his hip bone.

“I thought you said you were full after dinner,” Aaron says breathlessly, a hand tangling in your hair. 

“You’re my dessert.”

You bite his thigh, hard enough that you know it’ll leave a mark tomorrow. The supple flesh of his thighs squeeze between your teeth, and you feel the dampness pooling in your underwear as you taste his skin. 

“Baby,” he says, gently tugging on your hair to get you to look at him. 

“Yeah?”

“You’re being a tease.”

You giggle, taking your shirt off. His large hands immediately go to your back, unhooking your bra. He pulls you into a deep kiss, and you unzip your jeans as he tongue slips into your mouth. When he pulls back, you capture his bottom lip between your teeth, letting it pull before you release him. 

You hurriedly slip your pants off, straddling him. “You just look delicious. I could eat you up.”

He gives a chuckle, hands going to your hips. “My little vampire.”

You smile in response, shifting above his length, grasping the base of it and guiding yourself down. 

You both tilt your heads back as you slowly sink onto him, breaths becoming more rapid. 

Once he bottoms out, you lean down, giving his neck a love bite. When you pull back, it’s clear that you’ve bitten him hard enough that he’ll have to hope there’s no case over the weekend to give the bruise time to heal before he has to face his coworkers again. 

He gives your hip two gentle taps, signaling you to start moving before he does it himself. You take the cue, slowly riding him. It’s not lost on you that his muscles flex every time your walls flutter. In fact, you make a point to deliberately squeeze him, just like your teeth were squeezing him earlier. 

Usually, you’re watching his face, focused on the way his eyelids flutter. But tonight, you can’t tear your eyes away from the way his biceps flex as he grips your hips, the movement of the muscles emphasizing the bite marks you’ve littered along his body. 

You place a hand on his chest for leverage, bouncing faster as his groans spur you on. You will always be grateful that he’s let loose with you, giving himself permission to be vocal beneath your touch. You reward his sounds with your own moans, desperate as you feel every inch of him filling you up. 

You get carried away as you gaze at his build, losing rhythm in your distracted state of mind. You don’t even notice his whimpers go from pleasured to depreciate until he can’t resist any longer and starts to buck up into you. 

“So good,” you whimper out. 

“I know,” he says, fingers digging into your hips. You know it’ll leave an imprint, but it’s only fair after what you've done to mark him up. 

He’s pressing into you deep enough that it reaches your brain, thoughts going blank as you mindlessly meet his thrusts. 

As he starts to lose control of his hips, your walls clamp around him, coaxing him into filling you up. 

You’re back arches as you fall over the edge, the wetness of your release dripping down your thighs and onto his. 

The feeling of you coming around him has Aaron quickly following, his eyes glued to your chest as your back arches. His hips stutter as he gives one last deep thrust, painting your insides white. 

He gently pulls you down to rest on his chest, hugging you tightly to help you come down for your high. As he wraps his arms around you, your eyes are drawn to his muscles again, your hazy mind still having enough power to seek out his arms. 

You wrap your arms around his forearm, nuzzling into his upper arm. 

“You’re really obsessed with me tonight, aren’t you?” He says it teasingly, flexing as a half-joke. 

You take the opportunity to bite him again, not releasing him for a good few seconds. 

“Are you staying like that all night?”

You hum around him, opening your jaws even further to take more of him in your mouth. 

He laughs softly, patting your back. “You’ve gotta let me go eventually.”

You sigh around him, eventually releasing him and laying your cheek down on your chest, his peck right in view for you to admire the teeth marks you’d left. You trace it gently, proud of your work. 

“You know, it’s not nice to act like a teething puppy while your boyfriend is at your mercy.”

You giggle. “Then you shouldn’t be so biteable. I could chew on you all night.”

“You’re so cute I might let you.”

You snuggle even closer to him. “Besides, what’s so wrong about appreciating my big, strong man?”

Aaron rolls his eyes, even though he can’t help but blush at your words.

As he holds you tighter, you feel content, not even tempted to bite him as you watch his arms. At least, for now. And as Aaron falls asleep with you on top of him, he has a looming suspicion that his wake up call (and your breakfast) tomorrow will be the pressure of your teeth around his bare arm. 

[fanfic-center]

This was so good!! I loved it!!

hotchelle | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: you have a furry emergency, and it’s up to your knight in shining armor — a vest and a government gun — of a husband to save you. content/tw: this is so unserious, dog being abandoned, aaron being completely whipped for his wife, just fluff! word count: 1.8ka/n: don’t mind me, i’m just (once again) spreading the “yes ma’am” Aaron agenda. reqs are open! hope you like it 💗🪽

masterlist <3

drabbles masterlist <3

more of "yes ma’am” Aaron

Even though he spent most of his life dealing with tragedies and loss, Aaron was never ready for it. No amount of experience seemed to prepare him for the feeling of fear.

So, although he was most used to receiving bad news when his phone rang, his heart immediately gave out when he answered your call.

“Hey, hon…”

“Aaron,” your rasped voice cried, sobs cutting through you and interrupting whatever you wanted to say.

“Honey, where are you?” he urged, immediately pushing his chair back and sprinting out of his office, not even bothering to button up his suit.

You cried louder, sniffing hard and trying to get the words out.

“I– I was hi-hiking.” he tried not to rush you, instead just sprinting into Garcia’s office.

“Yeah? On your usual track?”

He opened her door without knocking, startling the blonde woman and Reid, who sat beside her probably analysing some case he had been consulting.

Sensing the urge on their boss’ face, they didn’t waste a second before turning to him and getting ready to help in any way possible.

“Y-yeah. Signal is really bad,” you managed, and the way you hiccuped trying to steady your breathing made his heart physically ache.

“I’m coming. Do we need an ambulance? Or…”

“No! No, it’s not me… Aaron, please hurry, I’m…” before you could get any word out the phone went mute, and a few seconds later trying to reconnect the call, it ended.

“Garcia, can you trace her phone?” he asked, trying to seem less desperate than he actually felt. It didn’t work.

“Of course, sir.” she answered, already midway into finding his wife’s location. In a matter of seconds, the map on the screen’s computer glowed with a red pin, and a banner with her exact coordinates popped up. “Here, just sent it to your phone.”

He thanked her before turning around, Reid barely catching up with his pace. “I’ll come with you, sir.” to which he just nodded. He didn’t actually agree to it, neither seemed particularly happy about it, but he didn’t say no and the look on his face showed there wasn’t much on his mind except for the urge to find you.

Luckily it wasn’t rush hour, so they didn’t end up getting any speed tickets – the fact that he turned on the sirens at points where the traffic was a little heavier had nothing to do with it, trust –, and as soon as they got near the point Garcia instructed, they spotted her.

Sat on the ground on the side of the road, slightly off the tracking path, his wife’s baby pink clothes stood out on the grass as if she was a waking highlight. Hotch didn’t waste any time on parallel parking, throwing the car on park as soon all four tires stepped off the highway, and stepping out of it in a second, reaching for his gun, with Spencer mimicking his moves.

“Honey, we’re here.” he said loudly, trying to ease her shaking figure before he even got to her. She wiped her head back, and even though her face was red, puffy and drenched in tears, her eyes sparkled with recognition and relief, like she felt that everything was going to be okay: Aaron was there! The feeling almost made him combust.

“Aaron,” your voice whined, and then you started crying again, louder this time, relieved to not be alone anymore. Quickly scanning the area and guaranteeing there weren't any threats nearby, the two – guns still in hand – agents stepped close to her, still sitting on the floor.

As soon as they reach her, standing on each of her sides, they stop for a second. Aaron physically had to restrain himself from sighing loudly because you were about to have a stroke due to how hard you were crying, while Spencer had to bite the inside of his cheeks until blood was drawn out to stop himself from laughing.

Just in front of you, laid on the dirty floor was a puppy, it’s furr so dirty you could barely see it’s color. The dog showed no signs of being awake, and Aaron felt a little sting with the realization. The dog was dead. He just wished you’d told him sooner.

“I don’t know if she’s dead.” you managed between sobs, catching your husband’s glance “I saw a box on the hike with a note saying the family’s dog birthed her, they were moving across the country and couldn’t bring the puppy with them. She’s the only puppy who made it alive. I think she escaped of the box, trying to find someone. That’s how she got here.”

Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “Reid, tell Garcia we’re fine.” he demanded, sending his agent a pointed look at his amused expression. Spencer nodded, stepping back for a second to text his friend, taking the opportunity to silently laugh.

Then, he put away the gun, kneeling down beside you, placing his hand on your shoulder and looking at the animal. You took it as a sign, and buried your face into your husband’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably. His heart nearly gave out at how heartbroken you were, and all annoyance disappeared on his body just like that.

“Oh, Aaron, I’m sorry. I know you were busy. But… I just needed you, and I…”

“Shh, it’s okay. There’s no problem, at all.” he coached you, fully sitting down beside you and taking you fully in his arms. He meant it: emergency or not, there’s nowhere he would rather be than by your side to stroke your hair and kiss your forehead until you stopped crying.

“Can I see her?” Reid asked politely, crouching down beside you and curiously staring at the puppy. He, surprisingly, touched the dog without any gloves on, not waiting for an answer to actually start checking. Only a couple minutes had passed when he stood up “She’s alive, but barely. We should get her to a vet now.”

You nodd, sniffing and quickly coming to a standing position, the urge to help temporarily occupying your mind enough for you to stop crying, taking off your defined jacket and turning into a makeshift blanket, and wrapping around the puppy carefully.

The ride for the vet was quick, with Reid sharing his thoughts – even though his knowledge concerning puppies was rather short – and Hotch, once again, barely missing speed tickets.

“Reid, take the car back.” he sighed, handing the agent his keys. Spencer, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last minutes, stifled a laugh “I’ll stay here with her”.

When Hotch caught up with you, you were already at the reception of the vet ER – yes, they had those –, bawling your eyes out. One of the vets took the dog off your arms, handing your jacket back. You strode beside the team, giving them all the information you had so far.

“I think she spent the night. Her box was still wet, and it rained last night. Is she going to be okay?” you urged, eyes widening at the vet’s expression.

“Miss, you’ll have to wait outside okay? Thank you for your help.” he said, and they closed themselves into a consulting room, leaving you stuck on your feet.

Hotch touched your back, the feeling of his finger on your skin waking you from your trance. You turned abruptly to face him, and a kick on his gut would’ve hurt less – which he knew for a fact – than the sigh of your lower lip trembling, your eyes widened and red, filled with tears “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” he managed, and he hated how powerless he felt. So he just tugged you closer, hugging you closely and letting you cry.

“How can someone do that?” you said, angrily. Your voice was muffled by the fabric of his suit.

“I know, right? But she’s strong. Did you see how she lasted the whole night out there and still made it? She will be just fine.”

That made you step back, your eyes a little more hopeful as you looked at him. He loved that you believed him so much, and even though he had no way of knowing how this would turn out, he knew there was only one thing he could do.

“You think so?” 

“Absolutely.” he said, and that made a little smile tug at your lips. “Come on, let’s sit while we wait, huh?”

A couple hours had passed, with you pressed close to Hotch’s side, occasionally moving to play with a dog and hear other people’s stories. When you finally stopped crying, he stood and left a kiss on your forehead, leaving to get some food. Because you expected to be home way sooner, you haven’t eaten, and he was sure that if you didn’t get anything on your system, his next stop would be the actual ER, since you’ve probably cried out all 70% of the water on your system.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

When he came back, two bags of lunch from the diner across the street, water and orange juice enough for the whole vet crew, he was surprised to see you surrounded with people. The other dog owners sat around you in the waiting room, listening closely to the story about how you found the puppy. You could be telling a fairy tale, the way their eyes shone with interest, gasping and cooing as on command. 

But what caught Hotch’s attention the most was the way the guy next to you – who definitely wasn’t there before he left – touched your bare knee with sympathetic – and honestly hungry – eyes. “You’re so brave and kind,...” the bastard said.

“And married.” he stepped closely, eyeing the man down with his stare reserved solely to the unsubs and particularly unpleasant officers he used to deal with.

“Oh, Aaron, you’re back!” you turned to face him, face glowing with that adorable smile of yours, looking at him with so much love that his scowl instantly melted. He barely noticed the guy standing up awkwardly and finding another sit all the way across the waiting room.

You ate together, with your husband making sure you drank enough fluids for a week, his attentive gaze not leaving your figure until there was nothing left on the paper bags but crumbs. As you were negotiating a sweet treat, a woman with a clipboard and a paw-patterned scrub emerged from the back of the ER seccion “Mr. and Mrs. Hotchner?”

Any thoughts about cookies or brownies being indispensable to raise your sugar levels vanished immediately as you rose to your feet in a speed that left Aaron’s spine jealous, and the two of you followed her closely, your husband’s hand rested on your lower back, now covered with the fabric of his suit – since you decided that the jacket you used to wrap the dirty dog in was now your own personal blankie – tracing patterns as you walked to the room.

When you finally got there, the little puppy was finally awake. Still completely dirty and somehow smaller than she looked when you found her, but fully alert “Hey, you pretty little girl. Oh, look, Aaron. Her eyes are just like yours.” you cooed, and this time he couldn’t control the roll of his eyes. He knew what you were doing. Trying to cute-guilt him into taking the damn dog. So what if the color of the puppy’s eyes was the exact shade of brown of his own? If Reid was there – and he made a mental note to call him later to check the information – he would agree that probably over 70% of the people on earth have brown eyes. Following that logic, the dog has the same eyes as 70% of the world’s population. Somehow that thought didn’t sit right with him, though.

“Is the dog okay?” he asked the vet, just wanting to get this over with. The woman nodded, her knowing smile too suspicious for his liking.

“She’s perfectly fine. She was a bit dehydrated, but I guess her previous owners left her with a little bit of food. We just took a few tests, but everything is normal. Her blood test results will take a few days, though.”

“But do you think she will be fine? Like, on the tests?” you asked, stroking the back of the dog’s ears with your fingers.

“Absolutely. But that’s all thanks to you. If you hadn't found her, I don’t think she would’ve made it.” 

You turn to Hotch with a little pout and tears in your eyes – of happiness this time, thankfully – and just like that you won another piece of his heart. But he keept it to himself, just raising his eyebrows at you, unbothered.

“We’ll just examine her now. Routine things. When the blood test comes out we’ll see for sure what vaccines she already has, but she’s 10 weeks old, so probably a few.” the vet explains while reaching the puppies belly with a stethoscope to check her heartbeat. “All good. She’s strong as a rock.” the woman keeps explaining each step of the examination, and at every new information you turn to look at Hotch, your eyes glowing with affection. The puppy, as if it senses your little show and wants to back you up, just behaves, her tail wagging everytime you or the vet talk to her with that high pitch voice, her big brown eyes staring at both of you as if you are her whole world. And he so stubbornly pretends he’s not melting as much as you.

“Now, we’ll take her temperature. This is the worst part of the exam, but just because it’s a bit uncomfortable.”

“She’s shaking, do you think she has a fever?” you ask, the worry on your tone not going unnoticed.

“Probably just fear. I don’t think she has a fever, but we’ll only know for sure by taking the temperature. Do any of you want to hold her or do you want me to call someone?” she asks, eyeing the two of you expectantly. Obviously, you dismiss the later option, moving your hands closer to the puppy. As the vet leans forward with the thermometer in hand, the dog does the unthinkable.

Awkwardly and clumsy running away from your and the vet’s reach, she goes into Hotch’s direction, and he has to step forward and grab her to prevent her from falling out of the table “Are you crazy?” he asks, not even realizing he was talking to the dog, staring annoyed at her. When he tries to place her back on the table, she whines, pressing her little paws higher on his arms, and he has to juggle her back safely to keep her from falling again “Jesus Christ, okay. I’ve got you.”

Aaron misses the way you and the vet eye each other in conspiracy, too busy making sure she’s comfortably nested on his arms “Oh, look. She stopped shaking. Hold her tight so I can check her temperature, will you?” the vet says, stepping closer and – as he will later describe – shoving the thermometer up on the puppy’s ass – which was actually very gentle and professional, but scared him anyway. “Oh, look at that. Not a fever. Your baby is perfectly healthy. Oh, wait.” the vet stops on her tracks, glancing back and forth between you and Hotch and asks the oh, so feared question “You are going to keep her?”

In an oscar-worth performance, you wiped your head to face him, pressing your hands, half-covered by the sleeves of his suit, on his bicep – carefully not to disturb the baby resting on his arms –, batting your eyelashes at him and staring with your eyes slightly opened, in those lost puppy eyes you mastered so well.

“Can we keep her? Please!” he sighed, not even daring to avert his eyes down to the dog he held, knowing damn well it would be a lost battle for him.

“Listen, I…” you interrupted, pointing at the small figure on his arms, forcing him to look at it.

“She’s already attached, baby. We can even name her after you!” you offered, your face deep in thought as you stared at the puppy’s eyes, as if trying to read its mind “Hotchelle!”

Aaron scrunched his nose, averting his torso to the side, as if putting some distance between you and the puppy would protect her from the name you’ve chosen.

“We’re not naming her Hotchelle.”

You crossed your arms, arching your brows “What are we naming her, then?” he then looked at the dog, still too dirty for either of you to see her real color.

“Maybe after we get her cleaned we can…”

Realization washed over him.

You stood there, the image of innocence, your eyes mischievous and expectant. If it weren’t the slight twitch at the corner of your lips, one could think you didn’t already know you had him wrapped around your finger.

So, he just sighed, looking briefly at the – his – puppy, and he could swear she had the same smug expression as yours.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a well deserved shower gifted by the clinic – and many dollars spent at the pet shop wing at the clinic while you waited – the two – three – of you walked out together. You, holding some of the purchase’s bag, still wearing his suit jacket. Aaron, holding a freshly showered Hotchelle, wrapped around her brand new fluffy pink blanket, wearing two matching bows like a doll – while shopping you asked him if he thought Hotchelle was ‘more of a bow or pompom kinda girl’, to which he huffed an annoyed ‘bow, obviously’ – and the scowl he usually had on was much less prominent.

As soon as you stepped out of the clinic, the sun having already set, a flashlight temporarily blinded you. Blinking in surprise, your sight started to clear. It was a picture. And you couldn’t stop your laughter when you saw all the members of the BAU standing in the parking lot, matching amused smiles watching Aaron.

“We came to drop your car off.” Emily explained, her own laughter barely stiffed. Hotch sighed loudly.

“Thanks.” he muttered between gritted teeth “You can all go now.”

“Hm, I don’t think so, Hotch.” Rossi managed “We all want to meet the new addition to the family. We were kept in suspense since Reid told us what happened” Spencer had the decency to seem embarrassed, scratching the back of his head and blushing under Aaron’s disapproval stare.

Having restrained herself for long enough for the sake of the joke, Penelope threw herself in front of her boss, asking for you the whole rescue story. While at it, you catched the way Hotch stiffened his arms whenever Garcia tried to pry the baby to her own arms. Mercesly, you kept it to yourself.

“She’s still very young. 10 weeks.” he stated, glancing at Reid.

“That’s what I thought,” Spencer started, stepping closer with the other members, all cooing at how cute she looked. Specially contrasted with Aaron's broad figure – that earned Morgan another pack of photos, which you eagerly asked, for…. scientific purposes. “I did some research, and it turned out this specific breed is extremely affectionate due to….”

“Wait. Before we start the lecture” JJ pried, looking at Spencer apologetically “What’s her name?”

The tip of Hotch’s ears turned bright red, and the team glanced at each other. Sensing that your husband wasn’t going to answer, you stepped in, a bright smile in response “We named her after Aaron. Since she’s a daddy’s girl. Just like her mommy.” you winked at him, making him cringe. If both of his arms weren’t already busy, you were sure he would’ve been pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“Don’t… say this…” he pleaded weakly.

“It can’t be that bad.” Morgan tried, his grin suggesting he thought otherwise.

“Hotchelle.” your husband said under his breath, earning many loud reactions in return. He just turned on his heel, getting the car keys from Emily’s hand and looking back at you “We're leaving.”

You were almost skipping on your way to his car, nestling the dog in your arms and showing her to the team like a trophy, who stood back laughing. Before getting into the driver’s seat, Aaron glanced back at them.

“Reid.” he commanded, his voice strong and stern like a thunder. Even from the distance, you could see Spencer gulping, bracing himself for the scold he was about to get. In a much lighter tone and with a smirk — he always had fun scaring his teammates — he said “I want to hear about your research tomorrow.”

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream

[alinathinkstoomuch]

EX-FACTOR

pairing: aaron hotchner x ex!reader summary: hotch swears he's listening to rossi, except he can’t focus on a single word when you’re at the bar with another guy, based on this request. warnings: hotch is turning greeeeen from jealousy!! pining, hotch just wants his baby back word count: 0.6k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Aaron was trying to listen to Rossi—really, he was. Something about a plot of land and investment potential and tax benefits or… God, he’d lost the thread ages ago. He nodded here and there, tossed out a half-hearted “yeah?” or “makes sense,” but his focus wasn’t anywhere near the conversation. Neither were his eyes.

They were glued to the crowd, more specifically to the gap in it. The spot where you used to be.

You’d disappeared ten minutes ago, and so had the guy who’d been flirting with you. Some twenty-something whose fingers grazed the side of your waist like he had any right to be even within six feet of you.

“And what exactly is your plan for tonight?” Rossi asked, swirling the last bit of his bourbon. 

“What?”

“The staring? Gripping your glass like it can breathe?” Rossi lifted his brows. “What’s next? You going to challenge him to a duel?”

“I’m just watching,” Aaron muttered.

“Mmm,” Rossi said, which was Italian for you’re full of shit but I’m going to let you dig this hole a little deeper.

Aaron didn’t respond, his eyes doing their seventh sweep of the minute. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for the most, that you’d look back and catch him, or that the guy would spontaneously combust under the weight of his scowl. But for any of that to happen, he had to see where you were.

And he knew that he had no right. That it wasn’t his business anymore, that the only real authority he had over you these days was inside a briefing room with a suspect on the board. Because this? A bar, a night off, your clothes, your smile, a stranger’s hand on your waist? This wasn’t his jurisdiction. This was your playing field now. And Aaron was a benched sub who’d already had his shot and fumbled the pass, reduced to a spectator at best. A ghost, more likely. 

“She’s allowed to dance, you know,” Rossi continued, not unkindly. “Even allowed to enjoy it.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

“Good,” Rossi said, far too breezily. “Maybe she even left with him. Can’t see her anywhere.”

Aaron’s head whipped towards the exit so fast, it stirred a breeze around him. For a moment his stomach dropped in that cold, involuntary way it did when something went wrong on a case as he considered the possibility that, maybe you did go home with him.

“I’m kidding,” Rossi chuckled. “Relax. She’s by the bar.”

And there you were. Using a stack of napkins to fan yourself, the golden lights catching on your exposed skin, the small specks of glitter scattered across your bare shoulders gracefully. He could still remember the caramel-like scent that came with it, relying on memory alone now, because he no longer had the right to be close enough to smell it again.

The lights shifted, dimming, then bleeding into a soft pink, the kind that made everything—you—look dreamlike. You gasped excitedly, grabbing Penelope’s arm where she stood beside you. She lit up just like you did, and Aaron didn’t even realise he was smiling until you were already pulling her towards the dance floor, placing a hand on the guy’s chest and yelling, “I’ll be back. This is our song!”

He hoped you wouldn’t be back, not to him, anyway. Not really. He hoped you’d stay somewhere close instead, just within reach, orbiting near enough for his eyes to find you and no one else’s.

He was grateful no one around had mind-reading abilities, because if you knew how often he thought about you, you’d probably never speak to him again. Or maybe you would. That was the thing about the two of you, the friendship had held, maybe too well. And maybe that was the problem.

Neither of you could move on. 

“You’re torturing yourself,” Rossi said plainly. 

Aaron didn’t look away. “I know.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @star-crossed-sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp  @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @khxna

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[keirareidss]

wc: 0.9k

The injury was brutal. Three broken ribs and severe bruising. The unsub had cornered you, attacked you. You were found beaten up and hyperventilating by Derek about 15 minutes later after he caught the unsub.

He slung your arm over his shoulder, helping you walk out of the building to the ambulance waiting outside. Hotch, your boss, your boyfriend, the love of your life, had seen you, nearly in tears from the pain, walking out of the building and left mid-conversation with Rossi to rush over to you.

When he tried to pull you into his arms, you winced and pulled away, a hand to your stomach, the pain piercing.

"What happened?" He demanded, looking to Derek.

"I don't know, we- we split up, I found the unsub making a run for it I-"

"Are you okay?" Hotch cut off Derek, looking at you. You nodded but Aaron could see that every movement was strained. "I've got her." He murmured to Morgan, taking your arm over his shoulders and leading you to the ambulance. You were taken to the hospital but treating broken ribs wasn't like treating a broken ankle or a fractured wrist. There wasn't a cast they could put on you, so they focused on pain medications and home treatments.

Your boyfriend boss gave you two months off of work, two weeks more than you would need to heal, just in case. He brought you home, settling you in the bed.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm okay." He sat down next to you, his hand finding your hip, rubbing gently up and down.

"You should rest." Aaron murmured and you nodded. He helped you lay down, pulling the covers over you, promising he'd join you in a bit.

Unfortunately, rest never came. You closed your eyes, you slowed your breathing, you tried to shut your brain off, but every nerve in your body was thrumming. You felt the dull ache in your torso, the pain sharpening and lingering every time you moved even an inch.

At some point, around two am, you huffed, your eyes opening. Hot, frustrated tears prick behind your eyes. You want to scream. Aaron was sound asleep next to you, probably thinking you were as well.

You were minutes from breaking down crying when you felt him stir beside you. Maybe all your huffing and pained gasps had woken him. You turned your head to find him opening his eyes, looking at you. His sleepy expression quickly became concerned when he realized you were still awake.

"Honey? Why are you up?" He asked softly, his voice raspy from sleep.

"I- I can't sleep. It hurts so much." His gentle voice and his worried stare immediately broke you. Fat tears rolled down your cheek, the corners of your lips turned downwards.

"Hey, hey it's okay." At the sight of you crying, he immediately pushed himself up onto one elbow, leaning closer to you and raising a hand to your face, cupping it gently as he brushed the tears away.

"It's not okay. I- I can't- it hurts." You whimpered, the quickening of your breath as your crying grew worse making your ribs hurt even more. Aaron felt helpless. He wished he could take the pain away, take it upon himself if he needed to. But all he could do right now was try to calm you down and get you to sleep.

"Okay, I know, shh, it's alright." He tried placating you, brushing your hair away from your damp cheeks, his other hand rubbing up and down your arm softly. "Just try not to think about the pain."

"I can't." He tried to think of something else he could get you to think about.

"You know, Jack has a soccer game in a few weeks."

"Really?" You sniffled, looking up at him, his hands continuing their movements, one caressing your arm, the other cupping your face, brushing over your cheek.

"Mhm. If you feel better, we can go watch him."

"That sounds fun." You mumbled, your breathing slowing down.

"Yeah. I was thinking we could take him out for ice cream afterwards as well. He's been doing really good this season."

"Yeah." You breathed, the pain easing up. Hotch went quiet for a few moments, sensing you were thoroughly distracted.

"Can I get you anything? Pain meds? Water or tea, maybe?"

"No, I just... I just wanna sleep."

"I'll grab you some NyQuil." He shuffled out of bed, noticing how you stayed terribly still, trying not to feel that sharp pain in your abdomen again. He felt a tug at his heartstrings. He hated that you had to go through this. He should have been there. He shouldn't have let that man hurt you. He shouldn't have let you go into that house in the first place.

He was back with the NyQuil quickly, helping you lift your head with a hand behind your neck, tilting the small medicine cup upwards, the liquid pouring down your throat. You sigh as he slips back into bed, getting close to you, touching you as much as he can without causing any pain.

"Is this okay?" He asks, an arm over your waist, the other curled underneath his pillow.

"Mhm." You hummed. You fell asleep a few minutes later, breathing evening out in a way that has Aaron's stress levels coming down. He promised himself he'd stay awake the rest of the night, watching, making sure you rested. Making sure that no more pain came to you and if any did, he would quell it as quickly as he could so you didn't have to suffer anymore.

Taglist: @cinnamoncunt, @dramioneforevertilltheend, @tinythebunni

[crying-ang3l]

× Princess Treatment ×

A/n: Heelloouu!! Here's a cute fic, enjoy! × no chocolate mentioned, it's clickbait. ×

×××××××× Genre: Fluff Warnings: suggestive scene Tags: Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader (2nd person, no y/n) × established relationship × age gap × a whole bunch of playfulness × fyi: paso doble, rhumba and jive are dance styles × He calls you: honey, baby. You call him a princess. And you both call each other perverts × Summary: Aaron agreed to undergo your skincare treatment and ends up being called—a pretty princess? W/c: 1.6k ××××××××

×Masterlist×

It was one of those days when you wanted to spoil him a little. Ease any worries out of his overworked mind, and preferably shut it down for an hour or two. Give him a nice rest while he’s still home.

So…

What should you and Mr. Frown Face do?

Let’s start with the where!

Spin the wheel! Win a prize!

×

×

×

It's a date at home!

Cozy!

What about the main attraction?

Give it another go!

×

×

×

Skincare!

Sweet!

Aaron’s skincare didn't expand beyond washing his face with a grey, unscented bar of soap and applying sunscreen, which wasn’t much, but it was a great start.

He would never follow a 10-step skincare routine anyway. That would immediately get flagged by his brain as an unproductive use of time—a scandalous activity in his lexicon. But with you caressing his skin (with multiple layers of liquids and creams)? There was no way he could reject such an offer.

Now to sum up, we have romantic quality time with a glass or two of wine, vintage—not to say old—music ('respect the elders' they say), tender touches without taking your, or his, or the both of your clothes off—

“Let's see how long that'll last,” he chuckled and took a sip of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Rude?!

“You can deny it, but we both know how it usually ends.”

Excuse him? Maybe he wasn't wrong, maybe it was how some of the nights ended… or began—especially after, god forbid, a two-week-long–case—but that wasn't the point.

You tried to convince him of the innocence of your plan, but when you blurted out from pure excitement that you bought lotion that smells like cocoa, it only became an opposing argument.

“Evidence is speaking for itself,” he replied devoid of any surprise, placing the cup aside with a quiet thud and closing the distance between you.

You caught a glimpse of mischief dancing like a paso doble on his face before he turned you around, pressing his chest to your back.

“You're going to entice me with your delicious smell and blame it on me.” His whispered words caught you off guard, clouding your mind in a second. 

He didn’t know yet. 

That lotion was actually a moisturizer.

Nothing enticing here.

“That's not—you're a pervert. We're just going to… relax and enjoy each other's company.” Great choice of words, very convincing.

“Mhm, there it is,” he laughed, “See? You're already doing it.” He pressed his lips to your ear. “Blaming me like you're not a pervert yourself. Should I remind you how you asked me to—”

Wow!!! 

TMI!

Let’s just uh… get started with the night.

A very well behaved night—just like you promised!

×××

Surrounded by the low hum of music and the softest crackling of candles, he was sitting politely on the couch, leaned back, loosely holding you by your hips. You—straddled on his lap, dipped your fingers into a translucent container.

“I'm gonna put it on now,” you warned and smeared a grainy substance all over his face.

“Ah! It's cold!” He winced, tightening his grip.

“Shh, don't move. It's gonna get better in a moment,” you reassured him under your breath.

With precise movements, your fingertips massaged the soft tissue, circling his cheeks, tracing along the bridge of his nose up to the forehead, sliding through the wrinkles down to the temples and gliding further across his jaw and chin—closing the cycle and repeating it again.

“How is it now?” Your lips curled up, noticing his muscles relax.

“Coarse,” he stated blankly, but the smug glimmer of his gaze sold out his dry humor. Ha. Ha. You rolled your eyes.

“It's a face scrub. It's supposed to be a little rough,” you snorted with amusement and lightly shook your head.

“Is it supposed to scrub my face off?” This guy…

“Something like that,” you chuckled, “It's helping remove dead skin cells, but don’t worry about it, just relax. You can close your eyes, you know?”

“I prefer watching you work.” His arms flexed, pulling you closer so gingerly you didn't even realize it, too preoccupied with smoothing out his skin.

“You look so pretty, sweetheart.” His warm tone kissed your ears, spreading warmth through your chest. That's when you decided to look into his eyes— 

Two dilated black holes, enveloped with intertwined shades of brown and green—islands—washed by milky sea with red contorted seaweeds climbing out of its depth, were already staring into your soul.

You could tell all of his attention was on you, but you didn't know how truly gone he was.

How his temporary tunnel vision blurred everything exceeding the outline of your figure and deafened the surrounding world.

Mere five minutes was enough time to deconstruct him with nothing but your fingertips.

“Don't stop. It's actually very pleasant,” he murmured so softly it was almost a whisper, and when you didn't answer or move, his lips grew into an affectionate smile.

He knew he infected you.

Captured you in a singular frame of liquid time, stretching it through each beat of your heart, which subconsciously danced in the rhythm of jive with his own.

Now your own eyes reflected how equally intoxicated with adoration you were.

“Right….” Your mouth barely moved, chasing the shadow of the sound. Stilled hands slowly resumed its movement, lazily dragging across the tissue and awakening you from the hypnotized state.

“You're pretty too, Aaron.” The sweetness of your words dripped straight onto his face.

“Huh—?” He grinned, taken by surprise, momentarily straying his gaze, and shyly returning it back to you.

If it weren't for the exfoliant hiding his skin tone and reddening it in the process, you'd be able to spot a natural blush replying to your compliment. Instead, it was the ears that gave him away.

“I thought you were the pretty one in our relationship.” He accentuated his words with a squeeze of your hips.

“Well….” Your hands left his face, dropping to your thighs wrists up, not to stain your clothes. “Can't we both be pretty?” You smirked and added teasingly,

“My pretty princess?”

“What—did you just—?!” His laughter built up so quickly it cut him off with a loud cackle erupting from his diaphragm. 

His whole body started shaking, almost making you headbutt him in the process. Quickly, you grabbed his shoulders, holding on tightly while his eyes started to tear up from the sudden, intense abs workout.

Laughing along with him, you tried to take this opportunity to get up and grab a towel, when his hands swiftly outran you, clenching around your body and caging you under his grip.

“Oh, you're not going anywhere, honey. Not after calling me a princess! What was that? Are you feeling alright?” He pressed his palm to your forehead.

“Too much wine? I think you've had enough for the night.” 

“I'm not drunk. I'm spoiling you tonight, so you are my princess now.” A smug expression decorated your face only to be ruined by his next question.

“Is that right? In that case, you're going to fulfill my every whim just like I do for you, baby?” He raised an eyebrow

“Hm… uh… the options are… limited at this hour. I can offer you some moisturizer after we get this off your face.”

“Alright, moisturizer it is. Come here.” He grabbed your chin, pulling you to his lips like he wasn't coated in a mixture of chemicals with unreadable names.

“Wait! You can't kiss me now!”

He stopped, puzzled.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not going to be spitting out the funny taste of whatever's inside this scrub. I'm not even sure if your t-shirt will survive it, so I'm not going to try.” You lifted your hands, revealing dark shapes of your fingers imprinted on the fabric.

“Don't worry about it. What happened to spoiling me tonight? Didn't you want me to be your princess?” His lips twisted through the last word.

“Oh…! I see what you're doing! You're not going to fool me, you cunning old man. Wash this off, and I will give you that kiss.”

He squeezed your hips again, distracting you from the way his mouth hung open for a split second, making sure not to spill out more than he intended.

“Kiss me now and… I might agree to another session of this.”

Your eyes lit up, muscles evacuated humor.

Was Aaron, the man who 'can deal with everything by himself and never needs anything from anyone,' the man you called your lover, asking you for more in his own struggling-to-admit-it–way?

It didn't matter if this was the wine speaking or if you were going to have to rinse your throat out for the next ten minutes. You were going to do it. You were going to give him what he wanted if only to reward him for taking one of his first any-kind-of-display-of-emotional-vulnerability–steps.

He deserved love and care, and you needed to let him know it.

Your lips, without any hesitation, met his, softly welcoming their familiar texture and tangling them with yours in the intimate rhumba. One of his hands traveled to the back of your head, playing with your hair and eliciting a sweet low hum from your mouth. A pleasant, grounding warmth filled your body, lingering even after you pulled away.

“I believe this counts as an attempted murder.” You wiped off tiny grains transferred from his skin.

“Honey, that would be suicide.” Deadpan as ever.

“Thanks, princess.”

“Don't overdo it.” He rolled his eyes like the corners of his lips didn't twitch upwards.

“Whatever you say… your highness.”

('respect the elders' they say... or don't)

𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ! 𝐈'𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤! ♡♡ ×𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭× ♡♡

[fanfic-center]

I loved this so much!!!

Hi!! I hope you're doing well! I've been watching wildlife rescue shelters videos all day and that led me to have this idea for a small fic and I immediately thought of you! Okay so imagine reader is dating Hotch and she's working at one of those shelters and so she always sends him cute videos of all the tigers/leopards/lions etc. she's taking care of! And like he'd be so proud of her for doing that job but also low-key scared because she's literally cuddling a giant tiger there (you can also include the other BAU members' reactions!!)

No worries if you don't feel like writing this I just thought it could be fun/cute!

Okay have a nice day/night bye!!!

Wild at heart | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader | WC: 0.5k | CW: Mentions of potential danger.

Hotch's phone buzzed on the table with a new message, and despite the never-ending paperwork in front of him, he reached for it immediately.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Look at my new cuddle buddy!! 🥰”

Attached was a video of you lying on the ground, absolutely dwarfed by the massive Siberian tiger curled up beside you. The big cat let out a slow, contented huff as you scratched behind its ears, your laughter ringing out softly. Hotch exhaled sharply, torn between admiration and sheer terror.

Morgan, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, man? You just made a face.”

Hotch turned the screen toward him. “She sent me another one.”

Morgan leaned in, then burst out laughing. “Oh, hell no. She’s basically using a tiger as a pillow? That’s insane.”

Emily, overhearing, walked over with her coffee. “Wait, let me see.” As soon as she caught a glimpse, her jaw dropped. “That’s either the coolest thing I’ve ever seen or the most reckless. How are you not having a heart attack every time she sends you these?”

“I am,” Hotch admitted, rubbing his temple. “Every single time.” He sighed

JJ peered over his shoulder, shaking her head with a smile. “You have to admit, it’s adorable. She looks so happy.”

“I know.” He did. That was the problem. He couldn't take that away from you.

Rossi strolled by, glancing at the phone. “You do realize that’s a predator, right?”

“Yes, Dave, I’m aware,” Hotch sighed. “But she loves what she does.” And as much as it terrified him, he loved how passionate you were about your job.

Another buzz.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Also, here’s my baby leopard learning how to pounce!!”

The next video showed a clumsy little leopard cub attempting to pounce onto your lap but misjudging the distance, tumbling forward into your arms instead. Your giggles were audible as you scooped it up.

Hotch’s heart clenched.

Penelope appeared out of nowhere. “Oh! Oh! Are we looking at Y/N’s daily ‘How To Give Hotch a Heart Attack’ update?” She squealed.

“Apparently,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Reid, curious at what everyone was watching, peeked at the screen. “Statistically speaking, working closely with large wild cats poses significant risks, even in controlled environments.”

Hotch shot him a flat look. “Thank you, Reid. That helps.”

Morgan chuckled. “What’s the over-under on him showing up at her work in full-on protective detail one of these days?”

“Very funny,” Hotch muttered, but they weren’t entirely wrong. He had considered visiting just to see the safety protocols himself.

Another message.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Love you! Don’t worry, the tigers love me too!! ❤️”

Hotch sighed, shaking his head fondly. He typed out a quick response:

To: Y/N

“I love you too. Please be careful. And tell the tigers they need to share.”

Morgan saw the text and grinned. “Man, you’re whipped.” Hotch didn’t even deny it, cause it was no use trying to pretend not to be in a room full of profilers.

[reidsweetener]

summary: stolen moments, or where you make focusing hard for hotch, so he does something about it.

pairings: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: smut, pinv, office shennanigans, making use of office hours, age gap.

********

The BAU bullpen hummed with its usual quiet rhythm. The team was gathered around the round table, reviewing case files and evidence, their conversations clipped and efficient. You sat with them, your expression composed, contributing observations when needed. To anyone watching, even a room full of elite profilers; you were simply Agent Y/L/N. Professional. Calm. Focused as always.

Aaron Hotchner sat at the head of the table, equally unreadable. His gaze occasionally flickered to you, but no one would notice; it was the same calm, assessing look he gave every member of his team. Not a single glance out of place.

Even Spencer, eyes always attuned to micro-expressions, detected nothing. Morgan leaned back in his chair, entirely focused on the case. JJ and Emily exchanged quiet notes. Rossi, as always, was studying the file in front of him with a subtle frown.

Everything appeared normal.

"Y/L/N," Hotch said suddenly, voice as level as ever. "My office."

You nodded once. "Yes, sir."

The team barely glanced up. Hotch calling agents into his office was routine, often mundane. Feedback, briefings, paperwork— none of it ever raised suspicion. Even from the most observant minds in the room.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

The moment it latched, Aaron was on you.

He grabbed your waist and spun you into him, lips crashing down against yours with a suppressed hunger. His hands roamed quickly, pulling your body flush against his.

"I can't work properly," he rasped low against your ear, voice thick with frustration. "You sit there looking like that- tight little blouse, those heels, and I can barely focus."

Your breath hitched, heart racing as his hands slid up your ribcage, thumbs brushing over the swell of your breasts through the thin fabric of your blouse. You tried to speak, but he silenced you with another kiss—hot, desperate, messy.

“Sit on the desk,” he ordered roughly.

You obeyed instantly, climbing onto his desk, legs parting as he stepped between them. His hands were everywhere—grabbing, squeezing, tugging at the fabric stretched tight across your chest. With one sharp yank, he unfastened the first few buttons, exposing the lace of your bra. He shoved the cups down, groaning at the sight of your tits spilling out.

“So fucking perfect,” he breathed, eyes dark, before lowering his head to capture one nipple in his mouth.

His tongue was hot and wet, swirling around the sensitive bud before sucking it hard into his mouth. His teeth grazed, then he pulled back just long enough to spit directly onto your flushed nipple, watching it drip down with a filthy smirk before sucking it back between his lips again.

You bit hard into your hand to stifle a moan, knuckles whitening.

"Aaron," you whispered, barely audible. "They're right outside-"

"Then stay quiet," he growled, voice low and sharp, his breath hot against your skin. “Be a good girl.”

His hands slid up your thighs, bunching your skirt around your hips, dragging your panties aside with a practiced urgency. Without any more warning, he pushed inside you in one smooth, rough thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You gasped into your hand, body jerking against him.

"That's it," he hissed, gripping your hips as he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back into you. “Fuck- so tight for me. You always are.”

The desk creaked faintly beneath you, but neither of you cared. His pace was wild— deep, fast, merciless. His hands squeezed your breasts, thumbs flicking your wet, spit-slick nipples as he drove into you over and over.

“Ah.... ahh-” you whimpered into your palm, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

“Look at you,” Aaron rasped against your ear, voice nearly breaking with how deep his need ran. “You’re biting down so hard. You like this, don’t you?”

Your thighs trembled as your orgasm threatened to crest. His thrusts grew rougher, faster, as he felt you start to clamp down around him.

“Come for me. Right now.” His voice was gravel, tight and dangerous. “Do it, sweetheart.”

You broke apart under him, mouth open in a silent scream, your entire body shaking. Your release clamped around him, pulling him over the edge moments later. He buried himself deep with a guttural groan, his body tensing as he emptied into you.

The office fell back into a heavy silence, save for both of your ragged breathing.

Slowly, Aaron straightened your blouse, refastening the buttons carefully, smoothing your skirt back into place. His expression cooled back into that familiar unreadable mask, the one he wore every day.

By the time you opened the door and stepped back into the bullpen, no one even glanced up.

As if nothing had happened at all.

[reginaphalangelobster]

Chrysanthemum

Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader (platonic)

Summary: You and your closest friend go after an unsub alone.

Warnings: death, brief description of injuries.

Word Count: 1.5k

A/n: This is my first Criminal Minds fic (I've posted) and I hope it's good! Thank you so much to @mameeta for this request via my Flowers Ask Game, I really loved writing this.

You had worked at the BAU for practically forever. You were regarded as one of the best detectives that worked there. You were great with the families due to your soft, kind nature. You were always able to get the information you needed and comfort them at the same time, never upsetting them or stepping over the line. You had a fantastic analytical mind, being able to decode cryptic messages alongside Reid. You were also particularly good at dealing with the bureaucracy of it all. After cases you often helped Hotch deal with the overwhelming paperwork. He never wanted to abuse your generosity so every time you offered to help there would always be the same conversation. You'd knock on his door and walk into his office.

"You busy?" You'd ask, knowing the answer was always yes.

"Just paperwork" He'd say without lifting his eyes from the stack of files he had to sort through.

"Need a hand?"

"I've got it"

"I don't have anything to do this afternoon, you look like you could use some help"

"You don't need to go out of your way"

"It wouldn't be any trouble"

"Don't you have your own paperwork to do?"

"Finished it"

"What about the rest of the team, I'm sure Morgan wouldn't turn you down"

"I already did his, everyone else's is done too"

"Don't you have anything to do at home?"

"Not really"

"You know if you do this you'll be knee deep in case files and performance reviews?"

"Oh, how invigorating!"

He laughed, incredibly lightly, a miracle on your part "Alright then, want to start with this pile" He said, pointing to one of three piles stacked a foot high.

You picked up the top file and started to work.

You had little conversations here and there, generally talking about nothing but sometimes you spoke about things, real things. Hotch's divorce, Jack, nightmares you both had about tough cases. Without realising it, all of that excess paperwork turned the two of you from colleagues to friends, best friends, who'd do anything for each other.

One morning Hotch finally asked you the question he'd had in the back of his mind ever since you met. He was walking past your desk when he spotted the same old vase, the vase that always contained a single chrysanthemum.

"Why do you always have one flower on your desk?"

"Good morning Aaron, I'm good, how are you?"

"Sorry, good morning"

You sighed lightly as you shook your head "It's a chrysanthemum, it holds deep meaning in European and Asian culture"

"What meaning?"

"There are a variety of meanings, that's part of what I like about them. The white ones are mostly for funerals, like a farewell to someone you cared about. That's why I only have colourful ones. The colourful ones generally symbolise love, happiness and immortality"

"Why is immortality important to you? Considering our job especially"

"This job is why. Immortality isn't being alive and breathing forever, at least not to me. It's living forever in the memories of those who cared about you. It means, when you're gone the people you loved will think of you fondly and you'll live forever in their hearts"

Hotch didn't say anything for a moment, contemplating your explanation, not exactly expecting something so profound.

"A bit much for eight thirty on a Tuesday, huh?"

You both laughed lightly and continued on with your day.

You were jolted awake by the piercing ring of your phone, at this hour you knew who it was.

"Hotch, this had better be an emer-"

"The jet leaves in twenty, be there"

The tone in his voice told you that this was bad, bad for the BAU was terrible so you got to the jet as quickly as you could. The second everyone was there he started the briefing.

"We're going to San Francisco, thirty one people were shot in either the chest, neck or head two hours ago. A week ago the same thing happened with nineteen victims then eight hours later there were another twenty six"

"Why weren't we called in earlier?" Morgan asked angrily.

"I don't know" Hotch said through gritted teeth, probably angrier than Morgan but trying to keep things professional.

"Do we know anything else? Any attempts to contact the media?" Reid asked.

"No"

"Any similarities in the victims?" Prentiss asked.

"No"

"What about the locations of the shootings?" You asked.

"No, all we know is there is a dangerous mass shooter loose in San Francisco and he's escalating quickly"

The rest of the flight was sat in silence. Not much changed when you landed, you all separated and did what you could but there wasn't much luck until the next wave of victims.

JJ ran into the room you were all in.

"There's been another shooting, thirty eight dead in Pioneer Park"

Just as the team were about to walk out the door Hotch's phone rang.

"Agent Hotchner"

"Do I know you?"

"I think so, you've been following my work recently"

He put his hand over then phone and motioned for Garcia over the monitor "It's the unsub"

"Tracing the call now"

He turned back to the phone and put it on speaker "You've been busy"

"I have, it's nice to see someone appreciating all the trouble I went to. You are enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

He sighed deeply, knowing the only way to work with this unsub would be to play to his ego "Yes, you're outdoing yourself. More victims each time"

"Yes, I do like this recent, escalation"

"Recent? So you've done this before?"

"Ooh, you're a quick one! Tell you what, if you meet me at Coit Tower, alone, I'll tell you all about the others, sound good agent?"

"You should know by now that I can't meet you alone"

"And you should know by now that you can't afford not to, see you at four, Aaron"

"He hung up, Garcia, did you find him?"

"Sorry sir, he knows his way around tech, couldn't even get a cell tower"

Hotch sighed and held his head low, rubbing his temples.

"You know you can't meet him alone" You said to him.

"I have to, who knows how many people he's killed, or how many more are next"

"It's too dangerous"

"I have to go"

"I-" Just as you were about to argue further your phone buzzed.

"I think it's the unsub" You said, showing the phone to Hotch.

"Go with him, it'll be fun" He read aloud.

"That's strange" Reid started "Everything this unsub has done has been set to a strict plan, the timings of the shootings, the locations, his contradictory messages might mean it's a set up"

"We have to go, even if it is" You replied.

"Guys" Prentiss said quietly "It's 3:45"

"The drive to Coit Tower will take approximately sixteen minutes with the current state of traffic" Reid added.

"We'd better go then" You said to Hotch.

The two of you left and drove as fast as you could. You didn't even have enough time to put vests on but you couldn't wait. You got there at 4:02, you only made it a few steps out of the car when you saw the unsub standing in the middle of the street, gun pointed at Hotch. You didn't have enough time to take out your guns before you heard the unsub.

"You're late"

Then he pulled the trigger. You could see it in his eyes and you didn't have time to think, so you just did. You turned around and wrapped your arms around Hotch, shielding him from the bullets that littered your body. You heard the faint sound of panic in the crowd and over your radio, the cops stationed a few blocks back began to move in. You heard their gunshots as they killed the unsub and you heard the sirens of the approaching ambulance. You looked up and saw Hotch, holding your body as you collapsed, blood pouring out of your back as you fell to the ground. Your vision began to blur and darken in from the corners, after your eyes went black the last thing you heard was Hotch, his voice broken and desperate as he softly begged.

"Stay with me, please, just stay with me"

The wind blew softly as birds chirped their sweet songs. Leaves crunched underfoot as Hotch slowly walked across the ground, wishing he wasn't where he was. He finally reached his destination, he stood there for hours, silent. There was nothing that he could say, nothing that would fix things, nothing that could turn back time or reshape reality, nothing that mattered.

He crouched down slowly and placed a large bouquet of white chrysanthemums on a cold, grey gravestone, your gravestone. A few tears began to roll down his cheeks as he read your name over and over again.

He thought back to what you said earlier and he knew that even though he failed at keeping you alive here, you would live forever in his heart, just as you wanted.

We have charged in battle array with the rose and the chrysanthemum - Okakura Kakuzō

Tags

@pinkthick @craftytacopiecash @meryuniverse @aliljaybird @macbaetwo @castielshunterwife @scarletluvsdanno @twentyonetornmyheart @neospacedoctor @destiel-1967-sammy @yigashimei @something0193 @ursamajor17 @colorfulavenuecollection @fairytailnerd1024-blog @daithideolishmer18 @am-i-the-villain-co @mameeta @bblessed @maximum-uwu @bbywonu

[cringeiknow]

God I love your dividers. You’ve done it again my love. THE BUTTON, THE CIGARETTE Detail. MMMMMMM

Stale Cigarette(s)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Deep talk instead of deep throat (pre-relationship mutual pining?) Hurt → comfort → hurt → final reminder that old dogs don’t change, they just find warmer corners to lie in Summary: You get dragged to a bar by your coupled-up friends and end up chain-smoking on a bench with your FBI crush. He offers you cigarettes untouched for exactly two years... so- um... what the hell happened two years ago? Warnings: age gap dynamics, smoking stale cigs, they're both a bit tipsy, objectification of the Hotchner body, grief (Haley mentioned), reader is not a reliable narrator! HOTCH SUCKS. HOTCH REALLY SUCKS. Word Count: 4.8k Dado's Corner: To all my readers named Haley: no you don’t. Not for a full 4.8k words, anyway. My deepest apologies. (Feel free to send hate mail. I deserve it.) Edit: if any of this sounded self-indulgent… that’s because it is. An ode to loneliness. Yours, always, Phi :3

masterlist

It’s not always the right historical era to go out with your two very not single friends.

You try. You make an appearance. You sip something overpriced and pretend to be fascinated by the structural integrity of the ice cube.

“My fiancé-” This man used to be called Matt until he got on one knee.

Not that you’re judging.

You’d absolutely pull the same shit if someone proposed to you. You’d probably milk it even more. Refer to them exclusively as “my betrothed” and update your mailing address to include your ring size. But the problem is-

It hasn’t happened.

You. As always.

“…the food was amazing…”

You smile. Take a sip. Your face performs basic social functions, trying to channel what middle-aged FBI speedo guy would do if he were politely enduring small talk at your place.

You are happy for your friend. Truly. (She’s your friend, for fuck’s sake. You should be happy.)

But sometimes happiness is… situational.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, you get blindsided by this sudden, lurching gut-punch of awareness of just how alone you really are.

Every empty seat next to you turns into a flashing neon sign that screams “STILL SINGLE LMAO, ENJOY DYING ALONE”

And then everything goes kind of foggy after that.

“…ever been there?” Not a question meant for you, obviously. (When are they ever?)

You kill time wondering what it might feel like to be someone who’s not just… a guest in this kind of life. To live in it full-time. With central heating.

“No, but Jonah took me to this really cute little-”

Cute little gentrified colonizer gastropub.

Ah, Jonah. The man. The myth. The boyfriend with the brilliant idea to bring his girl (your other friend) to an overpriced bar that looks like it was designed by a tech bro who hasn’t spoken to his mother in six years.

And tonight, instead of the usual dive you could actually afford, they decided this was the perfect friends night out venue.

You’ve never seen this many white men packed into one place outside of a church service. Or a David Fincher retrospective.

To be fair - Jonah does earn some credit.

The eavesdropping is phenomenal.

Behind you, someone is monologuing about astrophysics and the scientific inaccuracy of some Star Wars stuff.

You’re actually kind of into it - until he’s immediately shut down by a dude who goes, “Bro, A New Hope came out before you were even the fastest swimmer in the race. Oh- oh, wait… speaking of someone who’s swimming for real…”

“What about this pool guy?” your friend yanks your attention back, firing a perfectly accurate laser beam straight from the 1.40-carat rock on her finger (it’s cut so clean it reflects light directly into your retinas… ouch. It fucking hurts.) “I’ve heard from a certain someone…”

(Aka the woman sitting directly beside her-)

(Aka your other friend-)

(Aka the only one who actually knows the whole story because she’s the one you drive to swimming lessons every week since Jonah’s dick is allegedly 7.5 inches long but apparently can’t drive stick. Or park. Or show up on time. Or do anything but say “vroom” and hope for the best.)

“…Something you’d like to share about your new boy?”

(Ah. So this is what it takes to be included in the conversation - find a real, non-fictional man to thirst over. Got it. Message received.)

“Oh, definitely not a 'boy',” #PoolFriend adds, laughing.

“But you said-” (Mystery solved. Certain someone = swim friend. Wow. Shocking.) “Wait… is he a she?” (God, you wish.)

“No… it’s just that he’s… older?” you try not to sound defensive. (Defending your mighty little FBI princess is, of course, a sacred duty - but you’d rather not look that pathetic in front of the other feminists.)

“Sooooo old,” she beams. “Like, 60? You can see the forehead lines even when he’s resting his face.”

…Which is meant to be a dig, but actually makes you weirdly feral. You try to be diplomatic. You do. “He’s actually forty–”

“Oh- also, guess what?! He’s a dad too!”

Right. Great. Perfect.

Denied even the dignity of curating the lore drop on your old man, you make the emotionally mature decision to nurse your disappointment with alcohol.

You’re not getting drunk – it might soothe your soul, but one too many and you’ll be working your one day off just to pay the plumber who still hasn’t fixed the leak. So... fuck no.

Still, it’s funny how the tiniest buzz in your limbs, compounded by the fact that dinner was just…a whisper of carbs and a prayer, has evolved into such a deep, primal craving.

You want a cigarette.

One. Just one.

A menthol, preferably.

You’d trade your last serotonin molecule. You’d set fire to your own moral compass for a single drag.

But no. Life (your friends), in its eternal comedy, has placed you (without warning) here: in a… *drumroll* cop bar.

“Jonah said this is where the forces of order” (cops) “usually hang out. What if you find your FBI dilf here?!?”

First of all, that man is definitely not here, slumming it with the masses. He’s at home, swaddled in his sacred cocoon, reading a 700-page book on the macroeconomic collapse of the 1970s and calling it a wild night by page 26.

Second of all, you didn’t catch what she said next because your brain automatically dissociates in spaces that reek of both beer and casual misogyny disguised as patriotism.

Anyway: cop bar.

Which makes the mission of bumming a cig both ten times more illegal… and ten times more boring.

Like - sorry - when did smoking become lame?

When did it stop being for artists, rebels, and hot French women who cry in alleyways, and become the property of fascists puffing cigars the size of traffic cones?

(One comically large cigar to overcompensate for their undersized... moral compass. Among other things.)

Can’t they leave one thing alone? Just one? No. Of course not. They’ve colonized tobacco too.

You don’t even bother looking up from the sad little bench you parked your ass on the second you escaped.

Just sit there sulking, already familiar with the sound: the front door creaking open on hinges that haven’t seen oil since the Clinton administration (fascists don’t believe in lube - it’s too homosexual), and that cheap-ass bell above the frame, probably bulk-ordered from a themed decor warehouse trying to Irish-wash this bar into charm.

(It’s all performative heritage, anyway. Just so a white dude with a colonial guilt complex can feel like his ancestors survived the potato famine, instead of, you know… causing it.)

(Not that he could find Ireland on a globe if it came with a magnifying glass and a voiceover.)

Anyway, the bell rings, it’s time to strike again, “Do you have a cigar-”

“Hello to you too…” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hello to you too, Aaron Hotchner. So much for your bedtime tea and lights out by 10. No. Of course he had to be here. Now. Tonight. And of course he’s caught you mid-junkie act.

Stunning. Absolutely divine timing.

“Um- hi- so- I was kidding-”

“Hold on,” he says, already turning on his heel. No urgency. Just casually blessing you with a full high-definition shot of the jeans he clearly chose for tonight’s FBI Besties Night Out.

Jeans that almost, miraculously, give him an ass.

Almost.

(It’s more myth than meat. You know there’s nothing back there except air and possibly unprocessed ambition. [Maybe a little guilt in there too. {Or maybe he just padded}])

(You don’t care. You’re willing to suspend disbelief.)

He makes a beeline for his Serious Government-Issue Black Vehicle™, opens the passenger door, grabs something, shuts it again, and strolls back - front view this time (superior).

That something? Your desired little cancer sticks.

The universe provides.

“Shit, you a smoker?”

“If I were, don’t you think I’d keep them in my own pocket?” he says, topping it off with a little cherry on top (a sigh) that tells you he’s already regretting his detour, as he takes out his lighter.

One that’s clearly been used. A lot. The kind of wear no casual user puts on a Bic.

Unless Aaron’s got a Yankee Candle addiction (doubtful), that thing’s been through it.

“Look…” he starts. (Ah. So he noticed you noticing.) “I used to smoke a lot back when I was…” he fumbles - clearly seconds away from saying your age before veering off, cowardly, at the last second.

Loser.

“I quit when Jack - my son,” he adds, as if you haven’t already bookmarked his LinkedIn, archived Facebook, and the BAU team photo from 2009. Still, you nod, all “ohh” and innocent, so you don’t blow your cover. “-was born. I wouldn’t have been setting a good example. And it was bad for his health.”

“Yours too,” you murmur.

“Sure…” he musters the guts to chuckle. Tipsy? Maybe. Maybe just… soft. “Fuck that shit.”

(Definetely not soft.)

Except he’s full of it. Because if he’s so retired, why does he even have the pack in the first place?

You glance at it. Then down. (Not that down. Okay, a little.) The contradiction is right there in his hands. (And, arguably, in his jeans. But focus.)

Aaron goes all starey and confused, like he’s trying to telepathically summon a reaction from you. Maybe expecting you to scold him for swearing like a big boy. Maybe waiting for you to drop something coy like Wow, I’m sooo impressed, sir. Either way, he’s clearly starving for commentary.

So, in true martyr fashion, he opens the box.

Red Marlboros. Lame-ass classics. Of course. (You mentally pin that detail to your Bullying Vision Board.)

Only one cigarette is missing. Wait - no. Two.

Because he slides one out, tucks it between his lips, and just like that, your primal urge to bully him gets temporarily eclipsed by your even more feral desire to suck that exact cigarette out of his mouth.

“So much for being a quitter… aren’t you training for, like… some sports thing right now? You sure any of this is good for you?”

The cigarette bobs between his lips, his chin tilting just enough to let him peer down at you through half-lidded eyes - drawing a perfect little cardiogram of your heart rate spiking into cardiac arrest as he asks, “And how do you know I’m training for something?

Um...

By his tits.

Specifically: the ones bursting at the seams between the third and fourth button of his denim shirt, testing the tensile limits of ready-to-wear denim.

This is what happens when a man dives headfirst into some unsupervised fitness spiral and forgets to monitor his pec-to-fabric ratio.

Volume expansion was clearly not accounted for - or maybe it was, and this is all part of the plan. (Tactical slutwear.)

Because through that tiny, blasphemous gap in fabric: chest hair. An irresponsible amount of pale pec flesh. And a single freckle positioned so seductively you’d happily trade your liver, your birthright, and three months of overpriced therapy just to tongue it.

“Educated guess.” You’ve been caught - whatever. Still. Bless his midlife crisis. Unironically* the best decision he’s ever made.

…You’re joking, of course.

*Ironically. Yes.

Because all you get as a reply is one boyish little shake of the head instead of some broody retort in his usual Middle English.

He’s showing off.

Lighting up while you’re still empty-handed, selfishly enjoying the moral high ground and the taste of the butt of a cig.

Right hand cupped against the wind like a practiced sinner, flicks the lighter, flame kisses the filter.

He inhales slowly. Cheeks go hollow. Lashes dip low. Lungs greedily taking in what, by all laws of karmic justice, should’ve been your hit.

He leans back the tiniest bit, exhales with a sound that could be a sigh, a groan, a spell - and sends a perfectly petty swirl of smoke drifting up into the night sky…

And directly into your face.

“Are you gonna let me steal one of those or are you just getting off on making me watch?”

He squints. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke directly past your cheek. “Bought these exactly two years ago. I’m just making sure you’re not inhaling mold or… God knows what else.” (Why is God always the third wheel in your conversations?) “…You could try being grateful instead of giving me lip.”

You bite down the urge to say something about lip (or head, being medically accurate). “But I never asked you to do that… I just asked for a fucking cigarette. Let me inhale mold in peace.”

Anyway. Because you’re nothing if not polite - and not in the mood to witness a grown man get misty-eyed outside a bar at whatever-the-fuck o’clock - you sigh, lift your hand toward him, and slap on the biggest, fakest smile in your arsenal. “Please.”

The federal martyr mutters something - probably just for himself - about your relentless display of patheticism, but you’re too busy delightedly accepting a lone cancer stick as it emerges from the raven-haired 40-inch emotional support wig he calls knuckle hair.

“It’s a bit stale. Tastes like shit, honestly - just a heads up,” and drops onto the far end of the bench, manspreading just enough to make it clear that his long-ass legs now own every inch of that square meter.

The lighter gets passed to you wordlessly.

His fingers do not.

They linger - just behind your shoulders, just beyond plausible deniability.

Not touching (God forbid), but drifting into your orbit with the kind of casual inertia that feels anything but. One breath away from contact. From consequence.

Convenient, really - how something can feel so deliberate while technically doing absolutely nothing at all.

Just like how he jolts from his relaxed pose the second he hears you cursing the wind for cockblocking your nicotine hit. No hesitation. His hand curls in around yours, close enough to shield the flame - but closer still for the effect.

And you smell it.

Tonka bean.

Supposed to be subtle. Barely a base note.

But here, up close and concentrated and radiating off his pulse point, it turns narcotic. Sickly sweet and warm and grounded by something woodsy. It spins your head more than the nicotine ever could.

The lighter sparks.

And so do you.

His beautiful eyes.

The fire warms them into the richest hazel - gold spun through molasses - eyes that cast shadows so sharp they immortalise him into myth. Cheekbones all angles and darkness. Jaw tight, like he’s holding back the next thought from spilling out.

You’d kiss him. You would. Kiss his face, kiss his mouth, kiss that stupid expensive smell off his pulse point, kiss the glow from his lashes-

If only your own lips weren’t already wrapped around a filter. (If only you weren’t a monumental fucking coward.)

You hate that his gaze does this to you. That it tastes metallic on your skin, sharp and mineral and weirdly sour-

Just like the cigarette.

Especially when he finally breaks it, glancing down at the concrete like the tension might drain there, too.

“Man, this is barely hitting,” you wheeze - blaming the stale stick, of course, not yourself. Never yourself. Always safer to fault an inanimate object than admit you’re the common denominator of all of your problems.

“Told you,” Aaron gloats, flicking ash off the edge, all giddy because #HeWasRight. “It’s old and fucked. You’ve gotta wait it out. If you’re lucky, the nicotine kicks in and it just sucks slightly less... not as good as a fresh one but - this is all I’ve got.” (…Right. He’s so totally referring to the cigarettes.)

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is better than nothing,” you mumble, dragging again. “Anything that helps me forget this waste of a Friday.”

Which is a lie, obviously. Because sitting on a sad bench chain-poisoning yourself with a middle-aged… (oof) cop… is easily the best part of it.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

God forbid he ever clocks the fact that all your chances with him are already in the gutter because of how openly, stupidly rueful you’ve been acting.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s his fault.

Maybe he’s pulling some sick, gravitational field of pitifulness out of you just by existing.

Just by making you feel more at ease than your actual friends do - friends who drag you out to overpriced bars and call it “catching up” but barely ask a single question.

Maybe it’s because he actually listens. Doesn’t rush to fill silence. Doesn’t take and take and take.

And that’s all it takes.

One line of smoke down your throat, and the floodgates swing open. Words start tumbling out like it’s a compulsion. Like he’s the first pair of ears that hasn’t immediately gone looking for someone shinier.

“Let me guess… you’re one of those people who only smoke when they fuck something up? What happened? Divorce?”

Aaron tuts (man?!), “Close… though I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge - seeing as you only seem to smoke when someone else fucks up.”

How ironic.

If you were ever stupid enough to end up together and he managed to fuck things up (which he would) you’d both be right back here, smoke in your lungs, hands shaking, pretending it’s not about each other.

Hopeless. You’d never work. You’d ruin each other on principle.

Maybe it’s the cigarette. Maybe sharing something as self-destructive as this creates a kind of camaraderie. You’re both shaving off a few years of your lives, like the ads promise, so it only feels fair to share the minutes too.

So as ash falls onto the concrete, he learns a few things about you. That this was your friends’ idea. That it was supposed to be “a fun night out.” That you didn’t really want to come. And somehow - God knows how - maybe it’s his Catholic guilt boiling in his bloodstream over dying in sin - but he finally says,

“You didn’t really look like you were part of the conversation.”

You nearly drop the cigarette.

He was kind of right. The nicotine takes a while to hit - but maybe it’s more the hit of being noticed.

By him, no less.

(A man.)

(With a tit out.)

Suddenly, the whole thing feels archaic - like you’ve time-traveled back to the era when women weren’t allowed to vote, but still hoped the town’s handsomest soldier might remember what color dress they wore at the spring fair.

Or when tampons were taxed as luxury items. (Wait a second...)

What a world.

What progress.

Progress also means he admits he recognized you… by the back of your head.

He’d been sitting behind you. Of course you hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you. Not your face. Just your outline. Your posture. Your absence. And still - he knew it was you.

Which should make you feel triumphant. Gloaty, even.

FBI DILF has your silhouette burned into the folds of his premature memory loss? That’s deranged. That’s power. You should weaponize it.

Feels… bittersweet.

Because it wasn’t the presence of your face that triggered recognition. It was the lack of it. The gap. The space you take up when no one else is looking. And somehow… he looked anyway.

Fucking hell.

You need to stop smoking Aaron’s cigarettes.

They don’t just burn your throat - they peel you open, down to the bone. Turn your lungs to pulp and your brain to mushy existential soup. This is not you.

Or maybe this is you. Maybe this is the real you. The needy one. The one who just wants someone to see her.

And worse - he does. He might. And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Maybe he sees things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Or maybe he’s just like every other man who ever looked at you and called you a friend. Right after unzipping his pants.

Stale cigarettes, overpriced alcohol, and unsolicited introspection. The worst threesome of all.

“It just fucking sucks, man,” you mutter. You’re not blaming yourself. Plato probably said something similar while chain-smoking scrolls or whatever. “Like, I know love is fake. I know it. But even if it’s childish - rooted in all that patriarchal storybook bullshit - I still feel like I deserve the kind of love they read to me about as a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron softens his voice. “I disagree with that first part.” Of course you do, old man. “I don’t think love is fake, maybe the forever part is what’s unrealistic. The happy ending…” (What’s wrong with him???) “The happily ever after, that’s the myth. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for wanting something that lasts.”

…Something real. Something that doesn’t flake like ash in the wind.

You can smell the incoming boomer sermon from a mile away - and yep, here it comes. “I just don’t understand this fear men seem to have now about settling down. Is it fear of choosing? Dating apps make everyone feel disposable. Like if you commit, you might miss out on someone better. So you never do. Or maybe it’s something worse. Fear of feeling. Of loving.”

Shit.

How exactly are you supposed to explain to Aaron Hotchner that he just accidentally summed up your entire Notes app without sounding like you’re about to snap into a spoken word piece about modern loneliness?

"Easy to say when you’ve only got a few years left and don’t want to die alone." You’re not being mean. You’re just out of emotional vocabulary. That was the cleanest sentence you could manage with the filter still burning between your fingers.

He taps his cigarette against the bench. Smoke curls out of his smirk. “Funny - I was just about to say you don't sound like a horrible person.”

You snort. “See? You’re not that different from all the other dickheads out there.”

"Maybe, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of being loved .” (Pause. Beat. Murder.) “And - frankly - you underestimate how many masochists would find your tendency to call people out when they’re being dickheads… oddly endearing."

“Masochists? Really?!”

“Miss, you called me a dickhead… heavily implied, yes, but still,” he chuckles, “Masochists aside - I’m serious. I hope you know that.”

“Well… thank you then.”

“Anytime.” Said like it doesn’t cost him anything to be generous for three seconds. Must be nice.

You’re not naïve.

This (whatever this is) this rhythm of trading barbs and pretending not to notice how good it feels to be seen? It’ll end with the cigarette. That’s the expiration date.

Once the last drag’s done, so is the spell. Back to real life, back to no obligation to talk. Back to being strangers again.

So maybe that’s why it slips out.

“I think what gets to me the most is... I just want someone to actually listen. Like, really listen. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. Not because it’s their fucking turn to play therapist. Just… because they want to. Because they care enough to. I want to be helped. I want to be seen. And it sucks. It sucks that no one ever really does. It sucks not knowing if that someone… exists. Ever feel that kind of lonely?”

“I understand what you mean. If it helps… loneliness might be the most universal condition there is. It’s paradoxical - everyone feels it, but no one wants to admit it. You grow up being told people are essential. That you need connection to be whole. But the truth is… most of the time, it’s just you. You think your own thoughts. You carry your own weight. The rest… they’re- complimentary. Temporary. Additions. They matter, but they’re not the foundation.” (Man… that’s depressing.) “Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And you’re fine with that?! Not having anyone who can help you make sense of… everything?” You shake your head, baffled. “I don’t even know how you function.”

He breathes in deep, doesn’t look at you when he answers. “I compartmentalize. I separate myself from the problem and keep going. If I let myself really sit with it… I wouldn’t be useful to the people who need me more.”

Hero complex. Exhibit A.

“You’re telling me you never talk to anyone about your feelings?” you ask. “Like… not even one friend? Not even one of your little apocalypse buddies you save the world with?”

“We’re colleagues, not friends.” (So he’s basically admitting he has no friends… isn’t he?) “And for the record, I am opening up to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Dude…” This man. This man is the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet at the bottom of the ocean. And you want him. Disgusting. “Despite some of the stuff you’ve told me being… like… genuinely borderline horrible, and you’re so lucky I didn’t deck you-”

He smirks. “You could’ve. I probably deserved it.”

You glance over. He’s chuckling to himself now, the corners of his mouth tugged upward just slightly, cheeks flushed, probably from the scotch finally catching up with him.

“Aside from calling me a dickhead, of course…” he adds.

You fumble. Damn it. “I was trying to say - despite that - your words did help. A little.” Smug little upturn of his mouth. You want to slap it off him. For real this time. “Not like… made-everything-better kind of help. More like - didn’t make me feel worse. Which is basically the same thing, right?”

He smiles. Pretentious asshole. You need to stay strong - not linger on it, not let it do things to your insides.

So you pivot. Hard.

“Sometimes it helps, you know? Getting a fresh pair of eyes on your mess. You just have to - I don’t know - admit you’re a loser, peel off a couple layers of that bulletproof manhood you’ve wrapped yourself in, and actually say what you’re feeling. To someone. Out loud. With words.”

He looks at you. He’s supposed to take another drag, but he doesn’t. Just watches. Still. Quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Wild concept.” You shake your head, let yourself soften - just a little. Just for him. Maybe he’s worth it. “But if you don’t do that, no one’s ever gonna get it. Not really. People can’t read your mind, Aaron. They’re not gonna understand unless you tell them. And even then, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only shot you’ve got.”

“You always make it sound so easy, Hales.”

“That’s… not my name.”

“What?” *The Bluetooth device is ready to pair.* You can hear the connection click in his skull. “Oh – God - I’m so sorry.” *The Bluetooth device is connected successfully.* “I didn’t- didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you just… you sounded exactly like her.”

You don’t know who he means. Not for sure. You have a guess, of course. Everyone has a guess when a man like him says “her” with that look in his eye.

But you’re too annoyed to admit it. Too annoyed and – maybe - just a little dizzy. From the cigarette. From the him of it all. From the ache in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not really.

Because the one fucking time someone actually seems to listen to you, to hear you, it’s not even really you they’re hearing.

It’s her. It was always her.

You were just close enough in shape and tone and timing to wake the shadow of someone else.

“It’s just that… it’s been two years today.”  Oh, mysterious boy. From what?! From what?

You want to yell. You want to pull his stupid loose shirt tighter so it stops falling open every time he leans forward and says emotionally damaging things.

“Actually…” he gives a watery little laugh, and you hate how beautiful it is, how it lands soft and splintering right in your chest.

“It’s been two years since I bought these too,” he says, pulling out the same battered pack of Marlboros. Same lame-ass, fermented cigarettes from his glove compartment. Same pack with only one missing - until tonight. The same ones he offered you.

 The same ones he last smoked two years ago.

“…And two years since my wife’s funeral.”

The filter tastes rancid.

You know the situation is deeply, apocalyptically fucked when not only does he casually drop a circumstantial bomb to imply she’s dead - because actually saying the words would clearly cost him something vital - but he also slips. Calls her his wife.

Not ex-wife.

(You may or may not have stalked him so thoroughly that you accidentally uncovered his signed divorce papers on a weird, half-archived subpage of her attorney’s old website. Whoopsies.)

So it’s not just the grief. It’s the grief plus the guilt plus the very subtle, very devastating slip that he maybe never stopped thinking of her as his wife.

Even after.

Even now.

Which would be a perfect cue to walk away. To protect yourself. To not indulge whatever haunted cathedral of unresolved feelings he’s got going on behind those wet lashes.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

…But he’s so hot when he cries.

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