hi, i just got some bad news and am feeling really in need of comfort so there's a fic i'd like to request for aaron hotchner x fem reader. reader has severe adhd that basically renders her helpless and unable to executively function in any way, and aaron's with her through the process of trying medication, but ultimately nothing works out and aaron comforts very emotional reader over her feelings of hopelessness. i love your writing and your dedication to representing disabled or chronically ill readers❤️
Title: The Space Between Intending and Doing
Summary: The medication trials take everything out of you—Aaron makes sure you still have somewhere to land.
Tags: adhd!reader, medication trials, executive dysfunction, rejection sensitive dysphoria, the gap between intending and doing, reader standing in doorways again, hurt/comfort, soft!aaron hotchner, aaron keeps a log in his phone, crying on the bathroom floor, crying in the kitchen, the wall is still there but so is he, no use of y/n, slow quiet love, he drives you to every appointment, he says we like it was never in question, toast as an act of devotion, reader breaking down fully, reader feeling like a burden, gentle affirmations, non-linear recovery, this is not a fix-it fic, this is a stay-through-it fic, the dishes are still in the sink, fluff and hurt/comfort, love as documentation, love as presence, no resolution just warmth
Word Count: 4.4k words.
You've been standing in the kitchen doorway for four minutes.
You know it's four minutes because you checked your phone when you first walked in, the way you always do, reflexively, like your hands need something to grip while your brain spins loose from its axle. The time was 7:43. It's 7:47 now. You've checked twice—you checked it, registered the number, and then thirty seconds later had absolutely no idea what it said, as though the information passed straight through you like light through glass. So you checked again.
The sink is full. There's a particular defeat in the way unwashed dishes just sit there, patient and accusatory, a still life assembled from every time you thought I'll do that in a minute and then the minute became a hallway you couldn't find the end of. The dryer's been running on fumes for two days, tumbling the same load of laundry that's gone from damp to stale to something worse—something that smells like good intentions left in a closed room. Your phone has eleven notifications. You've opened each one, felt the small bright flare of I should respond to this, watched it gutter out, and set the phone face-down like that was a decision instead of a failure. The trash was supposed to go out last night. It didn't.
You can't remember what you came in here for.
There was a reason. It existed in your head as recently as thirty seconds ago, and somewhere between the sofa and the kitchen doorway it simply ceased to exist, dropped through a gap in the floor of your memory. It's not the forgetting that's the worst part—it's the gap between intending and doing, the wall your brain builds out of nothing, smooth and invisible, right at the threshold of action. You wanted something. You walked here wanting it. The wanting is still here but it's untethered now, floating loose from whatever it was attached to, like a balloon that's lost its string.
Aaron finds you there.
You don't hear him come in. The door must have opened, the lock must have turned, his keys must have hit the bowl in the hall the way they always do, but none of it registered—you were too far inside your own stuckness for anything external to make a dent. But then he's just there, beside you, still in his suit jacket, the top button of his shirt undone but the tie still knotted, reading the room the way he reads everything—carefully, without rushing to a conclusion he hasn't earned yet.
He takes in the doorway, then you, then the sink, then you again.
He doesn't say just start with one thing. He doesn't say how long have you been standing here with that particular inflection that makes concern sound like accusation. He doesn't say anything immediately—he thinks before he speaks, actually thinks, and the space he leaves isn't empty, it's considered.
He looks at the kitchen the way you're looking at it, just for a moment. Then he sets his bag down by the wall, crosses to the bin, and pulls the bag out with the easy efficiency of someone who has simply decided to do a thing and is doing it. He ties it off. He carries it out the front door. The door shuts quietly behind him.
You stand there and feel it.
The shame isn't sharp—it's not a knife, it's a tide, slow and total, the specific humiliation of standing frozen in your own kitchen while someone else takes out your rubbish. It soaks into you the way cold does, from the outside in, settling somewhere behind your sternum. You know, with the rational part of your brain that is always functional and always useless, that Aaron did it because the bin needed doing and he was there and it took him forty seconds—the same way he'd hold a door or pick something up off the floor, practical and unremarkable. You know this. You feel the shame anyway.
He comes back and stands with you.
Not behind you. Not in front of you. Beside you, at the same angle, both of you looking at the same sink. His shoulder is about two inches from yours. The kitchen doesn't change—and yet the room feels subtly different. Less like a verdict.
"Hey," he says finally. Just that.
"Hey," you say back.
"D'you eat today?"
You have to think about it. That itself is an answer, and you both know it. "I had—yeah. I had something."
"Something."
"Crackers, I think. Around two."
He makes a small sound, not judgmental, more like he's filing the information. "I'll make something."
"You don't have to."
"I know," he says, and peels away toward the fridge, and you stand there another moment before your legs remember they work and carry you to the kitchen table, where you sit down and watch him pull things out with the easy competence of someone who has never once forgotten why he walked into a room.
The Adderall starts on a Tuesday, eight weeks after the kitchen doorway, at the end of an appointment where you finally manage to describe the gap in a way that feels accurate—not I'm lazy, not I can't focus, but there's a wall, you tell her, a wall I can't see or explain but I hit it every single time I try to do the thing that matters most, and I can't get through it, and I've tried everything I know how to try. Your psychiatrist listens with her full attention and says words that rearrange something in your chest: that's very consistent with what we're seeing in the assessments.
You come home with a prescription and sit with it in your hand for ten minutes before you fill it.
The first few days are a revelation. Something that was always there but covered, draped under heavy cloth, and now the cloth is gone and the light is extraordinary. You clean the whole flat—not in the anxious, scattered way you sometimes manage to clean, stopping halfway through the bathroom to reorganise the bookshelf because something caught your eye and pulled you sideways, but really clean it, room by room, start to finish, one surface at a time, with a logic to the order that you invented on the spot and then followed to completion. The following-through is the part that makes your eyes sting.
You answer every email in your inbox. Not just the easy ones. All of them.
You sit down to write something you've been avoiding for six weeks and you just start—intention flowing directly into action like they're in the same room instead of separated by the wall. You cry in the shower that night, quietly, with the water running hot, because you didn't know. You've spent so long thinking the wall was your fault, thinking other people manage, other people just do things, what is wrong with you, and now the wall is lower, and you can see over it, and this is what it's supposed to feel like. This is what it's supposed to feel like for everyone else, every day, without even noticing.
You tell Aaron that night.
You're on the sofa with your chin on his shoulder and his arm around you and your voice doing something embarrassing around the edges. "I think this is it," you say. "I cleaned everything. I answered all my emails. I started the—the thing, the thing I've been putting off for six weeks, I just started it, Aaron, I just sat down and started it."
"I saw the flat," he says. There's warmth in it.
"I think this is actually it. Like, I think this is what it's supposed to be like."
He turns to look at you, and he smiles—that quiet, careful smile, the one that lives in the corner of his mouth and doesn't quite make it to a full expression, held back by something thoughtful. He brings his hand up and tucks your hair back and then just leaves it there, cupped at the side of your face, warm and certain. You feel how much he's hoping with you—feel it the way you feel heat, through the skin. And underneath it, the something-held-back, a net he's keeping ready beneath you that you don't want to look at, because looking at it means acknowledging you might fall.
You don't look at it.
"Good," he says. "I'm glad."
Week three arrives the way bad news does—quietly, and then all at once.
Your resting heart rate sits at 110. You know this because you've been checking it obsessively—the medication that was supposed to quiet the noise in your head has introduced a new and louder noise that goes your heart is beating too fast, check again, check again. You press two fingers to your wrist at odd moments. You watch the number on the app and feel your own heartbeat from the inside, knocked loose, a stone rolling around with no good place to settle. Your hands shake when you try to write—not dramatically, just enough that each sentence feels slightly out of reach, like you're trying to catch something that keeps sliding off the edge of your grip.
And you still can't start the most important task on any given day.
You can start other things. You've reorganised the kitchen cupboards twice, refolded everything in your wardrobe, cleaned the skirting boards with a cotton bud because something made that seem urgent at the time. But the thing that matters most just sits there, dense and immovable at the centre of the day, and the Adderall doesn't touch it. It gave you access to a different set of tasks. Just not the right ones.
You don't tell Aaron for a few days. You want to keep the possibility open that you're wrong, that the brain you had in week one is just temporarily misplaced and not already gone.
"Your hands are doing the thing," he says one evening, watching you try to write.
"They're fine."
"They're shaking."
"They're fine, Aaron."
He doesn't push it. He gets up and makes tea and sets a mug next to your laptop, and you both pretend for a little while longer. But that night in bed, when the lights are off and it's easier to say things into the dark, you tell him. Your heart rate. That you still can't start the thing that matters. That the three days in week one feel like they happened to someone else now, like a window you looked through for a moment before someone closed it.
He's quiet for a moment, his hand resting on your back.
"The lights didn't stay on," you say. "They just—flickered. Into a different colour."
"We'll call Dr. Reyes in the morning," he says.
We. Just that, like it was never in question.
Your psychiatrist switches you to Vyvanse. Then Strattera. Then Wellbutrin as an adjunct, because sometimes things work better in combination, because your brain is a lock and they're still working through possible keys. Each one is its own small country with its own particular terrain, and you arrive at each border with your bags packed for somewhere else entirely.
Vyvanse makes you feel quieter—but not in a good way, quiet like a room where all the furniture has been taken out, the dimensions still there but nothing to soften them, the sound of your own footsteps too loud on the bare floor. Functional but flat, like a photograph of yourself, the depth missing. Aaron notices before you name it. He asks, one evening, whether you've cried recently.
"I don't think so," you say, and then, realising: "Should I be worried about that?"
"I don't know," he says, which is the honest answer. "What does it feel like from the inside?"
"Like I'm watching things through glass. Like I'm there but not—in it."
He types something in his phone. You watch him do it—the deliberateness of it, the way he glances at you first before he types, like he's making sure he has the right words—but you don't ask what. You're not sure you're ready to know.
Strattera takes six weeks to build to a therapeutic level, which means six weeks of side effects—fatigue, nausea, a headache that settles behind your eyes and doesn't move—with no corresponding benefit, no change in the thing you're trying to change, just side effects and waiting. You have to explain this to people. You're still waiting. You're on week three and nothing has changed and yes you're still taking it. The appointments with Dr. Reyes are every three weeks and Aaron drives you to every one. He sits in the waiting room with a case file open on his lap, and every time you come out he looks up immediately—not anxiously, just attentively, with all of himself pointed at you in that particular way he has.
"How was it?" he asks, in the car.
"She says give it another two weeks."
"Okay."
"She said it could still work. That six weeks is the minimum, not the ceiling."
"Do you believe her?"
You look out the window at the passing street. "I don't know. I want to."
"That's enough," he says. "For now, that's enough."
The Wellbutrin comes after, as an add-on, and for four days you think—carefully, cautiously—that maybe this is the one. You feel more like yourself. The flat interior quality of the Vyvanse lifts a little, some air coming in. You tell Aaron at dinner and he listens with his whole face and says "that's good" and means it, and you can see him trying not to hope too hard, holding his hope at a manageable level.
Then the nausea starts.
Not dramatic nausea—just a constant low-grade wrongness in your stomach that colours everything the way dye in water colours everything, spreading until you can't find the place it came from. You eat less. Then you eat almost nothing, because eating makes it worse, and after two days of that your psychiatrist calls and asks how you're managing, and there's a pause, and then she says: "There are other options we can look at."
Her voice has that particular gentleness. The gentleness that means we're running out of the easy ones.
You sit on the bathroom floor that night.
You don't decide to. You're brushing your teeth and then you're just sitting down, back against the bath, legs straight out on the cold tile, the toothbrush still in your hand. Not a breakdown—not yet. More like a system reaching its limit and doing a controlled shutdown, the way a phone powers off cleanly when the battery's gone rather than just going dark without warning. You sit there and you don't get up.
Aaron comes to find you. He must have noticed the light still on, or the quiet, because he appears in the doorway still in his work clothes—the jacket is gone but the shirt is untucked and he looks like a man who came home and didn't quite get around to changing. He takes in the toothbrush in your hand, the floor, the specific quality of your stillness.
He doesn't say oh no. He doesn't introduce urgency into a moment that doesn't need it. He lowers himself to the floor beside you—gracefully for a man of his size, which you've always found slightly unfair—and sits down with his back against the bath, his knee pressed against yours, his legs stretched out the same direction as yours.
The bathroom light hums very faintly. The toothbrush is still in your hand.
"What if nothing works," you say.
It's not a question. The worst version of this thought never arrives as a question—it arrives with the settled weight of a conclusion, solid and airless, the thing you've been pressing down for months finally surfacing because you've run out of the energy it takes to keep submerging it. What if nothing works. What if you're the specific configuration of brain chemistry that sits just outside the range of what the available tools were designed for. What if the gap between intending and doing is just structural, permanent, and you spend the rest of your life standing in doorways.
Aaron doesn't rush to answer. He sits with it long enough that you feel his deliberateness—this isn't him stalling, it's him giving the question the weight it deserves.
He brings his hand to the back of your neck, warm and certain, his thumb settling at the top of your spine. You feel the pressure of it from the inside—your shoulders drop half an inch, your next breath comes a fraction more easily, like something was clenching and has now been given permission to stop.
He doesn't fill the silence with a reassurance he'd have to lie to give you. It'll definitely work out. He doesn't say it. You'll definitely be okay. He doesn't say that either.
"I know," he says.
Then: "I'm here."
You turn your face slightly toward him without quite looking at him. "I'm so tired," you say. "I'm just—I'm so tired of it."
"I know."
"I can't even—" You stop. Start again. "I can't keep track of my own medications. I have to ask you what I'm on. I can't remember what I told her last appointment." Your voice does something at the edges. "It's the thing the disorder takes, Aaron. The keeping-track thing. That's the thing it takes first."
He doesn't say that's what I'm here for in a way that's meant to fix it. He understands—or tries to, and tries harder than anyone you've ever known—that it's not about him being there. It's about the particular cruelty of needing to manage a thing that steals your ability to manage things. He just sits with that too, his hand warm on the back of your neck, his knee against yours on the tile.
"Come on," he says, eventually. "Come to bed."
You let him help you up. He takes the toothbrush from your hand and puts it back in its holder, and it's such a small thing that it almost undoes you completely.
You do break down. Eventually.
It's two weeks later, on an ordinary Wednesday. Not in a moment of particular crisis, not at the end of a visibly terrible day, but in the middle of something ordinary, when the accumulation finally exceeds the container. You're in the kitchen. You're supposed to be making dinner and instead you're standing at the counter, again, in the gap, again, feeling the wall between you and the simple act of opening the fridge—and something about the familiarity of it, the fact that this is still happening, that you're still here and the wall is still here and nothing has fundamentally changed—breaks the last of whatever was holding.
It's ugly. It's loud. Your face goes swollen and red very quickly and you cry in the way you only cry when you've stopped caring how you look, great heaving sobs that shake you like a thing being wrung out by the shoulders.
Aaron is there within seconds—he must have heard it from the other room, must have recognised the register of it, because he doesn't hesitate. His arms are around you from behind and you turn into him and he holds you and you cry into his shirt and he doesn't try to stop it or move you past it. He just holds the full size of it with you.
You say things that sound terrible and true.
You tell him you're exhausted by your own brain—not sad, not angry, just worn to the most fundamental degree, ground down to a place where there's nothing left that isn't tired. You can't keep being a person who needs this much scaffolding just to get through a day—the alarms for every task, the app that reminds you to drink water because otherwise you forget for eight hours, the body double videos you play so your brain believes someone else is present and will therefore cooperate, the log in his phone, the appointments, the medication trials, the routines you build and rebuild and inevitably abandon. None of it is enough. You are so tired of needing all of it and still falling short.
"I feel like I'm standing behind glass," you say, and you can hear how wrecked your voice is, how it keeps fracturing. "Everyone else just—lives. They wake up and do things. They think of something and they do it. They make a plan and follow it through because the thread doesn't just go dead in their hands between the thinking and the doing. And I can't even make myself open the fridge, Aaron, I've been standing here for ten minutes trying to open the fridge."
"I know," he says.
"It's not hard. There's food in it. I know I need to eat. And I just—can't start." Your face is pressed into his shoulder. You can feel the fabric getting wet. "I'm so tired of it being a war. Every day. Just waking up is a war. And I'm so tired of losing."
"You're not losing," he says, quietly.
"Aaron."
"You're here. You're still here."
"That's not the same as winning."
He doesn't argue with that. You feel the breath he takes—deliberate and slow. "No," he says. "It's not."
"I don't know what to do," you say. Your voice is down to almost nothing. "I don't know what to try next. I don't know how many more times I can do this."
He holds you tighter—not to compress you or make you smaller, just so you can feel the full fact of him there, arms around you, not flinching, not calculating how to end this, holding the size of you, the mess and the noise and every sharp edge.
"I know," he says. And then, after a pause long enough to mean it: "You don't have to know right now."
You cry harder. Because it's the right thing to say, the exact right thing, and your brain—exhausted and wrung out as it is—is still an instrument finely tuned to the right thing, still responds to it like a chord that was always meant to resolve but had been suspended for months. He holds on.
Later—you don't know how much later, time gets slippery—you're back in the kitchen, the worst of it through, and Aaron is making toast because toast is the only thing that seemed manageable. You're sitting at the table with a glass of water he put in front of you without asking. The flat is quiet. Your face is tight from crying.
"I have to call Dr. Reyes tomorrow," you say.
"I'll remind you," he says.
"I should be able to remember to make my own—"
"I'll remind you," he says again, without inflection, just as a fact.
You look at him at the toaster, still in the clothes he came home in, and you feel something large and ungainly in your chest that doesn't have a single name. Gratitude is part of it. Love is more of it. The specific ache of being well-cared-for when you don't feel like you deserve it yet.
"Aaron," you say.
"Mm."
"The log. In your phone."
He turns to look at you. His expression doesn't change much, but it shifts.
"I saw it," you say. "A few weeks ago. I only saw two lines."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "I should have told you about it."
"No, I—" You stop. "I'm glad you have it. I'm glad someone has it. I just—" You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. "The way you wrote it. Felt flattened out. Just that. Like each thing mattered specifically."
"It does," he says.
"I know," you say. "Thank you."
He puts the toast on a plate and brings it to the table and sits across from you, and for a while you both just sit there, and you eat the toast, and neither of you needs to fill the silence.
Afterward, you're in bed.
The flat is still a mess—the dishes still in the sink, patient as scripture, the laundry still in the dryer and probably unsalvageable now. Tomorrow there'll be a phone call, another appointment, another conversation about options and side effects and what's next. Nothing is fixed. The night doesn't have the shape of a night with a resolution inside it.
Aaron's hand moves slowly through your hair.
You're lying with your head on his chest, your eyes swollen almost shut, heavy and sore. Your breathing is still catching on the tail end of it—a small involuntary hitch, the aftershock. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek. Not performing steadiness—just steady, the way things are steady when they've been still for a long time and have no intention of moving, the way a stone at the bottom of a river just remains.
You press your face into his shirt.
He says your name. Once, quietly—not urgently, not as a prelude to anything. Just your name in his voice, offered to the dark with no weight behind it except the weight of meaning it. The particular sound of your name when someone is glad it exists.
You feel it in your sternum.
The dishes are still in the sink. The laundry is still wet. Tomorrow is still coming with everything it's carrying—the phone call, the careful and exhausting work of describing your own brain so that someone can try again to help it. The gap between intending and doing will still be there, the wall still smooth and invisible, still rising every morning just before you need it not to. You've stopped expecting it to go anywhere overnight, and that itself is a kind of grief.
But Aaron's hand is in your hair, moving slow and steady, unhurried, and your breathing is evening out—the hitches coming further apart, your body doing the quiet work of settling because bodies do that, eventually, even the ones attached to brains like yours, even when you're sure they won't. Outside the window the street makes its ordinary sounds—a car, someone's footsteps, a door—the world carrying on without requiring anything of you.
You are still here. He is still here. That isn't a resolution. It's just what's true tonight, and there's something in the fact that it requires nothing from you—no follow-through, no forward momentum, no crossing the gap between intention and action—that lets you breathe.
Okay so I saw your jealous hotch request right after reading “absent” so feeding off of absent’s angst and hotch’s conflicted feelings. He gets back from a case (maybe the same one) early and surprises the family at Jack’s soccer game. At the game, he sees the easy back and forth you have with another soccer dad and gets back into his head bc that should be him. Maybe the soccer dad is actually flirting bc “I’ve never met your husband. What’s his job again?” Or maybe he’s literally just a chill guy and being friendly. dealers choice. I’d love if reader clocked it and played into it the sliiiiiightest bit (mostly bc the sex once the kids are asleep would be spectacular and maybe we get talking about making baby #3 again)
sidelines
a flirty soccer dad??? YES AARON GET HIM cw; fem!reader, jealous!!!!!! and protective!!! girl dad!aaron, briefly suggestive, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 2.1k
The park was already crowded, though that was hardly surprising. A warm morning with no clouds in sight had drawn everyone out; every soccer field was in full use, the air carrying the distant sound of whistles and cheering.
Luckily, it was easy for Aaron to find a parking spot; he didn't need to park down the street like some. He supposed - despite the obvious downsides - late arrival had a benefit after all.
He spotted your car parked nearby, and the image immediately came to mind - you unloading the trunk, reminding Ellie not to wander too far while Jack impatiently called for everyone to hurry up. Relief settled in his chest, the first real sense of it he'd felt all week after working a case involving families with young children. The three of you were close. He was home.
It hadn't taken him long to locate where Jack's team was playing, or for his eyes to land on you. You were standing on the sidelines, sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose. The only thing out of place was one of the other soccer dads talking to you.
It wasn't the fact that you were talking to someone else. It was the way he was doing it.
The sun was to his back - no sunglasses shielding his expression - so Aaron could fully see his face. Hanging onto your every last word, too engaged, arms crossed over his chest in a way that flexed his muscles as he leaned in.
He looked too comfortable. Too enamored by you.
As you chatted with him, Ellie wandered over and held up a juice box, a silent plea for assistance. You popped the straw in and handed it back without ever losing your train of thought (or glancing away).
Dread, and a touch of jealousy, pooled in Aaron’s stomach. The normalcy of it stung, the air now beginning to feel a bit too warm. He felt like a bystander in his own family's life.
Another thought came to mind - is this what always happened when he was away?
The man even offered Ellie a smile, but she paid him no mind, completely ignoring him in favor of running off to rejoin the other little kids.
Aaron eagerly picked up his pace, desperate to intervene before the guy began invading your space even more. It didn’t look like it’d be long.
Your friendly face morphed into one of clear surprise when he came into view. You pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, as if your eyes were playing a trick on you. “Aaron?! What are you doing here?”
Aaron caught the subtle flicker of disappointment that crossed the man's face. His hand settled around you, a little more possessive than usual, pulling you closer against him. If there was one thing he wanted to make clear, it was that you were his. “We wrapped last night and took an early flight home. Thought I'd surprise you.”
“Consider me pleasantly surprised,” you grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
When you pulled back, you caught the tension lingering in his jaw, his subtle gaze continuing to size up the other soccer dad. Not that Aaron seemed to notice your observation - he was too focused on the man who had clearly gotten under his skin.
Your hand rested against his chest, your fingers moving absently over the fabric of his shirt, a quiet reminder that you were right there.
“How's he doing?” Aaron asked as his posture relaxed the smallest amount, his eyes shifting to the far end of the field, immediately locking onto number two.
Your mouth opened, but it wasn’t your sweet voice Aaron heard.
“Jack's doing great today.” The man answered instead, rattling off Jack's stats with the confidence of a proud parent. He looked at you, too happily, too smug. “He's gotten what? One goal? Two assists-”
“I was asking my wife.”
Your expression faltered, taken aback by your husband's strange lack of friendliness. You studied his face, searching for some explanation.
An awkwardness settled in the air, intertwining with the growing humidity, but before you could say a word, Ellie suddenly appeared, crash landing into Aaron's legs. “Daddy!”
-
“Today was fun,” you said, leaning back against the kitchen counter as you watched Aaron rinse off the last of the dishes. The words were casual, but the meaning behind them wasn't. It was an invitation, a gentle opening for him to share whatever had been weighing on him since the soccer field.
The kids had long since been tucked into bed, exhausted after a full day. Jack's team had won, and between the game, the trip to the grocery store, and the belated Father's Day festivities that followed, it was no wonder they'd been fast asleep almost as soon as their heads hit their pillows.
And now, the two of you moved through your usual end-of-night routine; cleaning up before finally settling in yourselves.
“It was.” His back was to you, putting one of the glasses in the dishwasher. He didn’t elaborate, though his tone indicated there was much more to it than that.
“Aaron.”
He stopped, his eyes finding yours. “What?”
“Is everything alright?” Your gaze searched his face, worry softening your expression. “You're…” you trailed off.
“I'm what?” He asked, a bit harder around the edges than he intended. Frustrated.
“Acting like you have something to prove.” Your voice softened, confusion flickering across your face as your expression dropped.
“Am I?” It wasn't a challenge or even a denial. More of an admission to himself than anything else.
You studied him for a moment, watching the conflict play across his features. “Does this have something to do with Jared?”
The name almost made him flinch. His jaw tightened, and he let out a quiet breath through his nose before finally meeting your eyes.
“Is he always that comfortable with you?” he asked, trying for a casual tone that didn't quite land.
“I... no.” You stated with certainty, hands falling to your side. A crease formed between your brows, “not at all.”
He huffed, shaking his head slightly as he crossed his arms.
“Is that why you’re so upset?” You asked gently, compassion softening every word. “Aaron, sweetheart, he-”
Aaron interrupted, “it made me sick to my stomach.”
“I'm sorry-”
“How natural it all looked.” Another confused look pulled onto your face, and he continued. “Watching him stand there like he belonged beside you. The smile he gave Ellie, like he was hoping she'd smile back. Or as if he was responsible for how well Jack was playing.”
Your tone changed, switching from sincerity to more of a firm confidence. "Aaron, honey, you have no competition.”
“Well, it should have been me.”
“Aaron, it is you. Whether you're physically here or not.” You laughed, your expression filled with affectionate disbelief. “Do you really think there's anyone else I would want this life with?”
“Even if most of the time you’re living that life on your own?”
“I’m not.” You insisted, pushing away from the counter and gently catching his forearms, coaxing them apart from where he'd folded them tightly across his chest. “You’re okay. We’re okay. So what if you miss a soccer game here and there? None of that changes what you mean to us.”
“It’s not just that, though.” He looked down, ashamedly averting his eyes from yours. “It’s everything. I was talking to Dave,” at the mention of his name, Dave’s words flashed into his mind. Do you ever consider it? Hanging up that badge? “I've been thinking about taking some time off.”
Your brows drew together. The idea of Aaron willingly taking time away from work was startling enough to send a wave of concern through you. “For how long?”
“A couple weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know.” He gave a small shrug, his eyes finding yours again. “It's just a thought.”
“Would you actually want that?”
“I don't want Jack and Ellie growing up remembering me as the dad who's always leaving, who's missing their lives.” And the thought of someone else taking his place terrified him. Someone else being there for the moments he missed, becoming the familiar face in their lives while he became the father who was always gone. His replacement.
“Aaron, that's not who they see.” A sad smile tugged at your lips. “And you really don’t miss much. If anything, you miss the ordinary moments. But when you're home…” your expression warmed, “that's when our favorite memories are made.”
“It'd be nice to actually be there for it all. Especially the ordinary moments.”
“It would,” you agreed simply, because yeah. You’d prefer your husband to be home at all times - of course you would. “But we don’t hold it against you. We understand. But I don't want you making a decision because you're punishing yourself.”
“I don’t want to make the same mistakes as before.” A silent understanding passed between the two of you - Haley.
“You aren’t, I promise you. Jack and Ellie are never counting the moments you're gone.” You held his gaze. “They're too busy loving the moments you're here. And if you truly feel as if you need to take time off, that’s fine. But again, don’t do so because you feel as if you have something to prove.”
Aaron wouldn’t be doing it because he felt like he had something to prove. He’d do it for a million reasons, but never that. He’d do it because he hated the feeling of jet lag and waking up without you in his arms. He’d do it to be rid of the paperwork and the nights alone and the bureaucracy. He’d do it so he never again had to show up at a family event and get a sick feeling in his stomach, a nagging in the back of his mind that some other man was going to come along and take the most important pieces of his life away, simply because he was near and Aaron wasn’t.
He’d do it if only for you. Then again, he’d never quite been good at letting go.
He had to get the point across somehow, but he couldn't quite find the words to explain what he was feeling. So, he settled on saying, “I just want more time with you, okay? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. It’s not a punishment to be near you. I want to be.”
“I want more time with you, too, Aar,” you echoed as if it was second nature, the reassurance coming without a thought. “I always do. And a leave of absence would be nice, but I don’t want you thinking you have to shut down your whole career just because you think some arrogant soccer dad I have zero interest in is jeopardizing our marriage. I’m happy with what you and I have.”
“As a matter of fact, I think our lives are pretty close to perfect.” You continued, quiet certainty in your eyes. “I've got a wonderful husband and two amazing kids. Everyone's healthy and-” Your eyes narrowed playfully at him. “-usually happy.”
Aaron couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. Guilty.
“And you happen to have a smokeshow for a wife who's completely, hopelessly in love with you.” Your smile softened. “Aaron... as far as I'm concerned, there's nothing else I could ask for.”
The tension in Aaron's shoulders finally eased, if only a little. He let out a slow breath before stepping forward, his arms slipping around your waist and drawing you against him. His chin came to rest atop your head, holding you there a moment longer than usual.
“And…” you began after a quiet beat, the thought surfacing almost shyly. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”
He hummed softly, encouraging you to continue.
“I was thinking…” You tipped your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe it's time we tried for a third again.”
“A third kid?” The question came out softer than he intended, surprise threading through his voice. The two of you hadn’t talked about this since, well, the Roy situation.
You nodded, flush filling your cheeks. “Plus, you're kind of hot when you get all riled up and protective about us.”
Satisfaction settled in his chest. Even after years together, he could still get a shy reaction out of you. And just like that, Jared the soccer dad disappeared from his thoughts entirely. Because there was no competition. There never had been.
You weren't looking for someone else. You weren't wishing for something different. You were standing there, telling him you wanted more of this - more of him, more of your family, more of the life you'd built together.
Your lips pulled into a soft smirk. “Maybe you should put that jealousy to good use?”
“Now?” Before you could respond, his grip shifted and he lifted you effortlessly onto the counter. A quiet laugh escaped you as you steadied yourself against his shoulders, his place between your legs bringing him closer.
Summary: Y/N and Deacon have spent years orbiting each other, their bond obvious to everyone but themselves. When a case introduces an unexpected source of jealousy, unspoken feelings are pushed to the surface, forcing them to confront what they’ve both been too afraid to admit. 💔💘
Thank you to the Anon who requested it! Loved writing it! Hope you enjoy it!
If 20 Squad were being honest, you and Deacon didn’t look like a couple. You looked like something worse. Something soft. Familiar. Permanent.
You showed up together without meaning to. Left together without planning it. Finished each other’s sentences in the quiet, domestic way that came from knowing someone’s rhythms, not just their highlights. You ran side by side before shift, matching pace without ever discussing it. You volunteered together on your days off, somehow always assigned to the same task, laughing quietly like the world wasn’t heavy on your shoulders every other day of the week.
You got him into matcha—real matcha, whisked properly, none of that sugary nonsense—and he pretended to complain until he didn’t. He got you into the Rams, taught you the roster, explained plays patiently, bought you your first jersey like it wasn’t a big deal even though you still remembered how carefully he’d handed it to you.
Chris knew.
Hondo definitely knew.
The rest of the team just waited for the two of you to catch up.
🍵🍵🍵🍵
You came into HQ one morning balancing multiple coffee carriers, the doors swinging open with your hip.
“I bring the goods!”
A chorus of relief rose up immediately.
You started distributing drinks like you’d done it a hundred times before. “Street. Luca. Tan.”
You stopped in front of Deacon, handing him two cups.
“So,” you said casually, “they had a new matcha with cherry honey cold foam. Thought you might like it. But I also got your usual matcha, just in case.”
His expression softened instantly.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
Tan lifted his cup, inspecting it. “Hey, where’s my cold foam and second drink?”
You raised a brow slowly. “Where are my birria tacos you promised me last week? Coffee from me may be free, but cold foam comes at a cost.”
Street grinned. “So how does Deacon pay for all his extras? What extracurricular activities are you guys doing?”
Deacon shook his head. “I’m going to completely ignore what you’re implying.”
Luca took a sip of his drink. “Lower-level seats at the fifty-yard line sounds like payment enough. Saw your Instagram story this weekend. You two looked real cozy.”
“And the matching Jordans,” Street added.
Chris stepped in smoothly. “Or—hear me out—maybe being best friends is enough?”
You pointed at her. “Thank you. Smartest person in the room.”
Tan scoffed. “I’m offended you don’t consider us best friends.”
Deacon tried the new drink, eyes lighting up despite himself. “Okay. Yeah. This is good.” He tipped it toward you. “Here.”
You took a sip, nodding in approval, and handed it back just as Hondo swooped in from behind and stole it.
“All right, let’s see what these lovebirds aren’t sharing.”
One swallow later, his face twisted. “Ugh. This is terrible. What are you guys, rabbits eating grass?”
Deacon reclaimed his cup while you passed Hondo his coffee.
“That’ll teach you not to steal.”
Hondo shook his head. “Y’all are nasty. Next thing you’ll tell me you do those juice wellness shots.”
You leaned closer to Deacon, whispering, “Should we tell him we already do those?”
He covered his mouth to hide his smile. “I gotta ease him into it. Don’t want him having a breakdown.”
You grinned. “We’ll leave out the part where we get ice cream after. Let him think we’re super healthy.”
The wink he gave you made your stomach flip.
🍵🍵🍵🍵
The case changed the air.
Her name was Madeline Shaw—sharp suit, confident smile, the kind of woman who knew how to command attention without raising her voice. She inserted herself into the investigation with unnerving ease and made it clear, very quickly, that Deacon was her focal point.
She laughed too loudly at his dry comments. Touched his arm when she spoke. Found reasons to stand just a little too close.
Deacon never encouraged it. He stayed polite, professional, immovable.
Still, it hurt.
You hated that it did. Hated that jealousy crept in even though you hadn’t claimed him—and he hadn’t claimed you.
Madeline asked questions.
“So is he married?” she asked Street with a grin.
“Does he always look this serious?” she asked Luca.
She cornered Tan one afternoon. “What’s his deal? No one’s that devoted to the job without something else going on.”
And then she noticed you.
The way Deacon’s shoulders relaxed around you. The way his eyes tracked you unconsciously. The way the space between you felt occupied even when you weren’t standing together.
She caught you once when Deacon was pulled into a briefing and you were talking with another squad member.
Her smile sharpened.
“So,” she said lightly, “does the department allow inter-team relationships?”
Your jaw tightened. “Why wouldn’t they?”
She shrugged. “Just curious.”
Mission accomplished. Your feathers were thoroughly ruffled.
🍵🍵🍵🍵
The undercover op dropped you into a club—lights low, music pounding, bodies moving.
You and Deacon were supposed to blend in.
Instead, when his hand found your waist and he spun you under his arm, laughter spilling out of you both, it felt dangerously real. Too familiar. Too close to the truth neither of you had spoken.
For a moment, it was just the two of you, moving together like you always did—effortless, in sync, intimate in ways that made your chest ache.
When it ended, the tension didn’t.
Deacon drove you home, the city quiet around you. Conversation drifted easily until the car stopped outside your place and everything slowed.
You turned toward him.
He turned toward you.
The air felt electric.
Then his phone rang. You glanced at the dash.
Madeline Shaw. Something cracked inside you.
You grabbed your bag and opened the door. “You should get that,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice. “Don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“Y/N—”
You were already out of the car.
🍵🍵🍵🍵
After the case wrapped, you were leaving HQ when you saw them.
Madeline stood close to Deacon in the hallway, her hand resting on his bicep as she spoke. He looked uncomfortable—but all you saw was her touch.
You turned away quickly, heart pounding.
Chris caught it immediately.
“That’s not what it looked like,” she said gently.
You swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t get to be upset.”
Chris stopped you. “You’re allowed to feel things. Even if you’re scared of them.”
🍵🍵🍵🍵
Deacon found you later that night.
“I need to say this,” he said quietly, voice steady but eyes uncertain. “Before I lose the chance.”
You looked at him, heart in your throat.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he continued. “Somewhere between the runs and the hikes and you turning my fridge into a matcha shrine… I fell in love with you.”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t say anything because I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid of changing what we had. Afraid of losing you.”
Tears burned. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
Relief washed over his face before he pulled you into his arms.
When he kissed you this time, there were no interruptions.
Summary: When SWAT goes undercover at an exclusive Beverly Hills charity gala to catch a wealthy criminal, the youngest member of 20-Squad is paired with Deacon Kay to pose as an engaged couple. What starts as a simple cover story quickly becomes complicated as fake smiles, stolen dances, and convincing affection begin to feel a little too real.💘
Thank you to @thecranberrypineapple who requested it! Loved writing it! Hope you enjoy it! So sorry for the delay in getting to it and disappearing
Everyone underestimated you because you were twenty. It happened at every crime scene. Every briefing. Every arrest. Until they watched you kick down a door better than half the academy graduates. Still...
The Beverly Hills elite weren't exactly expecting SWAT. Which made you and Deacon the perfect undercover pair. "You've got to be kidding." Hondo grinned. "Nope." He tossed Deacon a velvet invitation before looking at you. "Congratulations. You're engaged."
Your eyebrows nearly disappeared into your hairline. "...Excuse me?" Tan burst into laughter. "It's the cover." Chris leaned against the table with crossed arms. "Rich investors. Been together three years. Looking to donate to the charity auction." Street immediately smirked. "Oh this is gonna be fun."
You shot him a glare. "I'm literally twenty." "And?" Luca laughed. "You look twenty-five in a dress." You blinked. "...I don't know whether to take that as a compliment."
💎💎💎💎
The mansion looked like something straight out of a movie. Crystal chandeliers. Live orchestra. Champagne fountains. People wearing watches worth more than your yearly salary. You adjusted the emerald-green evening gown while staring at yourself in the mirror. It hugged your figure just enough to feel dangerous.
"Ready?" You turned. And promptly forgot how breathing worked. Deacon stood in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. Bow tie. Polished shoes. Hair slicked back. He looked… Illegal. He caught you staring. "What?" "...Nothing." "You hesitated."
"I absolutely did not." "You absolutely did." You rolled your eyes dramatically. "I was simply appreciating that you clean up well." A tiny smile tugged at his lips. "So do you."
Heat flooded your cheeks. "...Thanks."
💎💎💎💎
The first problem came almost immediately. The host greeted you both with a smile. "There they are!" Before you could react— An arm wrapped around your waist. Warm. Solid. Comfortable. Deacon.
He leaned down just enough to whisper, "Play along." Your heart immediately forgot how to function. "Oh, believe me..." You whispered back. "I'm trying."
For two hours… You danced. Laughed. Held hands. Pretended to know each other's favorite wines. Pretended you had met in Florence. Pretended you'd adopted a golden retriever named Winston. Pretended your wedding venue was already booked. The lies came easier than expected.
Mostly because… You were having fun. Too much fun.
Then the suspect appeared. The billionaire collector SWAT had been tracking. He glanced at you. Then at Deacon. "You two are newly engaged?" Your pulse skipped. Deacon didn't even blink. "I finally convinced her."
The man laughed. "What took so long?" Without missing a beat— Deacon looked directly at you. "I was waiting until I knew she wasn't going anywhere." Your stomach flipped. That… Wasn't in the briefing.
You looked at him. His expression never changed. Professional. Calm. Completely committed to the cover.
Still...Your heart refused to believe it was entirely fake.
💎💎💎💎
The mission fell apart twenty minutes later. Gunshots. Guests screaming. The suspect bolted through the gardens.
"LAPD SWAT!"
Everything happened at once. You kicked off your heels. Deacon drew his pistol. Tan and Street crashed through the hedges from the opposite side.
Within sixty seconds… The suspect was in cuffs.
Mission complete.
💎💎💎💎
Later… Long after statements were finished… Long after the ballroom emptied… You stood alone on one of the mansion balconies. The city lights glittered below.
"You okay?" Deacon stepped beside you. "Yeah." Silence settled between you. Then you laughed. "What?" "I can't believe Winston doesn't exist." He chuckled. "He was a good dog." "The best."
Another quiet moment. Then… "I liked pretending." The words escaped before you could stop them. "...What?" You stared out at the skyline. "The cover." Your voice softened. "It felt..."
Real.
You immediately regretted saying it. "You don't have to—" "I liked it too." You looked at him. His eyes never left yours. "I know it's inappropriate." He spoke carefully. "And complicated." "Very."
"And there's an age difference." "There is." "But every time we worked together..." He smiled. "I kept finding reasons to choose you as my partner." Your heart nearly exploded.
"...Seriously?" "You notice everything." He laughed quietly. "I was hoping eventually you'd notice me." You stepped closer. "So..."
He mirrored the movement. "So."
"We're technically not engaged anymore." "I checked." "The paperwork cleared?" He grinned. "Pretty sure." You laughed.
"I guess..." Your voice became barely above a whisper. "You'll have to ask me for real."
He stared at you for one long second. Then reached into his tuxedo pocket. Your eyes widened. "No way." He pulled out… A cheap plastic ring from the charity auction prize bags. "I was saving this."
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. "You are not proposing with a toy ring." "I absolutely am." He knelt anyway. "Will you go on a real date with me?" You covered your face, still laughing. "That was so unbelievably cheesy." "I've been told."
You slipped the plastic ring onto your finger. "Then yes." He stood. "So..." "So?" "Our first real date." "No fake fiancé cover?" "Nope." "No billionaires?" "I hope not." "No gunfire?" "Definitely not." You smiled. "I'd like that." "So would I." For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then, gently—giving you every chance to pull away—Deacon cupped your cheek. "You sure?" Instead of answering… You rose onto your toes. And kissed him. Soft. Sweet. The kind of kiss that promised there would be many more once they weren't pretending anymore.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling. "I think this beats fake engagement." You smiled back. "Yeah." "It really does."
Summary: Everyone is wanting to celebrate Dave's newest bestseller, but things go a bit awry. Thankfully, you and Aaron know how to work together to make everything better.
A/N: This was a Fluff Bingo prompt from their spring event last year. I remember the prompt being just perfect for Aaron, hence this was born.
Aaron Hotchner Masterlist | Character Masterlist
"I don't know, Aaron. This feels like a really bad idea," you couldn't saying as you both juggled the multiple objects in your hands. "Dave doesn't strike me as someone who appreciates others invading his space."
Aaron Hotchner had the audacity to chuckle at your misgivings.
When you would've liked to nudge him or playfully shove him for laughing, all the stuff in your arms prevented you. The only thing left in your arsenal was snark, and you'd always had plenty of it.
Before you could unleash any though, Dave's front door opened.
Penelope squealed upon seeing the many items you two carried, motioning you both inside. "Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh, I'm so glad you're here. We could really use your help, my sweet lady."
You didn't get to ask why because Penelope had grabbed the only free space she could find and dragged you from Aaron's side. A glance behind you to see Aaron shaking his head, his smile visible and growing, before you were pulled deeper into Dave's home.
Penelope didn't let go until she'd gotten you into the massive and beautifully kept kitchen.
Well, used to be beautifully kept, you realized. It honestly took you a few moments to find the kitchen you considered your dream kitchen under all the mess.
"What happened in here?"
That was all it took for Penelope to dive into the juicy info she'd gathered since she arrived that morning.
From your understanding, Joy had been in the process of starting some food prep with her hubby when Kai woke up sick. Of course, they'd dropped everything and took Kai to the ER. His temp was way too high, and he complained of tummy ache. The ER took them forever. Kai was diagnosed with a stomach bug that should resolve itself in a few days. By the time they returned to Dave's place, they'd been too exhausted to even recall the mess they'd left behind.
Kai, understandably, has been their priority over any cleaning they might've done this morning before Penelope and Derek arrived.
"Penny," you surveyed the damage, not comprehending how a little prep has led to this much mess, "this can't be all Joy."
"Oh, it's not," she assured you before she recounted more of this kitchen's odyssey.
When she and Derek arrived, they did set out to clean up and start over, but neither of them had ever really been so great at making pasta, let alone Dave's favorite dishes. They'd gathered every cookbook they could find around the house before Penelope got out her laptop.
Every appliance Dave owned had been pulled from their respective spaces and used in some capacity. Not one of them had been saved from a dusting of flour or whatever paste the two had seemed to create instead of pasta dough. Some of it even appeared to have started crusting over, hardening where it'd been left.
"Take these," you said in a nonsense but gentle tone, "and get Aaron. I'm going to need his help in here. Oh, and Penny, please pray I can get through this mess and still have time to make everything we agreed to make."
"On it, sweet lady," she said, her heeled steps clicking her departure. She paused in the doorway and met your gaze over her shoulder, her smile sweet and infectious. "I'm really glad you're here, and I have complete faith in you."
You surveyed the mess once more, developing a working game plan. The mess would take at least a half-hour to clean. Another hour or so to make enough food for the surprise party. Time would be cutting it close, but you felt confident this could work.
"What do you need, honey?" Aaron asked, his arms coming around your middle.
Your confidence increased at his arrival and sweet words of assistance.
Turning in his arms, you rose as high as your toes allowed to place a sweet kiss on his lips. A smile crept over your features as you met his warm brown eyes. "Your attention to detail and some elbow grease."
"You've always got those," he said with such promise. His lips curved into a grin that had your insides melting a little, but you reluctantly pushed those feelings aside. Oh, this man could do things to you that you never thought anyone would be able to do.
It took a moment before you regained your professionalism and set him to work.
Between you two, Dave's disaster of a kitchen returned to his level of pristine cleanliness. You'd even done it with a few minutes to spare with the half-hour block you'd estimated earlier.
It helped that you two had learned to work so well together, having cooked many meals together.
Sure, the days where Jack joined were a bit more chaotic, but they were no less fun and soul healing. Jack, not so little anymore, still proved helpful and resourceful whenever a mishap threatened to topple whatever plans had been made. He'd even picked up quite a few skills from both you and Aaron, doing his part whenever it was called for.
You wouldn't trade any of the days you've shared with Aaron and Jack for anything, you realized, as he set up the few appliances you needed. Your love for them had been set deep within your heart, and you looked forward to having as many more as they'd allow you.
"What's that face?" Aaron asked, his hand coming up to trace over your cheek. "I don't know that I've seen that face before. You okay, honey?"
Shaking yourself, you smiled with all the love you had. "Yeah, I'm good. Really good."
He studied you another moment. Whatever he saw must've lent truth to your words because he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
A squeal from the doorway had you both turning towards it. Wry grins stole over your features as only one could make that noise from the team, and that was Penelope.
"You two are just so cute," she gushed.
Her hands were clenched beneath her chin as she practically vibrated where she stood.
You could only shake your head as you asked, "Need something, Penny?"
"Oh, yeah, I need to borrow Hotch. I'll send him right back, sweet lady."
After assuring Aaron and Penelope you could manage on your own for a bit, you quickly set about to work. The first task you needed to complete was making enough pasta for everyone joining for this celebration of Dave's latest bestseller.
A quick glance at the clock promised you'd have just enough time to get everything finished on time as long as no other hiccups occurred.
Aaron returned a few minutes later, and Joy even managed to join you two. She quickly figured out what was left and set about doing that, her gratitude evident despite her exhausted state.
When you were certain you had everything under control, you quickly searched out the fully stocked fridge and cabinets of Dave's kitchen. After grabbing a few items, you set them down on the counter and quickly made up something soft but filling for Joy, Kai, and Shawn. It wouldn't do to make them wait another hour or so for Dave's surprise dinner to eat something.
"You really don't have to do that," Joy said when she realized what you were doing.
Shaking your head, you shushed her. "It's not a problem. I've learned how fussy a young boy can be when they're not feeling well. This was one of Jack's favorites whenever he caught something. Maybe it'll help Kai as well."
Joy didn't argue after that, simply sat and watched as you finished everything up yet again.
When you would've trayed it up, Aaron stopped you, nudging you aside and taking over. His hands took up the few plates and bowls you'd prepared and set them in a manner that only one trip would be needed.
"I'll bring the tray if you'd like to grab the drinks, Joy," he said and waited until she led the way from the kitchen. When he reached the doorway, he paused a moment to meet your gaze. The softest smile graced his features as he said, "Do you know how much I love you?"
A smile bloomed until your cheeks hurt.
You nodded. "I do, and I love you just as much, Aaron."
"That's impossible, honey."
He didn't give you the chance to argue, his feet quickly taking him out of the doorway and catching up to Joy.
With the kitchen to yourself once more, you turned back to what was left to do.
Well, you thought you had it to yourself.
A noise near the back door had you turning to find Dave standing there. His suitcase sat at his feet and an amused but affectionate expression rested on his own obviously face.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough, mia bella," he spun his keys in his hand before coming further into the kitchen and sitting at his large island, "to know how much you mean to this team and even to my family."
Being the premier profiler, he didn't give you a chance to flounder but rather continued by changing the subject. "So, how much damage have they done to my house?"
You huffed, shaking your head at him. Amusement filled you when you caught the twinkling humor lurking in his expressive eyes. He only allowed a few people to see his mischievous side, and you felt quite honored to be one of those people.
"I'm sure it's not too bad. I did try and tell them this was a bad idea, but they were quite insistent as I'm sure you're aware."
"You're a good kid. If Aaron doesn't put a ring on your finger soon, let me know. We'll find you a good Italian boy, someone who'll appreciate all you have to offer."
To emphasize his words, he reached into the pan closest to him and snatched some of the pasta you'd just finished preparing. A soft moan of appreciation left his throat almost involuntarily, chewing slowly to enjoy each of the flavors you added.
"If I were twenty years younger…"
"You would make me wife number five?"
"You wound me, mia bella."
"My apologies, Dave," you said sincerely.
"Hotch is gone five minutes, Rossi, and you're over here trying to propose to his girl," Derek said from the doorway, his brows raised even as a wide grin spread over his face. "You're either a brave man or a stupid one. Ring or no ring, we all know Hotch is all in with Pretty Mama."
"That I am," Aaron agreed, stepping back into the room.
He didn't stop until he returned to your side where he belonged and had belonged for some time. His arm came up to wrap around your waist even as he dropped a kiss into your hair.
In a voice low enough only you'd hear, he said, "I have the ring at home. I'm taking you to dinner this weekend. Your favorite place. Our favorite table there. Have them slip it into your favorite dessert. Hope with everything in me that you'll say yes."
"You got Jack's blessing?"
He nodded. "He helped me pick out the ring. Even told me it took me long enough."
Laughter spilled out of you at that. Leave it to Jack Hotchner to know what he wanted before his father did. It heartened you to know that Jack cared about you that much as you cared about him just the same. You'd do anything for Jack, including stepping aside if he didn't want you in his or his father's life anymore.
Meeting his gaze, you found yourself getting lost in the love he so freely expressed in his gaze. It was enough to have your breath catching. His love for you hadn't been a secret for several months now, but every time he looked at you like that, you always lost your breath. How could you not when you had a man like Aaron Hotchner?
"What do you think?" he asked after a moment too long in silence. "Bad idea?"
You shook your head. It took several rapid blinks to get your emotions back under control. One of your dreams was coming true even if it was going to be another couple of days. You could wait. You would wait forever if it mean a lifetime with Aaron and with Jack.
"No, no," you said, swallowing down the lump that had risen, "it's a very good idea. The best idea you've ever had."
"So, you'll say yes?"
Happiness swelled within you, but you tempered it. No reason to not tease him for a moment after the incredibly sweet bombshell he'd dropped on you. Your eyes were surely twinkling as you said, "Guess you'll have to wait until this weekend to find out. Though, I'm certain the odds will be in your favor."
"You're going to keep me on my toes, aren't you, honey?"
"Always."
He pressed a kiss to your hair again as he whispered, "Good."
From the tip of your fingers to your chest, and now to your stomach.
And, if you focus long enough, his cheek is still pressed to yours. His larger thumb is still wiping away tears, and the beat of his palm is still against yours.
In the wake a memory pulls you in deeper, Spine throbbing love-(as you have called it before)
The whole family was together, watching a movie in your grandmother's living room. That was when you started making a mental note of what you wanted from life, from love.
As deep as it could get for a nine-year old.
Then your tiny heart exploded seeing your parents kiss and say "I love you." This is the most you've allowed yourself to reminisce the water of your past as you watch from ashore.
You've allowed yourself tonight, to be blue through your tears.
Here Hotch is next to you, his shoulder anchors your head while you dry yourself of your tears.
Now he's holding your hand on the way back to the hotel, only letting go once you tuck yourself into bed. He gently draped his coat over the suite chair, then right as he is about to big you goodbye you reach out to him.
You look up at him, blinking in his soft features against the dimmed suite lighting before you can stop yourself you call out for him.
"Can you stay until I fall asleep?"
You don't look at him as you ask only focusing on the moon reflected through your windows. Right as you're about to point out the full moon, Hotch sits down next to the bed.
"How are you feeling?" He asks
You respond, tucking your cold hands under the pillow. "Better....I think. No one else on the team knows and I don't talk about my parents much...Talking helped."
Hotch nods, flexing his arms against the back of his head. "Talking helps."
You go to sleep that night, replaying it one by one. You close your eyes as if wanting to imprint flesh against flesh.
It’s not like the relationship is secret, big scary ortho surgeon and the sweet L&D doctor, you just, didn’t advertise the relationship. When talking turned to dating, and when dating turned to labels, and labels led to engagement rings, and engagement rings led to vows and a promise to love forever.
You catch him on the way to the parking lot, pulling your hair from your bag as you greet him by the Audi, “hey, sorry I tried to text you but I had a few charts to catch up on” you pant, leaning over slightly to catch your breath.
“It’s okay, we drive together we leave together y’know my rule. Did you run here?” He asks, setting his bag in the back and easing yours off your shoulder and hands reaching towards that small bump of your stomach.
“I’m fine, I used to run marathons. I just scrambled upstairs. Are you ready to go? Wanna take a bath” you grin, standing up slightly and opening the car door as you slip your bag onto the floor, “I’m fine Brendon, really”
His shoulders don’t relax, his face still looks like he’s trying not to say something that he wants to say, “okay” you settle back in the car as he starts the engine, checking both ways before pulling out of the reserved parking spot, “did you have a good shift?” He asks, a hand gingerly touching over the bump of your stomach
You nod, “a mom told dad not to look as she was pushing and, he looked and he passed out. So we had to manage that” You shrug, “you promise you won’t look when I have baby?”
Brendon’s frown softens, “I promise, but I’ve seen this all before? I did my time in the pink scrubs” He comments, “but I’ll stay with you”
You smile, “oh- and if I poop on the table. I don’t wanna know. Don’t tell me. My coworkers are already going to see my vagina, I don’t need to know if they saw me poop”
Brendon laughs softly, “m’sorry. I won’t tell you. I promise. You think I’m gonna pass out during it?”
You turn to look at him, his face turned to the road as he merges onto the highway, “I hope not. I think you’re gonna cry though”
He’d roll his eyes if he thought it wouldn’t be true, but he cried when you told him you were pregnant, cried during the honeymoon, and the wedding, and the day he proposed, the day he bought that fat diamond that now sits on your left hand.
“How was your shift, good bone breaks?” You ask, sleepily closing your eyes as he goes on about his day, it’s just words to fill the time before he has you undressing and taking your jewelry off and stepping into the warm bath.
Warm, not hot water, which irritates you as you dip in. Brendon helps you forward, just so he can sit you between his thighs, his chest against your back. Hands rubbing softly against your bump, “how do you feel? Too warm?”
You shake your head, “not warm enough, I know it can’t be over 100 degrees but, bren I like to be boiling”
You know his response, the fact it’s unsafe. You can’t overheat, they the baby doesn’t overheat.
You lean back against him, sighing softly as you relax, “my boobs hurt”
Brendon hums, “I’m sorry baby, you want me to massage them?”
You shake your head, “no. I’m hungry, what are you making your baby mama for dinner?”
Brendon wraps his arms round you, “you’re my wife, not my baby mama”
You’re still smiling, “didn’t answer my question”
“I haven’t done the grocery shopping, I’ll bring you a pizza” he kisses your cheek as your timer pings.
“It’s not been fifteen minutes” you complain, “please Brendon”
He shakes his head, and helps you out of the tub, drying you off, letting you use his shoulders to balance on as you out your underwear back on, you make him feed you pizza in bed.
Settled underneath the plush cushions and covers of your bed, plate in your hands as the TV plays some silly comedy Brendon had picked out for you.
He lays next to you, his head against your thigh, only getting up to bring your plate back to the kitchen.
Brendon cuddles next to you, you curled into his side. Leg tossed over his side, his hand wrapped around your thigh, “I love you” you whisper in his ear, palm flat against his sternum.
Brendon groans in response, too tired to properly respond to you. You know he loves you back
Summary - Dennis Whittaker has been in the jaws of Park the Shark more times than he can count, what he doesn’t expect is for you to completely defy Brendon’s cold, snarky persona within a few minutes.
Warnings - 18+, MDNI, canon level medical gore/procedures, no use of y/n, reader’s nickname is Princess, not proofread, reader isn’t physically described.
Main Masterlist & The Pitt Masterlist
Secret Boyfriend! Brendon Park who stalks through the ED like a shark in bloodied water, ready to bite the first resident who dares slow him down.
Everyone’s on edge the second he steps into a Trauma Bay … except you?
And that’s when Dennis began to notice the subtle tension first.
The girl is rolled into Trauma 1, weakly thrashing on the gurney as her adrenaline and pain meds begin to kick in, chlorine still clinging to her skin.
Robby greets the incoming storm.
“Park.”
Brendon nods back, already pulling on gloves with that familiar, irritated snap.
You look up from the girl on the table for a split second and smirk.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” you say, pushing more meds through the IV. “We were missing you down here.”
Dennis braces for the explosion- the snarl, the bark, the trademark Park the Shark bite.
But instead, Brendon just … rolls his eyes.
“Is this a favourable amputation?” he asks Garcia, voice almost bored.
Park the Shark does not roll his eyes.
Park the Shark does not ask calmly.
Park the Shark does not behave.
Not unless it’s you apparently.
Brendon and Garcia dive into the case, conferring over blood loss, transport time and tissue viability.
But Park keeps glancing your way.
Not checking your work or supervising, just looking.
And every time he does, you’re still wearing that tiny grin, one Dennis has never seen you use on anyone else.
Brendon’s voice cuts through the room. “Antibiotics?”
“Cefazolin and gent.” You answer without missing a beat.
He nods, examining the severed limb, blood still slick on the skin.
“Clean wound, no crush injury, rapid transport time- replantation’s a go. I’ll book an OR, irrigate this with three litres.”
Dennis blinks. “Three litres?”
Brendon snaps. “Of saline, genius.”
There it is, the bite and snarl. Just not at you.
You chuckle involuntarily before raising the side rails of the gurney.
Dennis swears he sees the corner of Park’s mouth twitch before he stalks away.
After irrigating the leg, Dennis helps you wheel the patient toward the OR. Park meets you outside one of the bays, already half‑scrubbed and hair still slicked back with copious amounts of gel.
You tilt your head at him. “Need an extra hand in there? I’m dying to get out of The Pitt’s analog hell.”
He huffs something that’s supposed to resemble a laugh, quiet and private and only meant for you.
“We’re all set here. I should get in there.”
You nod, stepping back slowly.
“I’ll catch you later? If the ED doesn’t swallow me whole by then.”
Dennis is mid‑transfer when he hears it. The soft, unguarded chuckle that slips out of Brendon’s chest.
He whips around. Brendon is smiling, actually smiling.
“I’ll see you later, Princess.”
Princess … He called you Princess. Dennis’ jaw couldn’t be any closer to the floor.
You grin. “Later, McDreamy.”
You hold the elevator door for Dennis, who is still processing the fact that Park the Shark just laughed.
Silence hangs for a moment before Dennis finally speaks.
“I think that was the first and only time I’m ever gonna hear Park the Shark laugh.”
You shrug, trying to play it off but your cheeks are warm.
“… McDreamy?”
You snort. “You’ve never seen Grey’s Anatomy, Huckleberry?”
The elevator dings open before he can ask anything else, and you’re immediately swallowed by the chaos of The Pitt- pulled into another trauma, leaving Dennis standing there with the dawning realisation.
Brendon Park had never been a jealous man. How could he when he had the best upbringing, the best grades, the best job, and basically the best salary one may dream of having. Wherever he went, people would turn to him, admiring his stature and status.
And yet as he stared at his little brother entering his office with a beautiful woman in tow he couldn't help the small frown that settled on his face. You gorgeous even in the simple cargo shorts and black t-shirt you were wearing though you were hobbling a bit with your crutches. Donovan had your tote bag in his arm, keeping the door open as you passed through. And when you were stable on your feet, you finally took notice of the ortho surgeon, smiling a toothy grin as you saw how much he looked like Dono. Just slightly more large with muscles, older, greyer. You wondered if Donovan would look just like him in a few years, it wouldn't be a bad thing at all. Clearly the Park genes were good.
"Good morning Dr. Park." You braced your crutch on your side, sticking your hand out as Brendon stood to shake your hand. He quietly pulled you to a seat, refusing to let you stand for one more second. His hand was warm, callused which you didn't expect from someone not out in the field.
Brendon and Donovan were as close as two brothers that had lived separately for years could be and who were fundamentally different even if they did enjoy some things in common like boxing. While Brendon excelled in academics and went on to study in some of the world's most prestigious universities and then medical schools, Donovan couldn't sit still in classes to save his life, but he made it up with his creativity, painting and drawing pieces that he could clearly put up for sale if he wanted to.
It wasn't just their differences that had separated them but also their paths in life. Brendon had left Pittsburgh for his studies, while Dono had joined the army straight out of high school. It was only recently that both men had moved back home to Pittsburgh. They supposed that with age came the need to re-find their roots even if it was in the form of endless Sunday dinners back at home where their sister kept raving about her new boyfriend of the week. And until recently they also had to listen to Dono's wife, now ex-wife, complain about... well anything.
The divorce wasn't that long ago, which is why Brendon was surprised to see you.
"Don't call him that Mouse, he's just my brother Brendon." Donovan took the other seat at the desk, not before slapping his brother in the back and receiving a glare back.
"Just your brother who is doing you and your girlfriend a favour if I remember." Brendon rolled his eyes.
"Ha! He wishes he was my boyfriend." You quipped back, neatly dodging a swat from your bestfriend who was also your colleague at SWAT. You weren't part of his squad, but you enjoyed sparring with the talented man, so it was easy to become close quickly. Hearing your comment, Brendon smirked internally, his frown lighting up. So you weren't taken by his idiotic little bother.
"I know you want some of this." Now it was Dono's turn to dodge your hand, your name whining from his mouth as you tried to deck him once more. Brendon tested the name in his head and realised he quite liked it, it suits you.
"Donovan, what do you need from me?" Brendon rubbed his eyes with the back of his palm. He could have been home by now, taking a sip of red wine in front of the TV while watching a rerun of whatever show would be showing before having to drive to the family home for dinner as today was Sunday. But he now had to suffer more office hours after a 4 hours boring disc replacement surgery that he just wanted to forget, though he supposed you made this pro bono overtime better.
"I broke my ankle a few months ago, the SWAT doctor tells me I still need two full months of immobility. But I can't, I think I might become crazy if I have to continue sorting through SWAT emails and archives. I would like to know if there's any way I can fast track immobility to get started on rehabilitation." Your eyes had stared directly into Brendon's something that not a lot of people dared to do but you didn't seem scared, you've probably seen worse during your job. "I have the x-rays from yesterday here..." Your fingers touched his again to pass the folder and he relished in your warmth.
Donovan's hand came up to rub at your shoulders, trying to relax your muscles as you noticeably tensed up from the awaited answer. He knew what you were feeling, he had broken his arm two years ago and wasn't allowed in the field for months. Even worse, since it was his dominant hand he couldn't even paint. And selfishly, he missed your sparring sessions after intense missions when you both could let out steam.
Brendon didn't miss the intimate gesture, deciding to focus on your x-ray as he took notice of every little detail. It was a bad break, for sure. but it was healing fast. And yet the SWAT doctor was still right.
"I'm sorry sweetheart, but he's right. I think you have two months of immobility in front of you." Your bottom lip jutted out in exasperation and both brothers found that completely adorable. On the other hand you were thinking about how you were going to die if you couldn't move more than you were right now. "Unless you follow a strict immobility program, no getting up, no going down or up stairs, no using crutches." Brendon's eyes found yours and he noticed the glimmer of hope that just started up.
"Complete immobility? How much time would that fast track me?" Your eyebrow rose, excited to see that something could actually help you get on your feet quicker.
"Give or take a month." Brendon shrugged. "But when I say complete immobility, I mean it. No getting up for any reas-"
An alarm came from Brendon's phone butting his sentence. He checked the reminder and sighed.
'Leave for family dinner NOW.'
"We have to leave now to make it to dinner." Brendon muttered, already hearing his mom's nags sounding in his head. It was for sure going to be about the same topics as every week: Why didn't he have a wife? Did he at least have a girlfriend? Did he want his parents to die without any grandchildren?
The only respite he had was that thankfully Donovan now also carried some of the burden: Why didn't things work out with Val? Was she that bad? You're going to have to find another wife soon if you don't want to become like your brother Brendon!
"I have to drop off Mouse back at hers first...." Donovan nodded at you.
"It's okay Dono, I can call an uber." You smiled back, understanding that Sunday Dinner was a sacred thing in the Park household.
"It's okay Mouse. I'm sure mom will understand."
"Psh, I like your optimism." Brendon smirked. Their mom, as short as she was, represented the dynamism of the family. She would bang pots, scream, though she had to with three unruly children in the house. "Just take her to dinner I'm sure mom would love to meet your friend." And he certainly wanted to spend more time with you as well.
And that's how you ended up on your way to one of the famous Park Sunday Dinners.
Summary: Brendon Park already having a bad day at the Pitt and people making it more worse untill he hears that his daughter won a fight in school and is brought to the hospital and the teacher is also there to talk about her suspension but he is too proud.
Park the shark was already pissed at the idiocy of the ed's residents and interns. He got even more pissed when Whitaker had called him down for a ortho consult without even looking at the charts properly and evaluating the patient. Whitakers face went pale when he saw that shark was coming towards him with a furious expression and jaw clenched. Robby quietly said to Dana, " shit man what did the kid do now that the shark is so pissed at him". " Suggested an amputation for a limb that can be reattached with surgery giving the man his ability to walk again" she said laughingly, knowing that the shark won't let this go easily.
There dtood Whitaker without moving and santos fearing for her friend when one of parks residents came down said to park in a serious and worried voice, " Dr. Park, your daughter came here with her teacher as she has a possible ligament injury on her left hand and both her hands are bruised and has a cut on her face." Brendon's face had a frown and in disbelief he said, "she lost a fight! My moon lost a fight AND is injured. Where is she " he demanded to know. His resident pointed to central 5, park left whatever mess Whitaker had made yelling as he ran, " you better clean that mess up Whitaker before I come back or i swear to god". Santos tried to control her laughter but failed miserably but at the same time held a shocked expression that the feared Park the Shark has a daughter. As Brendon ran to central 5, everyone turned their heads, he ran inside the room without so much so as a thought and went straight to his daughter, holding her in his embrace and kissing on the top of her head whispering, " your okay moon, dadda is here now. " Removing her from his tight embrace he asked, " Now tell me what the hell happened? "
His daughter shrugged her shoulder with a smirk on her face, " nothing really happened dad, two boys had it coming for constantly trying to bully emma, I told them to back off but they did not listen so I taught them a lesson that they would understand and in the process injured myself. But don't worry, I am your moon afterall, I did not lose the fight, you should see the other guys. " She said smiling and being as proud as a 12 year old can be. Park let out a breathe he did not know he held and took his moon back in his embrace and asked as to why the teachers were here, for which she said smugly," yeahh, so because of the fight they had to send the boys to hospital and take me too and they kind of want to meet you and I am suspended. Soo" Park let out a laugh and said ," your mom is going to kick me out of our room for teaching you how to fight but yeahh that is my champ, my moon, don't worry I will handle mom and you stay out of trouble and don't make mom angry more than she will be once she hears this."
The ed stood silent, not knowing what to do with this much new information. To come to know that shark was married and has a daughter or the fact that he is proud that his daughter sent two guys to hospital and did not lose the fight and is laughing with his daughter regarding that matter.
warning : blood, for, er inaccuracies, fluff, little angst
summary: When y/n gets injured on the job and is brought to ptmc, one of the biggest secrets are revealed.
It was a smooth sailing evening for the great Park the Shark but for the swat commander y/n , it was the worst of the days. It was a hectic day for y/n, starting her morning with her spilled coffee on her newly brought white shirt. Changing into her uniform grumpily, she had no choice but to have the stale breakroom coffee which she hates the most. To the last call for the day which turned out to be her worst.
The team had recieved the call at 8 pm while all of them were packing up, " SWAT assistance required in 1271, Wellington Street, police officers arriving in eta 10 mins. Respond with your eta." With a huge sigh, everyone quickly jumped back into action.
They could hear their commander say into the radio " ALPHA team is on route, eta 5 mins. All units be aware and armed". Reaching the location and breaching it went smoothly untill it did not. The team had caught their suspects and were clearing the house when a loud explosion took place s almost all out.
" Cap, cap, where is she ?!" Y/n could hear briefly and faintly while she let out a shaky breathe and coughed due to the smoke that silently filled the air. She couldn't feel her right arm and felt a sharp pain in her abdomen region. Her right hand, Nick, screamed at her to stay still and that help was on its way. Y/n let out a sharp cry as she tried to move to understand what happened and then all went black.
" Female, late 20s, SWAT member is unconscious. Right hand ulna penetrating the skin, large glass piece stuck in the abdominal cavity with huge blood loss" "Incoming to truma 4 central" yelled out Dana. Langdon immediately took over the case with dr. King assisting him. "Page ortho and neuro for immediate consultation" said langdon with a worried expression, he continued " push two litres of O neg blood and morphine" Dr Park came down, only to hear mel say " call her emergency contact and tell them to come down fast ". He came inside the room, only to find his wife lieing still on the table while tubes were bering attached to her body and doctors surrounding her with a rushing tone and urgency. His breathe got stuck in his throat," call garcia for the operation and consult. I can't be here" he said leaving the room while others stood there like a statue wondering what just took place, what in the entire world was Shark the Park scared of. Robby yelled " come on guys keep moving, we don't have enough time, we need to prep her for surgery as well as try to reduce the inflammation".
Hours later, y/n was still in surgery, and brendon sat still in the waiting room with his hands on his head, fiddling with the ring that hanged on his neck and whispering and praying to God for his wife to make it out fine. While in the ed,Robby came to him for a consult while he waited. Park got up and told everyone that he is off duty and for any ortho consult to call garcia and left without uttering another word.
So the next time and ortho consult was required, Garcia was called to the ed. When she was there, she overheard two of the new interns talking bad about park and the swat captain, she felt enraged. Stroming to their way, she yelled at them, " don't you guys have something better to gossip about then a guy waiting and praying for his wife to make it out alive from the operating theatre. Don't you have a little shame and respect for such a reputed ortho surgeon and a swat captain who has been injured in the line of duty more times than you have studied for your degree" and that outburst of garcia silenced every rumour, whisper and murmur that was going in the ed. The pitts largest betting pool finally got closed, the huge mystery of the ring that hangs from the most feared Park the Shark was none other than the ring that officiated the wedding between the most feared swat captain Y/n and the Park the Shark two years ago.
You’re working on charts diligently today in hopes of finishing faster.
You and Brendon had a full weekend off and wanted to hurry home to start relaxing immediately. Brendon agreed to a movie marathon and you were dying to see how he’d react to watching your choices.
You’re contemplating which one you’ll start the night with when you hear something odd.
You hear raised voices from a room close by. Peering around at where it’s coming from you see her. It’s Emma Nolan, a new nurse you had introduced yourself to at the beginning of the shift.
She’s trying to talk calmly to an agitated patient in a bed but it’s not seeming to help the angered man.
Then you see it.
He grabs Emma by the collar of her scrub and pulls her closer, yelling in her face.
Your feet move without thinking.
“Hey! Get your fucking hands off her now!” you say with anger as you go to intervene.
The man releases her and turns his irritable attitude at you. Still you move to put yourself between the man and Emma.
“What’s your fucking problem lady?” he spits out at you .
“My problem is you put your hands on our staff and thought it was okay.”
He scoffs as if what you’re saying is ridiculous “The little bitch refused to give me pain meds. And I’m in pain!”
You grab his chart from the end of the bed and quickly skim it.
“Well Mr. Walsh, it says your last dose was administered not even two hours ago. The next dose isn’t due for another 3 hours. So, she was correct to not give you more for now.”
You sigh loud and look up at him.
“Unfortunately you won’t be getting another dose because you’re going to be escorted out for assaulting staff. That won’t be tolerated here.” You punctuate the words.
You go to usher Emma out with you and call for Ahmad but don’t see as Mr. Walsh gets up from the bed.
Suddenly you feel Emma collide into you as you both crash into a side table, sending you both to the floor.
Mr. Walsh moves closer and grabs Emma again by her scrub collar, cocking a fist back.
Instantly you climb over Emma to shield her from the punch that lands to the back of your head.
The pain is instant but you don’t move, keeping her safe from the onslaught of hits he throws at you.
The next move catches you off guard.
He gets an arm around your throat and in a headlock. He pulls you back on the floor against him and continues to squeeze hard.
You pull at his arm, nails digging in, but it won’t budge.
Emma looks up at you, tears on her face.
“Emm-ma, get helllp-p, ru-un” you barely get the words out.
Nodding quickly she scrambles off the floor and runs out the door and you hear it
“HULA HOOP!”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon was still in the pitt working on a never ending string of consults. His patience was wearing thin but he knew the shift was almost over.
Yours was almost over too and then he could sweep you away back to the apartment and bunker down with you for a hopefully work-free weekend.
He finishes setting a bone and applying a splint, Robby assisting, when he hears yelling.
“HULA HOOP!”
He freezes at the phrase.
It was one known mainly among the emergency room but also most of the hospital. It was called Code: Hula Hoop. The phrase signified that a staff member was being attacked by a patient. This alerted all other staff without scaring any patients.
He hopes he just misheard but then he hears it again.
“HULA HOOP! SOMEONE HELP PLEASE!”
He’s up and out of the doorway with Robby right behind.
Several staff members are running towards the room. Brendon briefly looks at a distressed Emma and then enters the room.
No.
There you are.
On the floor being strangled in a head lock by a deadman.
Brendon moves before thinking and grabs one of the man’s arms and the collar of his shirt and pulls hard. Other staff and Robby pry the man’s other arm off of you.
Brendon can’t see anything except the man who’s about to wish he’d never laid a hand on you.
He pushes him against the wall by his shirt and gets in his face.
“I hope you like orange because you’re gonna see lots of it where you’re fucking going. If they can get you there before I ki-“
“PARK!”
He stops but still holds the man at the wall.
“Park buddy c’mon, we got him. She needs you right now man.” Robby tries talking him down
The mention of you has him letting go and searching for you.
Dana sits on the floor with your upper body cradled into her chest. Your body is trembling from everything.
He immediately gets down next to Dana and hesitantly lays a hand on your back to not scare you .
“Baby, it’s me…” he says gently.
You look up at him and he sees it.
The tears and glaring red marks around your neck, a bruise or two starting to form.
You launch yourself into his body and hold on tight.
He hugs you back tighter but gentle as he feels the tears soak his shirt.
“Shh shhh sweetheart, I got you now. You’re safe.”
He soothingly rocks you back and forth, hands rubbing your back in soft motions.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon had led you into an empty room. After Dana and Robby fussed over you, checked your head, and asked you questions, they both promised they were going to be close by just in case.
This left you and Brendon alone in the silence.
He looks at you.
You look tired and distressed after the events of today.
The rage still simmers under his skin but you need him more.
He stands in front of you as you sit on the bed.
“Can I check it out sweetheart?" he asks, insinuating about your throat and neck.
You nod silently, exhaling a deep breath.
He gently holds the side of your neck with one hand and lightly prods with the other hand.
You wince a little.
“Sorry baby, I’m so sorry” saying the last part mostly to himself.
“Bren” you say, voice a bit gravely from the assault “I’m-“
“Don’t say you’re okay sweetheart. I know you’re not and that’s okay too.”
Brendon shakes his head, trying to not let his eyes water.
“I know baby, but really, it could be worse. So all in all, it’s okay. I’m okay.” you say rubbing his arm.
“What about any of this is okay?”
Brendon furrows his eyes while looking at you.
You look out of the glass window where Emma is being questioned by police.
“Emma. She’s okay.”
“I'm glad for that sweetheart but you got the worst of it. For god's sake you got punched repeatedly and strangled.”
“And Emma didn’t Bren. She didn’t deserve it. She’s just a kid. It’s her first week here. I couldn’t let that happen to her.” you explain calmly.
“And what about you?!” he half shouts, voice filled with something you can’t place.
You shake your head in confusion “What about me?”
He grabs your face in his hands and looks you dead in the eyes.
“You’re my world. You didn’t deserve it either…. It shouldn’t have happened to you.” he whispers as a tear rolls down his cheek
You pull him into a comforting hug, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair as you feel more warm tears hit your skin.
“I didn’t mean to upset you baby” you whisper.
He pulls back, sniffling “You didn’t upset me. I just hate that this happened. Just promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Next time, please grab security first. Grab literally anyone for help. Just don’t go and be a hero, not without back up. Please?” He pleads
You smile at your soft-hearted and worried boyfriend.
“I can’t promise that Bren. But I can promise to go about it better. Also, aren’t we technically heros?” You laugh at your own question.
Brendon laughs with you “Like the Avengers?”
“Yeah” you continue laughing “but like if the avengers went to medical school.”
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Omega!Reader
Summary: Aaron carries you to bed when your body gives out before you do.
Tags: disabled!reader, omega!reader, lupus symptoms, chronic illness flare, depictions of chronic pain, aaron being an alpha and a carer, scent-based intimacy, reader trying to pretend they're fine, flare fatigue, protective!aaron, quiet domesticity, slow burn pre-claiming vibes, emotionally intelligent alpha, comfort without pushing, aaron knows your body better than you do, soft alpha/omega dynamics, no use of y/n, reader's body choosing rest before their mind does, gentle physical caretaking, reader letting themselves lean on someone, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 2.7k words
The movie has melted into noise you can't quite follow, the kind that pools at the edges of your vision while your head goes light and your joints throb with that familiar, low-grade ache you pretend not to notice until it starts to notice you back. The screen throws soft, flickering color across the walls, painting the room in bruised blues and warm golds, but you're curled into Aaron's side on the couch, cheek pressed to his shoulder, more aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest than anything the characters are saying. His arm is heavy and certain around you, anchoring you in place like a promise you didn't have to ask for, and the room smells like his soap and old paper and the vanilla candle you keep forgetting to blow out. There's a faint medicinal edge in the air too, from the open bottle on the nightstand you never quite remember to close, and you wrinkle your nose at it before deciding you don't care enough to move.
The coffee table is cluttered with coasters you never use and a folded throw you meant to put away, and one of Aaron's shoes is still by the door like he stepped out of it and forgot gravity existed for a second. You can feel the ache setting up camp in your knees, that dull, humming kind that means tomorrow will be a negotiation, not a plan. Your wrists feel tight, like your skin is a size too small, and even your shoulders carry a thin, electric complaint, the kind that flares when you've been pretending you're fine for too long. You shift, trying to find a pocket of comfort, and Aaron's hand tightens just a little at your side, not stopping you, just registering the change like he's taking quiet inventory.
He glances down at you, eyes soft but alert in the way that never quite turns off, like he's always halfway between watching you and watching the door. "You're fading," he murmurs, voice pitched low so it doesn't startle you out of the fragile balance you're keeping.
"I'm not," you say, which is a lie made of habit more than intent. You tilt your head to look at him, the movement making a small, unwelcome spark jump behind your eyes. "I'm… blinking."
He snorts quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That's not the defense you think it is." His thumb brushes a small, absent line along your arm, slow and grounding, and your omega leans into the touch before you can stop it, before you can pretend you don't want exactly that kind of steady.
You tell yourself you'll stay awake. You tell yourself you should, because if you fall asleep here you'll wake up sore and stiff and annoyed at yourself in the morning, and because you like finishing things, even dumb movies you pretended not to care about. You tell yourself a lot of things. Your eyelids flutter anyway. Your body makes a different choice, the kind it's been making more often lately, choosing rest the way it chooses him—without asking permission and without apologizing for it.
Sleep takes you in pieces first—your fingers going slack where they're twisted into his shirt, your shoulders finally dropping like you've set down a weight you didn't realize you were carrying, your spine giving up the fight one careful vertebra at a time. The faint heat behind your eyes eases, replaced by that heavy, underwater feeling you get when exhaustion wins and insists on being kind about it. You're drifting, and then you're moving, and the shift between those two things is so gentle it almost feels like a dream you're choosing, like the room is turning itself into something softer for you.
You're half aware of being lifted, the world tipping and righting itself as Aaron scoops you up, one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. He carries you like he's done it a hundred times and like it still matters every time, like your weight is something he measures in attention rather than numbers. Your head lolls against his shoulder and you catch a mouthful of his scent, deeper and warmer up close, and your omega hums quietly at the back of your throat like it recognizes home before you do.
"Easy," he says, more to you than to himself, adjusting his grip when your hip twinges and you make a small sound you wish you could take back. His thumb presses briefly, grounding, and the ache settles into something manageable instead of sharp. "I've got you. Breathe with me."
You try. You do, actually. The flat slides past in soft, crooked snapshots: the hallway light you meant to change weeks ago, the picture frame that's always a little crooked, the stack of mail you keep stepping over like it might bite. The floorboard complains like it has a personal vendetta. The bedroom door stands open like it's been waiting. He pauses a fraction of a second before lowering you, like he's checking angles, and you make a small, useless sound when he sets you down, the sheets cool and clean against overheated skin, your muscles protesting the movement before sinking into the mattress with a grateful sigh that feels embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
You expect him to tuck you in and go. He always checks your temperature, always presses his knuckles to your forehead like he's taking notes he won't share, always leaves a glass of water within reach and your pills lined up like a quiet little army. You hear fabric whisper instead, a quiet clink as he sets his keys down, and then the mattress dips with purpose. He strips down without ceremony and settles in beside you, close enough that your body reacts before your brain can argue, heat curling low in your belly just because he's there, because he's choosing to stay, because he's decided the night belongs to both of you.
"You're warm," he says, brushing his knuckles over your cheek, then your temple, then down the side of your throat where your pulse jumps under his touch. He listens with two fingers like he's reading a map. "But not feverish. Tell me if that changes."
"I will," you promise, because it's easier to promise when his voice is like this—steady, close, impossible to ignore. You hesitate, then add, "My hands are… kind of buzzing. And my ankles feel like they're full of sand."
He nods like he's been expecting that. "We'll keep them warm. And we'll elevate you in a minute if you need it." He tucks your hands between your bodies, big and careful and sure, then drapes the blanket up and over your calves with a quiet, efficient attention that makes your chest go tight in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
He pulls you into his chest, and his scent rolls over the room like weather moving in, like a front you can see coming and still choose to stand in. It's not subtle. It's not meant to be. Pine and smoke and that dark, steady alpha-note that makes your stomach flip and your omega instincts wake up like they've been called by name. Your breathing stutters, then evens out as you breathe him in, and you blink at him, a little foggy, a little too warm in that exhausted way that means tomorrow will be stiff and slow. He studies you like he's counting all the ways you're not quite okay and filing them away where he keeps things he intends to guard.
"You shouldn't sleep alone when you're flaring," he says, rough and low, like the words have edges and he's careful where he puts them. His thumb drags under your jaw, finds your pulse, lingers there, pressing just enough that you're aware of it, like he's reminding both of you who sets the rhythm when you're like this.
"I was fine," you mumble, which is half a lie and half a stubborn habit you've never quite shaken. You swallow, throat dry. "I just… got tired. And the couch is… unfair."
He lifts an eyebrow. "That's what flaring looks like on you. And the couch has never been on your side." There's no judgment in it, just a calm certainty that makes your omega settle even as it bristles, even as you want to argue out of principle.
Your shoulders ache. Your wrists feel tight, like your skin doesn't quite fit right tonight. Your knees throb in quiet agreement. You shift anyway, closer, because your body knows exactly where it wants to be and isn't interested in pretending otherwise. His hand slides to the small of your back, firm and warm, holding you there like he's decided the argument for both of you and filed it under settled. "If something spikes," he adds quietly, "you wake me."
"Even if it's just… stupid?" you ask, half-drowsy, half-defensive.
"Especially then," he says, and the answer lands like a promise with teeth.
He makes a small, unconvinced sound that vibrates in his chest and then his mouth is at your neck. Not careful. Not distant. He kisses your scent gland with slow, open pressure, his stubble scraping just enough to make you shiver and suck in a breath you didn't mean to take. Heat blooms under your ribs and slides lower, lazy and insistent, and your omega responds without asking permission, your scent sweetening, opening, telling the truth you're still thinking about. The ache in your joints fades to a background thrum, not gone, but quieter under the weight of sensation and the way his presence seems to draw a circle around you.
"Aaron," you breathe, not quite a protest, not quite an invitation, your hands finding his shoulders like they've always known the way. Your pulse feels loud in your ears, like it's trying to keep up with him, like it's learning a new tempo.
"You smell like you need to be claimed," he murmurs against your skin, voice gone thick, hands tightening at your waist like he's bracing himself against the pull of it. "Say the word, and I'll bite. Right now." His breath is warm and steady, a promise and a warning braided together, and your omega leans forward like it's answering a call you haven't said out loud.
Your fingers fist in his shirt, not graceful, not composed, just honest. You arch into him because your body is loud about what it wants, because his scent is a promise and a challenge all at once, because being this close makes everything else blur at the edges. Your scent spills into the room, all want and heat and soft, dangerous invitation, the kind that feels like stepping too close to a fire and loving it. You don't say it. You almost do. The word sits on your tongue like a spark, like something that could turn into a blaze if you let it, and you're not sure you trust yourself with that much light tonight.
He growls, low and restrained, the sound vibrating through you, through the bed, through the quiet of the flat. It's not a threat. It's a warning to himself. His jaw tightens, and for a second you can feel the line he's drawing and holding, feel the way he chooses control instead of taking what your omega is offering so freely. "You're not ready," he says, breath hot at your pulse, and there's no disappointment in it, only discipline pulled tight as a wire. "But I am. And that means I get to keep you safe from both of us."
You swallow, throat dry, skin too warm, bones humming with that restless, flare-edged fatigue that never quite leaves, even on good days. "Aaron," you say again, because his name feels steadier than anything else in you right now, like something you can hold onto when your body feels like it's made of glass and static. "I know. I just… like when you say it. It makes the room feel… smaller. In a good way."
Something softens in his eyes at that, even as his scent stays dark and sure. He exhales, slow, then kisses your gland again, slower this time, deeper, like he's staking a claim without breaking skin, like he's leaving a promise there instead of teeth. His hand slides up your back, warm and sure, pressing you closer until you can feel the breadth of him, the heat of him, the restraint he's choosing and the strength it takes. "I'll wait," he tells you, and the promise in it is heavy and real. "But you're mine tonight. You don't have to be alone with it. You don't have to be brave."
The words settle into you, into the spaces that ache and the ones that burn, into the places that are always a little too tired and a little too stubborn. He pulls you in until you're pressed along his length, his arm a solid band around your waist, his hand warm and possessive at your back. Your breathing stutters and then slowly finds his rhythm, your forehead tipping forward until it rests against his collarbone. His scent keeps you under it like a tide you don't want to fight, like gravity with a name and a memory.
He adjusts the blanket with one hand, tugging it up over your shoulder, then pauses when you wince at a twinge in your hip. "Here," he murmurs, shifting you an inch, then another, then sliding a pillow into a place you didn't know you needed. He waits, watches your face. "Better?"
"Yeah," you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to, threaded with relief. "Much. Thank you."
"Always," he answers, like it's not a favor, like it's just gravity, like this is simply what happens when you belong to each other in the quiet ways. He presses a kiss to your hair and stays there a second longer than necessary, like he's sealing the moment in place.
Your nightstand is still cluttered with pills and a half-empty glass of water and the notebook you keep meaning to use. The city still makes noise outside, sirens and laughter and a car door slamming somewhere down the street. Your joints still ache in that dull, simmering way, and your skin still feels a little too sensitive, like every nerve is turned up one notch too high. Your head still feels a little floaty, like sleep is waiting just behind your eyes. None of it gets to be the loudest thing right now, not with his arm around you and his breathing steady in your ear.
"Sleep," he says, brushing his mouth over your hair, over your temple, over the corner of your jaw, everywhere but where he wants you most, everywhere that still feels like a promise kept. The restraint in it is almost as heavy as his arm around you. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. If you wake up, I'm here."
"Don't go," you whisper, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, thin with the kind of tired that makes emotions leak around the edges and turns wants into needs.
"I'm not," he answers immediately, like the idea doesn't even belong to the same universe. His thumb traces slow, grounding circles at your hip, steady and sure, counting you back into your body, back into the room. "I'm right here. I'll stay as long as you need. As long as you want. We'll take it one night at a time."
You drift with him wrapped around you, the heat and the ache and the want all braided together, your body heavy but held, your omega finally quieting under the weight of his presence and the certainty in his scent. When you surface for a moment, somewhere between dreams, his scent is still in your lungs and his arm is still around your waist, firm and protective, his breathing a steady line you can follow back down into sleep. The night feels less like something you have to endure and more like something you're allowed to rest inside, and you let yourself sink again, held in place by him and by the promise he's already made without teeth, without hurry, without leaving.
You have to share a bed with your sexy, older boss. You're in for quite the night.
Warnings: smut
Word count:3.8k
Of all the situations to be in, this was a doozy. The team was on a case, and the only hotel was pretty full, which means room sharing. Fine—except somehow you'd ended up with Hotch. The rest of the team had made a joke about you being the newest member, which automatically gave you the short straw.
Fine, you'd handle it. But the thought of being in such close proximity to Hotch was making you nervous. He was intimidating at the best of times. (Your huge crush on him didn't help at all). Yes, you were a walking cliché; you had the hots for your much older, stern, sexy boss. And now you are being forced together by sharing a room—God, it's like the plot of a rom-com.
You trail up the stairs behind Hotch, and he opens the door and gestures for you to go in—of course he does, ever the gentleman. The room is quite pleasant. It's tastefully decorated, there is a nice view from the window, and ... "shit" you say aloud. There's only one bed. Are you fucking kidding me? Let's just tick another rom-com trope off, shall we? By adding some forced proximity. Jesus.
Hotch comes up behind you. "Wha-? Oh."
"Yeah, oh," you say. "One bed, and not a sofa in sight."
"Hmm," he grumbles.
You decide to take charge of the situation. "You know what, this is fine. We are adults. We can cope with this, yeah?"
He clears his throat. "Yes."
"Ok. As long as you don't boss me around in the bedroom. "Oh God. You clamp your mouth shut and feel a blush spread across your face. "That came out wrong. I, erm... I just meant—" you croak, unable to quite finish your sentence.
Hotch tries to hide a smirk. Now there's an idea. Damn, of all the people to be sharing a bed with, it was you. With your curvy little figure and smart mouth, and right now a delightful rosy blush to your face all the way to the tips of your ears.
To spare your blushes, Hotch changes the subject and says, "Would you like to use the bathroom first?"
"Yes, please, thank you," you stutter out, anything to get out of his field of vision right now.
You dash into the bathroom and shut the door. You stare at your reflection in the mirror; great, your face is beet red. Really?! You think to yourself. Of all the fucking dumb things to come out of your mouth.
You take a deep breath and pull yourself together. Ok, shower, that's what you need. You set the shower away and strip. You step in, and ahh, yes, this is just what you needed. You take a sniff of the complimentary toiletries; mmm, nice. You lather up and enjoy the water washing the day away. You shower pretty quickly, as you don't want to hog the bathroom.
You step out and grab a towel. Ooo, nice and fluffy, and wait... pretty small. You grab the one that was beneath it and hold it out. Yup, same size. You wrap it around yourself; it thankfully covers your ass but barely reaches mid-thigh. The reason this is a problem is that in your embarrassed scramble to the bathroom, you didn't pick up your bag with your PJs.
You tentatively open the bathroom door; you'd just kind of dumped your bag when you exclaimed at the bed situation. It's not there now, damn! Ok, this is fine. Shoulders back, stand tall, shit! Not too tall, the towel rides up to an unseemly level; you tug it down again.
You walk into the bedroom. "Hey Hotch, did you move my bag?" He has his back to you and turns when you speak. His usual professional demeanor slips as his eyes briefly widen and then skim over your body.
You've taken him by surprise. He knows he shouldn't be looking at you like this, but God. Your hair is messily tied up with tendrils escaping and curling around your neck. Beads of water are resting on your skin, making you look dewy, and dear lord, that towel is short. There is so much toned leg on display. He definitely feels a stirring in his trousers, which is very unwelcome right now.
He snaps his head away from you and grabs your bag. "Here, sorry," he thrusts it out to you. Is Aaron Hotchner flustered? His eyes had lingered on you, drinking you in quickly before he turned away.
"Thanks." You head back to the bathroom. On your way past the mirror, you catch a glimpse of him, and he's staring as you walk away.
You close the door and lean up against it. Well, that was... something. You dig into your bag for your PJs. You'd packed teeny shorts and a tank top, knowing how warm you get. An exasperated sigh escapes your lips, for fuck's sake. You pull them on, and you'll be damned if you're sleeping in a bra, so you'll both just have to deal with it.
You walk out of the bathroom; the air-con has made the room deliciously cool but has the obvious unfortunate side effect of making your nipples stand to attention.
Hotch is sitting in a chair reading a file. He's removed his jacket and tie and undone the top buttons of his shirt.
"All yours."
He looks up at you—your pajamas cover about as much as the towel did. What torture is this? You're obviously braless, and your nipples are hard, he tries his best not to stare.
He clears his throat. "Thanks." He moves swiftly from the chair and says he has to make a quick call before he uses the shower. As he closes the door behind him, he looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. This is going to be a long night.
Hotch's eyes had briefly lingered on you, and he seemed a bit flustered as he jumped up from the chair. Hmmm, don't read anything into it; he just hasn't seen you dressed in so little.
You climb into the bed and feel jittery. Hotch is about to be naked on the other side of that wall, and then he's going to come back and climb into bed beside you. God, how are you supposed to relax and sleep? What if you end up throwing an arm or a leg over him in your sleep? You need to do something to calm down; you could... No, you think to yourself, you can't do that. You squeeze your legs together to try and alleviate the ache that appeared at the thought of touching yourself with Hotch in the next room.
You hear his deep voice rumble through the wall. He's on his call; you don't know for how long.
You can't help but think about him unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt, and unzipping his pants—god, this is far more sensual in your brain than it should be. Your hand has absent-mindedly drifted to your nipple, and you're skimming your fingers over it.
Ok, here's the plan: really quickly get yourself off and then you'll be totally fine to spend the night beside Hotch, right?
Your body seems to have reached this conclusion before you, as when your hand finds its way between your legs, you're already wet. Damn, just thinking about him naked turned you on that much.
You don't have time to tease yourself, so you start rubbing your clit (no holding back). You keep brushing your other hand over your nipple, giving it the occasional pinch. In no time at all you're breathing deeper, trying to stay quiet.
You slip two fingers inside yourself, and your hips are writhing as you pump them into yourself. You think about how much better it would feel if they were Hotch's fingers. Your hand scrabbles for the headboard, and you hear a thunk. Shit, you've knocked something off the bedside table. You can't worry about that now. You bite down on your lip, but little breathy moans escape. You're so close; you're arching your back and trying desperately not to cry out.
What you haven't noticed because you are too focused on your pleasure is that the shower has stopped. Aaron was drying off when he heard a noise from the other side of the wall. A thump as something hit the floor. He stood still and listened, and he heard you make a noise; it sounded like a whimper (the walls weren't very thick). Wait... that definitely sounded like a moan.
He doesn't know what to do. He creeps to the bathroom door and eases it open as quietly as he can. The mirror on the wall reflects you on the bed. Oh god. It was a moan. He can see you gripping the headboard, your head thrown back and your body moving under the covers. He knows he shouldn't watch, but he reasons it would be worse if he had walked in on you.
He'd love to walk over to the bed right now and help you finish. His dick has stiffened, and he can't stop watching you. He watches your body twitch, and as you come, you let out a moan that you clearly can't hold back. Fuck, that image is going to be impossible to get out of his head. And now he's going to have to climb into that bed beside you knowing what you've just done.
He quietly closes the door and tries to pull himself together. He takes some deep breaths and puts his pajamas on. His erection has subsided (for now).
Hotch walks out of the bathroom, and you're convinced you've suitably pulled yourself together. You lie there and try to act cool. "Good shower?" Why are you asking that? Don't ask your boss how his shower was; this sharing a room and a bed situation has you all in a muddle.
"Yes, thank you. Look, are you sure you don't want me to sleep in the chair?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Hotch; just get in the bed."
He gets under the covers and tries to leave as big a gap as possible between your bodies. "Ok, well... goodnight," he says.
"Goodnight," both of you are stilted and awkward. You switch off the light and turn away from him. You do feel pretty sleepy, so hopefully you'll fall asleep fast.
Hotch, however, is wound too tightly (not having enjoyed the release you had). He lies on his back staring into the darkness. He hears your breathing change and knows you're asleep. He looks across at you; a sliver of pale moonlight illuminates the room. He stares at the curve of your shoulder and the back of your neck. There's something so vulnerable and intimate about it.
He huffs out a breath and tears his eyes away from you. He eventually succumbs to sleep.
Hotch slowly starts to wake up. The first thing he's conscious of is how warm he is and then that his arm is curled around ... oh. He opens his eyes. You've shuffled your way over to him in your sleep, and your back is pressed along the front of his body. He must have instinctively wrapped his arm around you.
He's worried if he moves you'll wake up, but if he doesn't... what then? You stretch in your sleep, which has the unfortunate effect of bringing your ass into direct contact with his crotch. Worse still, you wriggle and sigh. Oh damn, he can feel himself growing hard against you. Before he has a chance to work out what to do, you're surfacing from sleep.
As you wake, you feel an arm wrapped around you. Hmmm, that's nice. Wait... why is there an arm wrapped around you? Realization hits. Oh god, you move about so much in your sleep you should've known this would happen. That's Hotch's arm, which means that warm body pressed against your back is your boss. Shit!
Maybe he's not awake yet. You slowly wiggle, no sudden movements, to see if you can extricate yourself. Hold on a second, is he hard? You can't help yourself; you gently grind your ass against him (just to be sure). You bite your bottom lip. Oh god, yep, he is hard.
He makes a snap decision, and in a sleepy voice he says to you, "That was definitely intentional."
You gasp, "Oh my god, Hotch, I'm so sorry." You start to move away, but he pulls you back.
"I'm not."
Your brain short-circuits. "Wha-?"
He whispers into your ear, "Tell me to let go, and I will, and we forget this ever happened."
Your voice comes out breathy. "Please don't let go."
He kisses below your ear and then the back of your neck, sending tingles through your body.
"Is this ok?"
"Mmm yes."
The arm that's around you finds a bare strip of skin at your waist, and he traces his fingers along it. He traces them higher achingly slowly. You grind yourself back against him, and he lets out a gasp. In response to your movement, his hand grabs your breast and kneads it, his fingertips playing with your nipple. You let out a soft moan.
You turn over in his arms to face him and bring your lips to his. Now neither of you is tentative. You kiss hungrily like you've both been wanting this for so long. He breaks away to say, "I know what you did last night while I showered."
The look of shock on your face makes him chuckle. "Bad girl, I desperately wanted to offer my assistance."
"Fuck, Hotch." You felt like you'd turned to jelly at his words. "How did you-?"
"I heard the thump when you knocked something to the floor and then a noise that couldn't possibly be what I thought. I opened the door and could see your reflection on the mirror."
"Oh."
"I knew I shouldn't watch, but I couldn't stop. I'm sorry."
You smile. "The only reason it happened is because I was thinking of you naked on the other side of the wall."
Now it was his turn to look shocked.
"Can't you tell what you do to me?" Feeling bold, you take his hand and guide it down your body and into your shorts. He touches you and groans when he feels how wet you are.
"Turn your back to me the way we woke up." You turn, and he grabs you to him and hooks your leg back over his to get better access to you.
His hand dives back into your shorts, his fingers find your clit, and he strokes gently. You whimper. His fingers stroke and circle and add pressure. A moan escapes you, and he whispers in your ear, "Shh. As much as I'd love to hear you, the rest of the team are in rooms beside us, so you'll have to stay quiet."
You bite your lip and nod.
"That's a good girl."
Fuck—you're surprised you didn't just come on the spot. You badly want to feel his fingers inside you, but he's teasing. He keeps stroking so close—his fingertips are right there, then he pulls back to your clit. You grind back onto him in frustration. A not-so-subtle hint you want more.
He lets out a huff, so you do it again. His hips jerk, and he pushes against you, rubbing his erection against your ass.
Suddenly he slips two fingers inside you knuckle-deep. "Oh fuck," you cry out. You grab a pillow and clutch it to your face. You feel a laugh rumble through Hotch.
He fucks you with his fingers, and you use the pillow to drown out all the noises that you absolutely can't hold back.
Through the pillow clamped to your face, he hears you shout, "Oh god, Hotch." Your body stiffens and twitches against him, and you yell into the pillow as you come. The leg he has hooked around his shakes, and he feels you pulse around his fingers.
He keeps his hand cupped around the heat between your legs, and he kisses the back of your neck.
You let the pillow go and lie there panting. "And they said I got the short straw."
Hotch is kissing your shoulder, and he stops. "What's that?"
"The team thinks I got a raw deal sharing with you, but god, am I glad we shared a bed. Is now a good time to mention the huge inappropriate crush I have on you?" You smile at him; he reciprocates and says:
"Oh, I've had a fair amount of my own inappropriate thoughts when it comes to you." His hand wanders under your top to squeeze your breast. "What I'm thinking right now is how much I really want you naked."
"Well, Special Agent Hotchner, I think that can be arranged." You give him a sly little smile and move your hands to the hem of your tank top.
"Ah ah, he stops your hands. Let me."
With an eager movement, he's on top of you. He slowly starts to inch up your top, leaning forward to press kisses to the bare skin he exposes. You hum with pleasure. He stops just below your breasts and looks at you. "Don't stop," you whisper. He pushes it above your breasts and stares at you almost reverently.
Fuck, he's been longing to finally lay eyes on you naked even if he knew he shouldn't. He takes in the perfect swell of your breasts and your rosy pink nipples. He's painfully hard now. He traces his hands up your ribs, and you arch your back, pushing yourself towards him.
He is driving you crazy. You're desperate to feel his hands; you needily arch yourself towards him again, and finally he cups both hands over you. You sigh in satisfaction as he kneads your breasts and runs his hands teasingly across your nipples.
He dips his head to you and flicks his tongue over your nipple. You gasp at the contact of his tongue.
He sucks it into his mouth and alternates between sucking, gently grazing you with his teeth and swirling his tongue. You run your hand through his hair and tug; he lets out a small groan. You pull his head away and say, "On your back, Hotchner." He gladly complies.
Without further ado, you wriggle out of your shorts and pull his bottoms down and off. Jesus, he has a big beautiful dick. You reach out and grab him; you run your thumb over his head where there is a bead of pre-cum glistening. He hisses air through his teeth. You straddle him and guide him to you.
You've taken charge, and it's sexy as hell. You're on top of him, guiding him, and you look him straight in the eye as you sink down onto his length for the first time. You both groan.
You stay still for a moment, relishing the feeling of Hotch seated inside you, and then you start to move. You rock your hips first, enjoying the feeling of fullness, then you raise yourself up so just the tip of him is inside you and slam back down. Fuck, that feels good.
He grabs your hips and watches you ride him. Your beautiful breasts bouncing, your skin flushing a delicate pink. Then you lean back and start rocking your hips, head thrown back. You moan loudly. He grabs you and flips you so he's on top. He puts his hand over your mouth. "Pretty girl, what did I say about noise?"
First of all, fucking hot, and second, oh shit! You forgot. Before you can answer, he starts thrusting into you, and everything goes out of your head. His jaw is so tight, you think he's desperately trying not to make a noise; how you'd love to hear him moan and call your name.
He pushes one of your legs up, and my god, he's so deep you can't get enough. You whimper as he fucks you hard. You can't help yourself. "Oh god, Hotch, just like that," you pant. He crushes his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss.
He moves his lips to your ear and whispers, "I'm not going to last much longer."
"I'm so close, so close," you manage to utter. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs. The pressure, the sinful sounds as he fucks you, and the way his thrusts never falter hurtle you to orgasm. Your whole body thrums with pleasure. You arch your back, and Hotch clamps his hand over your mouth again. Probably for the best as you cry out as you come.
You orgasm and clench around him, and he pulls out of you and fists his dick as he comes on your stomach. Sheer force of will stops him from groaning and shouting your name.
You're twitching and panting as Hotch pulls out of you, and you feel hot, thick ropes of cum land on your stomach. He flops beside you on the bed, breathing heavily. He takes a moment, then kisses you and tells you to stay there while he gets a cloth to clean you up.
After you're cleaned up and both back in your PJs, you curl up in his arms.
"So sharing a bed was fun," you say to him.
You can hear the smile in his voice as he says, "It certainly was; we should do it again sometime."
"Oh, absolutely, it would be rude not to."
He tilts your chin up to his face, kisses you, and says, "Next time I want to hear you properly."
A delicious shiver runs through you. "Mmm, and I want to hear you moan my name."
"Oh, you can count on that."
You fall asleep in his arms.
Later that morning when you enter the lobby, the team is already there waiting and chatting. Rossi sees you both and turns away from the conversation.
"Morning," you smile at him.
"Good morning. Sleep well?" He eyes you both.
You shuffle your feet as you answer, "Um, yes, thanks." He has a dangerously knowing look in his eyes.
"And you, Dave?" Hotch steps in, aware that your behavior is a little suspicious.
"Broken sleep."
Oh, no. He can't know, can he? Innocently ask a follow-up question; be cool.
"Ah, that sucks. Was it the heat?"
He gives you both a knowing look. "Headboard."
Shit! All the pillow biting and mouth covering was for nothing; Hotch had fucked you so hard the headboard had given you away. Fuck.
He smirks at you. "So it wasn't the short straw after all." He turns away, leaving you and Hotch to squirm.
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