𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’re pretty sure Hotch hates you. Either that, or he thinks you’re a shitty profiler. Or it’s both. But when you volunteer to be bait for New York’s latest serial killer, the dynamic between you shifts, and you find yourself realizing that Aaron Hotchner might just care about you after all.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Aaron Hotchner x F! Reader
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit content, violence, smut, oral sex, public sex, drinking, firearms, bladed weapons, bondage (non-sexual), sexism, toxic masculinity, death & injury detail, dead dove: do not eat.
no mention of Y/N · present tense · second person POV
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Protective Hotch, you have awakened something inside of me.
This is my first ever fic request !! Thank you SO much to the anon who asked for this. I loved writing it and really hope I get more requests soon ❤
masterlist | requests
The briefing room is for very serious conversations about very serious shit. You know that, but it doesn’t stop you and JJ from relentlessly teasing Spencer before Hotch arrives.
“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”
Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.
“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.
A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.
“This conversation is so inappropriate.”
JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.
“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”
That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.
Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.
Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.
Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.
“Freaky.”
Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.
“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”
Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.
“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”
JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.
Prentiss takes the floor first.
“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”
Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.
“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”
It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.
“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”
Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.
“Go on.”
“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”
Hotch’s eyes bore into you.
“Elaborate.”
“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”
He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.
“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”
Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.
“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”
---
Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.
Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.
Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.
“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”
He feigns innocence.
“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”
The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.
“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”
Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.
“Holy shit.”
Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.
“What is it?”
“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”
Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.
“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”
A beat. More keyboard clicking.
“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”
“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”
Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.
“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”
You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.
“Great, that narrows it down.”
Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.
“Hardly.”
You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.
“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”
Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.
“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”
You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement.
Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.
“Unless we plant one.”
She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.
“No.”
You huff out a frustrated laugh.
“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”
Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation.
Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.
“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”
You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.
“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”
JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.
“How’re you gonna do that?”
You shrug.
“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”
“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.
Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.
“It’s our best shot and you know it.”
---
Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.
You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.
Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them.
The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway.
“Damn, woman.”
You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.
Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.
He shifts uncomfortably for a second.
“It’s a bit much, no?”
You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.
Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.
“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”
That shuts him up.
---
One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things.
They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet.
Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.
As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.
Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.
“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.”
Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.
You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.
Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.
Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of site behind a pillar.
“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.
Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.
Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.
“He’s gone.”
As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”
“Good.” he grits out.
“Good? We have him.”
Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.
“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”
Now you really lose your cool.
“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”
Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”
You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.
“I am not.”
Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.
“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.
Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”
You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.
Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.
“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”
Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.
With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.
Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.
Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length.
Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.
Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely.
Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.
You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.
Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.
As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.
The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.
Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.
Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.
“Bathroom.”
Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.
Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.
JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.
“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”
You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.
“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”
Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.
“Huh. That’s... out of character.”
---
Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.
You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.
There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.
Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.
You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull.
Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.
---
Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.
Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied.
Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.
You feel a presence looming behind you.
“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”
With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”
You bark out a laugh.
“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”
Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.
It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.
“Women like you need to learn your place.”
Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers.
One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.
You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.
Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red.
Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.
Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.
“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.
Your vision starts to black out again, accompanied by the soundtrack of knuckles repeatedly making contact with bone. Agonised grunts come from both men as they engage in a violent scuffle you don't have the privilege of witnessing.
Hotch yells out in pain and the helplessness of being tied up stirs you once more. You're paralysed with the nauseating fear that he could be being killed just a few feet away from you right now.
Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub.
You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.
Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.
“You doing okay, kid?”
You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.
“How did you find me?”
Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.
“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”
Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.
Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now.
The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head.
“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”
His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.
“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”
You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.
Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.
“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.”
You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.
“Is he dead?”
Hotch lets out a small sigh.
“Yes.”
You lower your voice.
“Did you do that for me?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently.
Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.
“Everything’s fine. I promise.”
And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.
Usually stoic and respectful man catching you whimpering his name while trying to finger yourself and instead of backing away and closing the door to your room he just. Pauses. Looks. Lingers in the darkness just outside your door. Feels himself grow harder. Rubs himself through his trousers.
Hey!!! I saw your fanfic about reader pulling her hair out. I love your writing style:) I was wondering if you could write something we’re readers has sh scars and doesn’t want hotch to see but he does. It’s ok if not. Thanks for reading
Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | CW: Angst, MASSIVE trigger warning for self harm being mentioned in all its shapes and forms, description of scars, mental aspect of dealing with the aftermaths of SH | WC: 1.7k
A/N: Thank you so so much!! I really tried my hardest to be respectful with the hair pulling fic.
Read with caution, this is very heavy on reader who used to self harm.
The apartment was quiet in that kind of way, it only became, after coming back from a case in the late hours of the evening.
You’d only been home for a couple of hours, and the day was lagging to an end. The slight jet lag from the time difference between Alaska and D.C clung to your bones, making it impossible to sleep. You’d tried, several times in fact, the past two hours had brought tossing and turning, returning to the living room, only to go back to bed under the guise of “trying again”.
But once again, it didn’t work. You had no idea why a four-hour time difference did this to your body, because the West Coast cases never did the same, despite the near-identical time difference.
You’d showered after coming home, the water scalding hot, knowing that the heat usually tired you out. Yet, this time, it wasn’t working. The fabric of your sweater was slightly damp at the wrists, making your skin itch. You should’ve looked, made sure that nothing was wrong, but you never did anymore. You never looked down, never studied them, never even acknowledged them. Not like you’d done when you were younger.
In the kitchen, Hotch was making tea, feeling your pacing from the other side of the apartment. You could hear the kettle clicking off, and the quiet clink of two mugs being placed gently on the kitchen counter. He moved like a shadow, tiptoeing around his own home as if he were scared of making a sudden noise. But in reality, he too needed the quiet.
You sat on the edge of your bed, arms folded tight across your stomach, hoping that you somehow had gained magical powers overnight that could will the door locked shut.
You knew he knew.
You’d felt it on the jet, the way his eyes had lingered on your sleeves when you thought he was reading reports and doing paperwork. The way he’d brushed his knuckles against the back of your hand, and accidentally bumped your sleeve when no one was looking. It was a silent question you’d answered by pulling away a little too quickly.
Not because you didn’t want him. Not because you didn’t want him to know. But because you were terrified of what he would see if he looked too closely. If he studied them, if he profiled your younger self, if he saw the old you and decided that you were broken and he no longer wanted to be with you.
The door opened.
Hotch stepped in carrying the tea. He’d changed into clothes a lot more comfortable than a stiff suit. Clothes he wouldn’t be caught dead in out in public. His hair was still damp from his own shower after yours.
He looked exhausted yet like himself in the way only Hotch could after a long case—tired down to the marrow, but still standing, still choosing to be with his pack.
He placed the mugs on the nightstand, then sat beside you on the bed.
“You’ve been wearing long sleeves for weeks now,” he said. Stating the obvious. His tone wasn’t accusative. Just laying out the truth, gently, between you like an opening for you to continue his train of thought.
Your throat closed, not knowing what to say.
“I burn,” you whispered. The same lie you’d told Emily last week under the Florida sun. The same lie you’d told yourself for years as you hid away from everyone who ever cared about you.
Hotch’s hand found your knee, thumb stroking twice over it. “You don’t burn. You’ve never burned. Not even in the desert of Texas in July. And it’s the middle of winter, the sun hasn’t shone in weeks.”
Silence stretched.
You felt the old and familiar panic rise, the same panic that used to send you to the bathroom with a razor when the voices in your head got too loud.
The same panic that had carved thin, red, deep roads into your forearms when you were still in high school and certain the world would be better without you in it.
You’d been clean for years. Not thought of relapsing in forever. But the scars didn’t care about clean streaks and the lack of urges. They were still there, still ugly, still proof that once upon a time you had wanted to disappear.
Hotch waited.
You couldn’t look at him. You stared at the carpet instead, at the faint coffee stain from the night he’d dropped a splash from laughing at something Jack said while avoiding bedtime.
Safe things.
Normal things.
“I don’t want you to see them,” you choked out.
His hand stilled on your knee. He knew what them was. “Why?”
“Because they’re disgusting. Because they’re… me. The ugly parts of me, the worst parts of me. The parts I have to carry because of my past. The parts I never wanted you to need to carry.”
You heard him exhale, the way he did when he was steadying himself before walking into a room full of grieving families looking to him for reassurance. Then his fingers—those long and careful fingers that had held your hands through panic attacks after bad cases and the night Jack had asked if calling you Mommy was okay—slid up to your wrist.
He didn’t pull at your sleeves. He knew not to, to go at your pace, to let you show him yourself. He simply rested his palm over the fabric.
“I already carry all of you,” he said quietly. “Every part. The profiler who can read a room in six seconds. The woman who makes my son pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs that no one knows the names of, even when she’s exhausted. The one who flinches at loud noises because of a case gone wrong when she was fresh out of the Academy. And the one who survived whatever made these scars.”
A sob ripped out of you before you could stop it. Because he was seeing you, truly seeing you.
You tried to pull your arm away. He let you. But when you curled in on yourself, he moved until he was kneeling on the floor in front of you, hands resting on your thighs like anchors.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
You couldn’t.
“Please.”
You did.
His eyes were wet. Aaron Hotchner’s eyes were wet. The man who had buried his wife—his eyes were wet. Who had been stabbed in his own home—his eyes were wet. Who had stared down serial killers without blinking—his eyes were wet. Hotch rarely cried at all, let alone anything but the same quiet tears that barely fell rather than gather and spill over.
“I love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “Not despite anything. Because of everything. Because you are still here. Because every single one of those scars means you chose to stay. You chose me. You chose Jack. You chose this life with us.”
He reached up, hesitating, before gently rolling your sleeve up. You were trembling so hard that it was almost as if the bedframe itself were the one to shake.
The scars looked worse in the warm bedroom light. They were raised, some as thin as thread, some wider and more jagged, where you’d pressed the blade too deeply on the bad nights.
It was like a constellation of pain.
Hotch looked at them for a long time without speaking, keeping the sorrow of seeing them to himself. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the worst one: the thickest, most jagged line just below the heel of your hand. The kiss was so gentle that it hurt worse than any blade ever had.
“I’m not afraid of these,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m only afraid of the nights you felt you had to hide them from me.”
Another kiss, trailing higher up your arm. One after the other. He mapped every scar with his mouth, slow and reverent, like he was learning a new language written across your body. When he reached the inside of your elbow, he paused, forehead resting against your arm.
“You are not broken,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You are not ugly. You are not the girl who wanted to die. You are the woman who lived. Who kept living. Who comes home to me every night and lets me hold her even when the world is on fire.”
You were crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. He rose from the floor, gathered you into his arms, and pulled you both down onto the bed.
You curled into him like a small wounded animal, face buried in the hollow of his throat, fists clutching his shirt. He held you tighter than he ever had, one hand stroking down your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
“I have scars too,” he whispered into your hair. “The ones Foyet left. The ones Haley’s death left. The ones I got every time I failed to protect someone I loved. I don’t show those to anyone either. But I show them to you. Because you’re the only person who’s ever made me believe they don’t define me.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
“I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide from me again,” he said. “Not your scars. Not your bad days. Not the parts of you that still hurt. I want all of it. I want the nights you can’t sleep. I want the mornings you wake up wanting to reach for a razor that isn’t there anymore. I want the version of you that survived. Because she’s the one I fell in love with. The one I fall in love with more and more with each day that passes by.”
You pressed your forehead to his, noses brushing.
“I’m sorry I hid them,” you whispered.
“Don’t be sorry. Just… let me see you. All of you. Even the parts that scare you.”
You nodded, tears still falling.
Hotch reached down, gently rolled both sleeves up to your elbows, then took your wrists in his hands and turned them palms-up. He studied the scars again. You could tell he wanted to run his thumb over the raised scars, but he kept his fingers in check, not knowing if you were okay with him touching them yet.
Then he kissed each wrist once more.
He tugged the sleeves back down only when you started to shiver, then pulled the duvet over both of you. You stayed curled against his chest, one of his hands resting over your covered forearm like a promise that he would still be there in the morning.
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”
if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
AO3 should have an Annotation Mode where you can click to view all of the author's commentary and thoughts about certain parts of the work. A little comment that says "I spent five hours researching vintage radio mechanics for this and didn't even end up using it" or "this is an ancient Hebrew literary technique!" would make my day
Dropping this and running. This is from my cameo that @snailsinamarchingband @theghostofcosmichorrorpast and @maladaptive-daydreamer-23 / @mals-fic-reblogs got me for my birthday in November!
WHICH THEY ARE SO SWEET AND KIND AND I NEARLY PASSED OUT.
these prompts came together through community submissions and a voting form where people voted for their favorites, here are the top 53 prompts
i enjoy this format so like last year there are 15 creation prompts and 15 community prompts/questions. the community prompts are entirely voluntary but are here to possibly inspire some community interaction and trying new things
very excited to see some awesome creations in january!
go here for info/rules/tagging
go here for faqs
(note: number 31 is not a creation prompt and not required to complete the challenge, it's just colored black so the colors add up)
text version of the prompts and rules is under the cut
(image description note: there are 31 numbered prompts, on each odd number the text color is black and on even numbers the text color is white)
Whumpuary 2026
a whump-themed multi media creation event for january
create for at least one prompt from each odd/black number to complete the challenge community prompts (even/white) numbers are voluntary
main prompts
memory loss | tied up | winter
do you prefer fandom or oc whump?
can't speak | caught | broken glass
have you done other whump events?
ransom | burns | not good enough
share your favorite whump media (tv, game, book, …)
drowning | "something isn't right" | hunted
send an ask to someone in the whump community
cornered | shaky hands | phone call
have you always liked whump?
trapped | sleep deprivation | "please"
share any music/videos/etc you listen to while creating
"hold still" | possession | impaled
any favorite things you'd like to see more of in whump?
breaking point | came back wrong | breathe
halfway through! rest & take a break
blood trail | "is this real?" | storm
take 5-10 minutes to work on a wip
seeing double | shivering | restrained
who's your current favorite character to whump?
attacked from behind | poison | red
comment on someones work in the #whumpuary tag
interrogation | numb | wrist grabbing
draw/doodle something whumpy
limping | fatigue | "i don't believe you"
what are your top 5 favorite whump tropes?
"i tried" | pinned against the wall | haunted
create in a new/less familiar medium
touch starved | "i need help" | secret reveal
share your favorite whump creation you’ve made
share your favorite whump creation someone else made
alt prompts
failed escape
gagged
old injuries
exhaustion
blood loss
"don't"
nowhere to go
flashbacks
rules & info
-any medium is allowed (art, writing, gifs, edits, ...)
-prompts are open for interpretation (but the context should be whumpy)
-create for at least one of three prompts on creation prompt days (black/odd numbers) to complete the challenge
-if you're not aiming for completionist you can do however many prompts you want any way you want
-community prompts (white/even numbers) are voluntary and don't count for completionist (but can be combined with creation prompts if applicable)
-use alt prompts to replace main prompts you don't like
some works posted on tumblr will be reblogged if tagged correctly
-#whumpuary2026
-#whumpuaryno1 (number of the prompt(s))
-any trigger/content warning tags
-any additional tags (fandom, oc, other used tropes, ...)
this year's prompts were sourced through an open suggestion form, where over 6,000 prompts were submitted. after, the best 100 prompts were voted on in a poll which received 6,265 votes. the top 28 were rearranged into the 28 prompts of febuwhump - with the most voted prompt in the number 1 position ("I like you better broken", 1,959 votes) - while the alternate prompts were selected from the mod's personal favourites of the remaining options.
this is such a great list of prompts, and i'm so excited to see what creativity they spark with you!
if you're interested in taking part in all the facets of febuwhump, then check out the expected timeline for this year's event! pay special attention to march 6-8, after febuwhump, in which everyone is encouraged to comment on as many febuwhump works as possible to ensure that everyone leaves this event with encouraging feedback on their creations!
as always, please check the faq or scroll through the previously asked questions before asking questions. i know the faq is short, but it really does answer just about any questions you have. when in doubt, assume the answer is that you can do literally anything you want.
please note: notifying the blog of completionist status will happen through a google form released towards the end of febuwhump, and if you are interested in joining the febuwhmp discord server, the link will be available to do so for one week during january.
full write-up of prompts and rules under the cut:
FEBUWHUMP 2026 PROMPTS:
DAY 1: "I like you better broken"
DAY 2: old injury
DAY 3: ghost
DAY 4: blood stains
DAY 5: survivor
DAY 6: soul bond
DAY 7: forced to hurt another
DAY 8: hunger
DAY 9: false memory
DAY 10: god complex
DAY 11: broken fingers
DAY 12: bodyguard
DAY 13: "again"
DAY 14: hanahaki disease
DAY 15: test subject
DAY 16: touch aversion
DAY 17: fingers in the wound
DAY 18: time loop
DAY 19: "I didn't mean to"
DAY 20: hunted
DAY 21: flashbacks
DAY 22: worse than death
DAY 23: kintsugi
DAY 24: head injury
DAY 25: medical restraints
DAY 26: time travel
DAY 27: "can you stay?"
DAY 28: breaking point
ALTERNATE PROMPTS:
ALT 1: environmental whump
ALT 2: pregnancy
ALT 3: alternate universe
ALT 4: lazarus
ALT 5: auction
ALT 6: live broadcast
ALT 7: the devil you know
ALT 8: child soldier
ALT 9: you would have loved this
ALT 10: flu
RULES
soft rules:
prompts should be answered in the form of whump
creators can produce any kind of media they want
you don't have to complete all the prompts to take part
you can use the prompts after the event ends
you can complete the prompts in tandem with any other event
you can post to any platform you want, however this blog will only be sharing links and prompt fills posted to tumblr
if you want to be featured on the hall of fame, you must inform this blog by the 3rd of march that you have completed all of the days using the provided form
if you have questions, consult the faq before asking
hard rules:
to be a completionist, you must complete all 28 prompts, in order, in whatever medium you want, before the end of the event
(specifically for being featured on the blog)
when uploading febuwhump content to tumblr, please use the tags:
febuwhump (or febuwhump2026)
the relevant day's tag e.g. febuwhumpday1, febuwhumpday2...
nsfw (if relevant)
any important trigger warnings
you can also tag the blog: @febuwhump
I cannot guarantee your work will be archived on the blog. a random selection of properly tagged works will be reblogged every day of february
Pandoras Dreamings @pandorasdreamings - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
areudirty
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vaporwave
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
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gummygunk
