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summary: you get shot (in your vest) and your boss falls a part for a second.
word count: 5.1K
aaron hotchner masterlist
-
Derek spins around in his chair, glancing up to find you’re still standing in the doorway of Hotch’s office. You’re nodding along to whatever he’s saying, he can’t see your face but he can tell you’re smiling. He can however see the small smile that Aaron gave out rarely while at work.
“This is painful.” Derek sighs dramatically.
“What?” Emily looks up at him from her paperwork. He nods his head in the direction of the office and she quickly catches what he was referring to.
“They’ve been making eyes at each other for twelve months.”
“They don’t make eyes.” Reid corrects without looking up, “They make… extended mutual gazes with elevated dopamine responses.”
Morgan looks at him and blinks a few times.
“Kid, that’s making eyes.”
Everyone now turns to look back at the office. Hotch has fully set down his pen and is turned to where you’re leaning in the doorway.
“I give it six more cases before one of them slips up.” Morgan bets.
“Try five.” Emily throws down.
“Make it three.” Rossi steps out of his office.
Aaron’s phone rings and your spine automatically straightens. He answers it with a simple ‘Hotchner’ and says very few words before hanging up. The second he does he looks back up at you.
“We’ve got a case.”
He gets up from his desk and you step out of his way.
“Conference room.” He calls, walking directly to the room. Everyone gets up and follows, a minute later Garcia enters with a tablet in hand. Everyone else has filled in the remaining chairs.
Hotch clicks on the monitor and three pictures pop up on the screen. A uniformed cop shot execution style. Another, shot through the windshield of the police cruiser. A third, off the shoulder of the highway with his car abandoned.
“Three officers in five days.”
The light atmosphere from the morning was long gone now.
“The unsub is also taking their service weapon after each murder.” Garcia adds.
Rossi nods, “Power.”
“Or souvenirs.” Reid adds.
Garcia pulls more information onto the screen, “All three victims were patrol officers, two different precincts. So far they’ve come up clean, no major cases.”
Morgan frowns, “No personal connection?”
“Exactly.” You nod, all eyes falling on you, “He’s targeting the badge, the officers are interchangeable.”
Hotch nods for you to continue.
“If this was revenge against specific officers we’d expect complaints, lawsuits, and arrests from them.” You look at each victim's picture, “None of them have disciplinary records.”
“So, why them?” JJ questions.
“They’re accessible, it isn’t personal.” You look up, meeting Aaron’s gaze, “It’s symbolic.”
He likes watching you talk, you start to talk with your hands when you get invested in something. It’s another thing he noticed but would never admit.
“He isn’t killing officers.” His brows furrow.
You nod, “He’s killing what they represent.”
Rossi smiles into his coffee cup, looking between the two of you.
“That distinction changes the profile.” Reid comments.
“It does.” Aaron agrees, “He wants the public to see that officers aren’t untouchable.”
“Exactly.”
-
An hour later, the team was up in the sky. The jet is headed to Cleveland, everyone has settled into their usual seats. Hotch sits across from you, a file in his hand. You’ve already kicked off your shoes and have one leg tucked under yourself.
Most of the team is resting now, knowing how this will go. Cop cases were hard, the local law enforcement always takes cases like this personally making it harder for them to do their jobs. You and Aaron are the only ones with the window shade up and files open.
“Public panic is going to get out of hand once the news of the third officer hits the news cycle.” You comment, Aaron nods instantly.
“I’m having Garcia look into social media posts to see if anyone in recent weeks has had a problem with the police or believed wrongful action.”
After landing, the local police station was buzzing with tension. It was clear that no one was sleeping, exhaustion was evident on everyone’s face. The sheriff met the team at the entrance.
“You’re the profilers?”
Hotch nods and offers his hand, “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner.”
He introduces the team one by one, landing on you last. The conference room becomes the command center for the team. Crime scene photos cover one wall, Reid manages a city map with various pins in it.
“Confirmed, no overlap in arrests,” Garcia sighs on speaker, “No lawsuits, no complaints, no disciplinary records, no common calls for service. This guy is cleaner than my browser history.”
Morgan looks up, “That’s not saying much.”
You snort into your coffee.
“I’ve checked family connections, nothing.” JJ shakes her head.
Reid paces in front of the board, a legal pad in hand.
“If we assume he’s selecting officers randomly-”
“He isn’t.” You interrupt and tap the photo in front of you with your pen, “He wants us to think he is.”
Rossi leans back in his chair, “Explain.”
“He isn’t picking the officers, he’s picking symbols.” You get up and walk toward the map, “Symbols still have patterns. All of these officers were killed in highly visible locations.”
“Public places.” Emily agrees.
“So the message is more than the victim.” Hotch finishes.
You nod, “He wants witnesses.”
The room falls quiet. Aaron watches you for a second before calling the sheriff into the room.
“When does the second shift end?”
The sheriff looks down at his watch, “In about forty-five minutes.”
“I want every available officer briefed before they leave.”
The sheriff shifts in place, adjusting his hands to rest on his hips. His cliche mustache doesn’t even hide his frown.
“We’re already short.”
“And you’re going to be even more short if this unsub keeps finding exhausted officers alone.”
The room falls silent, Hotch steps closer to where you stand by the map. He points to the same three spots you had minutes ago.
“He’s hunting opportunity, let's not give him any more.”
Officers crowd into the station, the other local precincts call in.
“Fatigue creates opportunity.”
One lieutenant crossed his arms, “We can’t stop policing.”
“No,” Hotch frowns, “no, you can’t.”
He looks around the room.
“I’m not asking you to,” He continues calmly, “I’m asking you to be smart.”
Hotch began issuing instructions for everyone, calm confidence and a stern look leveling the room. It settles the few grumbles and pushbacks from angry men already looking for revenge.
“No one goes home alone. Double units only. If your shift ends, another officer escorts you to your front door.”
He looks around the room once more.
“You’ve been running on adrenaline for five days. Tired officers make mistakes, go home and stay vigilant.”
The room slowly emptied, you watch Aaron for a moment while the rest of the team returns to the conference room.
“You know,” You take a step closer, “You’re good at that.”
“At what?”
“Making people listen.”
He bites back a rare smirk, “I’ve never had much luck with you.”
“Well, I never said you were perfect.” You smile, breezing past him to follow the rest of the team.
By eleven thirty that night, the precinct was abandoned. The lights had been dimmed and the cleaning staff made a pass through, but the team was still situated in the conference room. Garcia is still on screen, but her eyes are starting to glaze over.
“I have officially entered the part of the evening where every license plate looks like alphabet soup.”
“You passed that hours ago.” Emily sighs.
Morgan stretches in his spot, “My back hurts.”
“My brain hurts.” JJ echos.
“Everything hurts.” Rossi tops.
Reid hadn’t sat down in nearly an hour, pacing keeping him awake.
“Maybe he identifies with law enforcement but simultaneously resents authority.”
“No.”
Everyone looks over at you and you don’t even lift up your head. Your head is resting in your hand, which is resting on the table.
“He doesn’t identify with them… He envies them.” You rub a tired eyes and a long yawn escapes, “If he identified with them, he’d want acceptance.”
Rossi nods, “He wants control.”
“Good distinction.”
Hotch writes it on the board, “Envy.”
“If he wanted revenge, he’d escalate emotionally.” Another yawn escapes, your elbow slides down the table, “He’s…”
“Y/n?” Emily looks up.
Morgan looks over, “Did she just?”
“She fell asleep.” JJ smiles.
You’re still sitting mostly upright, completely asleep.
Reid looks genuinely impressed, “I didn’t know people could actually fall asleep that quickly.”
Hotch looks over from the board, a soft expression crosses his face immediately. It was subtle, and most people would miss it. His shoulders relaxed and the hard line between his brows disappeared. He looked fond. You were the only person in the room to miss it.
Nobody said anything or tried to wake you. For twenty minutes the team worked around you, speaking softer without realizing it. Eventually Garcia yawns loudly over the speaker.
“Okay my crime fighting ducklings, I officially vote bedtime.”
Rossi checks his watch, “I second.”
Hotch reaches into his pocket for his phone and checks for any new messages from the sheriff.
“We’ll resume at six.”
Everyone slowly packed up and grabbed their things. Everyone except for you. You were still asleep and undisturbed.
“Who’s gonna wake her?” Reid whispers, nodding in your direction to Morgan.
“Just wait.”
As if on cue, Hotch leaves the board and stops beside your chair for a moment. Morgan deliberately busies himself with collecting files. JJ slowly organizes the crime scene photos. Rossi takes twice as long to put on his jacket.
When Aaron looks down at you, something warm fills his chest. You look softer when you sleep, the sarcasm and sharp edges tucked away for the time being. A loose strand of hair has fallen across your face.
He should hesitate, but his want overpowers him for a few seconds. He carefully brushes it back, stopping it from tickling your nose.
Behind him, Emily’s brows shoot up toward the ceiling and Morgan’s smile nearly splits his face. JJ looks over at Rossi who has a simple knowing smirk.
Aaron crouches slightly beside you, his voice drops a full octave.
“Y/n.”
Nothing.
A tiny smile tugs at his lips.
“Y/n.”
This time you stir slightly, “Hm?”
You don’t even have the energy to open your eyes.
“We’re heading to the hotel.”
You sit up, blinking slowly as you try to orient yourself.
“Did I fall asleep?” You look up at him.
“A little.”
You look around the conference room and see everyone’s eyes on you. The team is clearly packing up and moving toward the door.
“That’s embarrassing.” You mumble, standing up and stretching, clearly not too embarrassed.
“Not really.” Hotch looks down.
“You all just let me?” You point at the team and Derek makes a face that clearly said absolutely.
You groan dramatically, “I’m transferring.”
Emily laughs, “Too late.”
You shift in your spot, the tiredness still seeping into your bones.
“C’mon Sleepy Girl.” Morgan chuckles.
“Shut up,” You slowly roll your eyes, “Some of us didn’t sleep on the flight, some of us worked.”
“What, you and Hotch?” He raises brows that show you walked right into that one.
“Shut up.”
Everyone makes their way back to the SUVs. No one utters a word when Hotch opens your door for you.
-
The hotel lobby was almost empty at five thirty in the morning. A sleepy desk agent noticed Aaron’s sharp suit and straight tie for the early hour as he makes his way over to the coffee station. He makes one black and the other doctored to your liking.
Five minutes later a knock echoes in your hotel room. You groan into your pillow, your alarm still has two more minutes.
“If it’s Morgan…”
Another knock.
“I’m armed!”
Aaron's voice comes through, close to the door.
“It’s Hotch.”
Your head quickly snaps up from the pillow, suddenly sleep is the last thing on your mind. You toss off the covers to make your way over to the door. You crack the door open and squint at the bright light it lets in.
Aaron looks down at you, barely awake. Your hair is a mess and you have a big FBI hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
“Are we being called in already?”
“No.” He holds out one of the coffees, “I thought you might need this before heading over.”
You look down at the coffee, then back at him, then back to the coffee.
“You’re voluntarily bringing me caffeine?” You raise a brow.
The corners of his mouth curl slightly, “I’d like you awake for the morning briefing.”
You finally accept the cup, your fingers brushing his as you take it.
“I think you just like seeing me suffer.” You tease, “My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.”
Now he openly smirks, “We’re supposed to leave for the station in ten minutes.”
“Don’t doubt me.” You shake your head and take a long sip of coffee. You aren’t surprised it’s exactly to your liking.
He hides his smile now, “You have five minutes.”
He turns and leaves your doorway and heads in the direction of the elevator.
“Yes, sir.”
He almost reaches it, but you step out into the hall with your hand still holding your door open.
“Hotch?”
He turns, taking in your bare legs as you’re just standing out in the hall. Your free hand braces the door behind you so you don’t lock yourself out.
“Thank you.”
He nods and the elevator doors open and you go back inside your room. Taking your coffee with you. A second later the room across the hall from you opens, Morgan steps out and looks both ways in the hall. JJ walks out of her room just down the hall in time to see the elevator doors close with Aaron inside.
“He just brought her coffee.” Derek shakes his head and gestures between the elevator and your room.
“Coffee…” JJ nods.
Rossi steps out next, adjusting his watch on his wrist.
“Good morning.”
“Hotch is getting awfully domestic.”
Rossi smiles, “I noticed.”
You're the last one to join them in the lobby, coffee still in hand. You take one last sip before throwing out the cup by the door. By six o clock, the team is back at the precinct. The atmosphere felt different. Heavier.
The sheriff meets everyone halfway to the conference room. His face said everything before he even had to speak. Hotch noticed it instantly.
“What happened?”
The sheriff swallowed.
“We lost two more.”
The room froze.
“They were together.”
Silence.
Emily’s shoulders drop, “They followed protocol?”
“They did everything they were supposed to.”
The sheriff rubbed tired eyes.
“They were parked outside a closed convenience store waiting on another unit.”
Morgan frowns, “How?”
The sheriff passes Hotch a folder, “Explosion.”
Everyone loops up.
“There was an IED placed on the cruiser.”
Reid’s expression darkens, “”Remote detonated?”
“We think so.”
“He adapted.” You speak up.
Everyone turns toward you and you continue to stare at the crime scene photos.
“He expected us to pair officers.”
Hotch nods once, “So he changed tactics.”
Rossi sighs, “Which means he’s watching.”
Derek folds his arms across his chest, “He knew our response procedures.”
-
Half an hour later the team is standing outside of what’s left of the police cruiser. The blast tore through the driver’s side, metal warped in horrifying directions. Bomb technicians were still searching the area.
Morgan crouches near the crater “He knew exactly where to place it.”
“He needed line of sight.” Reid looks around the intersection.
Your head turns on a swivel, “So he was nearby?”
Aaron scans the surrounding businesses, “Watching.”
His phone rings loudly and he answers it, putting Garcia on speaker.
“I’ve got surveillance cameras from the liquor store across the street.”
Back at the sheriff’s station everyone crowded around the laptop with the file Penelope sent over. The time stamp read 2:13 AM, a patrol car pulls into frame. The footage is grainy and nothing happens for the first four minutes. Then, a figure walks calmly on the sidewalk. Hands shoved into a hoodie pocket, he doesn’t even look in the direction of the officers.
“He isn’t looking at the cruiser.” Morgan observes.
“He doesn’t have to,” You reply, “He already knew exactly where it was.”
Garcia works on enhancing the footage. Enough to see dark work boots and a baseball cap. One shoulder sits noticeably lower than the other. Reid notices it instantly.
“He’s not carrying his weight regularly.”
“Domintant right side.” You agree.
“Construction?” JJ guesses.
You shake your head and trace the angle of his arm, “He’s carried something heavy on one side for years.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” You admit.
Hotch hasn’t taken his eyes off the screen, “Play it back.”
The footage backs up, he leaves the frame, before starting over again. This time it’s slower and focused on his walk rather than the explosion.
“He never looked back.” You swallow.
“He’s done this before.” Aaron continues, eyes darting to yours.
The words settle over the room with weight. Your eyes stay locked on his as you continue to think, finally placing what you thought you saw before.
“Someone who spent years carrying a rifle.” You point to the suspect’s gait.
JJ nods before adding, “He scans reflections instead of turning his head. Store windows, car mirrors.”
Rossi looks towards Hotch, “Military.”
Aaron nods, already looking down at his phone.
“Garcia, look into anyone who recently applied to the police academy with a military background.”
Her typing became audible with rapid speed.
“Former Staff Sergeant Daniel Mercer. Three deployments, honorably discharged four years ago.”
Garcia puts his photo onto the screen, “He was diagnosed with severe PTSD after his last tour. He applied to three police departments”
Three rejection letters appeared.
“The psychological evaluations all came back the same.” Garcia’s voice softens, “Not fit for duty due to unresolved combat trauma.”
“That’s him.” You stand suddenly, grabbing your badge and gun.
Rossi nods, “The military gave him purpose… Law enforcement was supposed to replace it.”
“When they rejected him,” Morgan sighs, “They became the enemy.”
Garcia sent the coordinates for Daniel’s hunting cabin to everyone’s phones.
Hotch reaches for a vest, “Let’s move.”
The cabin sat deep in the woods. It was too quiet, the team studies the layout before moving in.
“One front entrance.” Morgan points.
“No movement.” Emily confirms.
You adjust your point tail tighter, “He knows we’re coming.”
Aaron looks over, “We need to assume he has every inch trapped.”
You smirk, “You always know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
He gives you the look. Even now.
You smile, “There it is.”
JJ shakes her head, “Seriously?”
Hotch continues to stare you down, “Focus.”
“Breach on my count.”
Three.
Two.
One.
The flashbang goes off and the front door explodes inward. The team floods into the cabin.
Morgan and Emily go left. Rossi and JJ clear the kitchen. Reid heads upstairs. You and Hotch move deeper into the house. Empty rooms with lights off, Hotch leads through the halls. There’s a closed door at the very end, he opens it and you march in. Hotch follows close behind, then the door slams behind the two of you. You both spin around to face him, Daniel Mercer standing there with a gun already raised.
“Drop it!” Hotch shouts.
Daniel’s eyes weren’t on him, they were on you. He doesn’t negotiate for a second, his finger tightens on the trigger. Two deafening shots ring out, the impact slamming you backward. You crash to the ground and Aaron’s world stops.
Mercer doesn’t get the chance to raise his weapon again, Hotch fires. Once. Twice. Three times. He drops before he can hit the ground. Aaron doesn’t even look, he’s on his knees next to you. Blood roars behind his ears and his heart thunders in his chest.
His hands shake as he reaches for your shoulders, he can barely breathe. Somewhere behind him he hears the door open and he can see David, Morgan and Prentiss in his peripheral.
“Y/n?” He whispers your name.
You suck in a painful breath and he freezes. Two hot pieces of metal sit against your vest, protecting you from actually being pierced.
You wince, “...Ow.”
He simply stares for a few seconds.
“I think I have some broken ribs.” You mutter.
He still looks unable to process, stuck in a state of panic. You reach out a hand slowly to his arm. His eyes dart down at the contact.
“Hey.. you look,” You hesitate, “...really freaked out.”
He lets out something between a laugh and a sob.
“You got shot.”
“In the vest.”
“You got shot.” He says it again, but this time you can hear the raw deep emotion in his voice. Fear.
He pulls you into his arms, carefully. One arm behind your shoulders and the other behind your back supporting you. He’s holding onto you like if he lets go you’ll disappear. You hiss through the slight pain. He loosens his grip immediately.
“Sorry.”
Emily blinks looking down at the two of you. Morgan couldn’t ignore it either. None of them said a word, not now. They hadn’t seen fear like that on Hotch in a long time. His composure was gone, breathing uneven. His hands still shake where they hold you.
He pulls back and looks at you. Then, very faintly, “You scared me.”
Your teasing smile softens, “I’m sorry.”
The sincerity in those two words hit him harder than he cared to admit. You were rarely serious and normally would take every possible opportunity to tease him. Only after you give his hand a squeeze does it finally stop shaking. He lets Morgan help you up.
Twenty minutes later you're sitting in the back of an ambulance. The EMT carefully examines your ribs, you wince every couple of seconds as the bandage braces you tighter. You’re sure to have a couple of ugly bruises as well.
Aaron stands several feet away, his eyes still carefully trained on you. Rossi wanders over, no longer able to watch the man suffer alone.
“You can breathe now.”
Aaron doesn’t answer.
“Aaron.”
Still nothing. Rossi looks toward the ambulance. You’re laughing despite the pain as JJ fusses over you.
“You almost lost her.”
Aaron's jaw tightens. It’s the first sign he’s shown that he’s actually listening.
“I know.”
“No,” Rossi looks directly at him, “I don’t think you do.”
Aaron finally looks over.
“I’ve seen you worried about this team. I’ve seen you angry. I’ve seen you blame yourself.” Rossi nods in your direction, “I’ve only seen you fall apart like that once.”
Haley.
Aaron looks away.
“I thought she was dead.”
“I could tell.”
Another long silence. Finally Rossi smiles.
“So…”
Aaron already knew where this was going.
“No.”
“You need to do something about that.”
“I don’t know what-”
Rossi doesn’t even let him finish, “You emptied half your magazine into a man because he shot the woman you’re in love with.”
Aaron sights, “I’m not-”
Rossi holds up a hand, “Save it.”
-
The ride from the station to the airport was unusually quiet. Everyone was tired and you were wincing every time the SUV hit a bump. You tried to hide it, but failed miserably considering the audience.
Emily commented on it first, “You okay?”
“I’m great,” Another pothole, “I hate Ohio roads.”
Aaron looks over from the driver’s seat, “You got shot.”
“In the vest.” You sigh dramatically, “We’ve been over this.”
JJ smiles in the backseat, “We’re worried about you.”
You twist painfully to look at her in the back, “This is excessive.”
By the time you reach the tarmac, so does the rest of the team. Morgan insisted on carrying your go bag. You try to take it back but he slings it over his shoulder and walks ahead.
Emily reaches the stairs first, “Easy.”
“I’ve climbed stairs before.” You roll your eyes.
“Not with bruised ribs.” Aaron calls from behind you.
JJ hands you a water as soon as you settle into your chair, “You haven’t been drinking enough.”
Reid frowns thoughtfully, “Actually, hydration helps with tissue recovery.”
“Alright, alright.”
It was clear that without having to discuss it, the team had all decided you wouldn’t be lifting a finger tonight. The jet lifted into the darkness within a half an hour. The cabin lights were dimmed to a minimum. Reid fell asleep with a book on his chest. Morgan was stretched across the couch. Emily and JJ took two seats near the back. Rossi quietly sipped coffee in the way back. The engines settled into their familiar hum that signaled it was time to go home.
You shift in your seat and regret it instantly.
“Ow.”
Aaron looks over, “You alright?”
“I’m discovering muscles I didn’t know existed.” You sigh, trying to stretch out and keep your ribs straight.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.”
Your eyes snap open to look at him. He openly stares back and you smile faintly.
“I know.”
He hesitates for a few seconds, looking at the empty chair to your right. He quietly moves into the seat beside you and you look at him with an amused smile. He adjusts the armrest between the seats so you can lean against him, not having to support yourself while still being able to stretch out across to the seat he had just been occupying.
“You’ve never sat here.” You sound surprised, “You don’t have assigned seating?”
“I don’t.”
“So this is voluntary?” You raise a teasing brow.
“Yes.”
You smile, “I’ll try not to let the power go to my head.”
For a minute, the two of you just sit there. You enjoy the feeling of his warm chest under you, his arm protectively keeping you there. Eventually Aaron breaks the silence.
“I’ve replayed it.”
You look up at him.
“Back at the cabin,” his jaw tightens, “if I had entered first.”
He huffs and you start to frown.
“If I’d seen him sooner, if I’d-”
“Aaron.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought you were dead.”
You watch him carefully. He isn’t looking at you, he’s staring at his hands.
“I’ve lost agents before.” He continues quietly, “I’ve attended funerals. I know what this job costs.”
Another pause.
“But today,” His voice cracks just enough for you to hear, “Today rattled me more than it should have.”
You already knew what he meant, he finally looks back at you.
“It shouldn’t affect me like that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m your unit chief.”
You hold his gaze, “Aaron.”
He waits. Hanging on your every word. He would wait for the rest of the flight if you made him.
“You don’t look at me like you’re my unit chief.”
He doesn’t deny it and you give him a small smile.
“You haven’t for a long time.” You tilt your head, “You look at everyone else like you’re responsible for them. You look at me like I’m precious.”
His breath catches, “I tried.”
“I know.”
He sighs, “I told myself a hundred times that I needed to keep things professional.”
You nod, “I know.”
“I convinced myself that what I felt would eventually…” He searches for the word, “fade.”
“It didn’t.” You look all over his face.
“No,” a humorless laugh escapes him, “it only got worse.”
Your ribs want to protest, but you reach your hand out to his. He looks down at it, tightening his grip before looking back at you.
“Today, I was terrified. When you went down, I was terrified. I wasn’t thinking like your supervisor, or a profiler. I wasn’t even thinking like an FBI agent.”
His thumb brushes against your fingers.
“I was thinking like a man who was about to lose the woman he…”
He stops and you give him an encouraging smile.
“Go on.” You bite your lip to stop the grin from spreading.
He laughs softly, “I profile serial killers for a living.”
“And yet this is somehow harder?” You bite.
“It is.”
You squeeze his hand, “I know.”
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then, with all the certainty he brings to every single profile, “I love you.”
The words hang in the quiet cabin.
“I’ve been trying not to, burying it under paperwork and professionalism.” He smiles weakly, “It didn’t work.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ve been denying that I’m in love with my boss.”
His eyes widen and you squeeze his hands again.
“I love you too.”
Every worry he’d been carrying since the cabin vanished. Every ounce of fear seemed to disappear all at once. Neither of you speak, you simply look at each other. He lifts his hand and you lean into the touch when he cups your cheek.
“I almost lost you.” His voice is impossibly soft. He takes your hand up to his lips, kissing the back of it.
“I know, but I'm here.” You remind, “Because of you.”
You lean forward enough to rest your forehead against his.
“I’m here.”
Your words are warm on his face, he smiles.
“You are.”
He leans down, closing the short distance between the two of you. His lips are careful on yours, clearly not trying to shift you around and hurt you. You don’t let that stop you, chasing his lips to deepen the kiss.
A few rows behind the two of you, Rossi smiles into his coffee cup.
JJ looks up from her book, “I can see forehead touching.”
Emily looks over, thanks to being nudged by JJ a dozen times.
“Told you!”
Morgan stretches at just the right time, “Confession time!”
Rossi shakes his head, “And it only took one of them getting shot.”
“Wait, so who won the bet?”
Back at the front of the cabin you smile, finally pulling away from him.
“Should we tell them?” You nod back toward the team filling the rows behind the two of you.
Aaron straightens for a second, looking over the top of the chair and catching several eyes immediately. Everyone looks elsewhere too suddenly. Emily inspects the ceiling. Morgan suddenly reaches for the safety card. JJ’s book is now somehow upside down. Reid is still asleep. Rossi simply raises his coffee in acknowledgment.
He sighs, settling back into his seat and pulling you back against him.
“I think they already know.”
You laugh, “They’ve known longer than we have.”
“Should that make me proud?”
-
an// aweee cute! that was fun, plz let me know what you thought of it!
Simon’s lip is busted, pink skin cracked down the middle.
Your brows are pinched in the middle, shoving him and forcing him to sit down on the kitchen chair. There’s blood running down his chin, and you’re not sure if it’s from his lips or from his teeth crashing into his gums.
“Didn’t need to do that.” You sigh, pressing an alcohol wipe to the wound.
He winces lightly before smiling wide. It draws more blood, but he’s too smug to care. “Bloke touched you.”
“Except he didn’t.” You emphasize, “He was just looking.”
“Arguably just as bad.” His big hands rest on your waist.
“People are allowed to look, you know?”
His fingers tighten around your hips.
“You can’t punch every guy who does.” You level him with a stern look.
He pulls you on to his lap, legs falling either side of his thighs. One hands gone from your hips to your chin.
“Why would I ever let them look at something that’s mine?” His voice is low, peering at you with heavy eyes.
His other hand slides lower, grip finding the globe of your ass through your jeans. It’s harsh, and you can tell there’s still adrenaline running through his veins that he’s decided to push on to you.
He drags you down, crashing your lips on to his. You try to pull away, the gash is still open and bleeding, but he holds you tight. He kisses you like he’s claiming you, fervent and possessive, forcing your lips open with his because he’s decided you should get a taste.
You taste the blood then, metallic and salty. It rushes into your mouth the harder you kiss, and it must hurt Simon, but you know that makes him like it even more. Your tongue swipes out, sliding along the broken skin. He groans, deep, hips bucking up into your parted thighs.
When you pull away, there’s remnants of his blood on your lips. He stares at them with lidded eyes, primal and hungry. His thumb pushes it into your mouth, and you suck instinctively, a horrible smirk breaking out across his face at the sight.
He’ll beat up every bloke or he’ll just keep you here in his lap forever.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, references to noncon, darker than most concepts I write
Ch. 3 | masterlist | ao3
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You don’t go back—for a while, at least.
You make use of the chicken and beef you’ve had buried somewhere deep in your freezer that you should’ve thrown out weeks ago. Anything to prevent the way the thought of the butcher shop makes your heart race and pulse heavy in your ears.
Grilled chicken. Chicken and rice casserole. Lasagna. Stuffed bell peppers.
It’s enough to tide your husband over. Not enough to make you forget.
It doesn’t last nearly as long as it should.
You debate it. Biting your lips raw and crossing your arms behind your back, pacing in front of your empty fridge. You could go during the day, be greeted by the sweet gentleman you’ve grown to know at the butcher in the mornings. The one who doesn’t have blood on his apron or wear a scowl. The one you should’ve only ever known.
You don’t even visit the bunny in your backyard, afraid that the animal will make your chest twist and give you some sort of confidence again.
The risk of Simon being there is enough to make you walk past the shop entrance entirely. You settle on the local market down the street instead, tucking your purchases to the side when you walk past Simon’s again with a bag full of frozen meat. Hiding it from him as if he’ll see you buying from a different shop. Like you owe any sense of loyalty to him.
You don’t look through the glass when you walk by. Eyes straight, fingers tight. You don’t even go to the flower shop.
You make beef stew that night.
The beef doesn’t taste as good. It’s tough, takes you several bites of grinding your molars to eat a mouthful. You blame it on your cooking. You cooked it for too long or on a setting too high. You didn’t let it simmer enough in your crockpot or didn’t season it right.
Maybe it’s all in your head.
Your husband eats it with a grimace on his face, nose scrunched up as his teeth stab through the meat. His hair’s still well-kempt, gelled down to the side. Tie hanging off the back of the chair along with his blazer. You wonder if he’s finally had enough respect to straighten himself out before he came home to you or if he just didn’t see someone else in his office today.
You don’t go to his office. He doesn’t invite you. You don’t want to be.
You’re not allowed to see that world. He goes to work events all on his own. You watch him peel off from the driveway on those rare occasions, left wondering if any of them even know he has a wife at home. If he’s too embarrassed to even confess he’s married to someone like you.
You try to watch him eat, watch the way his lips form around his fork or the pink color of his tongue, force yourself to feel something other than disgust when the juice collects at the corners of his lips.
“Tastes like shit.” He grunts. You’re not even surprised.
“I got the meat from the market.”
“The hell did ya do that for?” He scoffs, food falling from his mouth.
“I was already there, so it was easier.” You have to look away from him to stop yourself from gagging.
“Well don’t do it again.”
You nod, gulping down the bile at your throat. He doesn’t know he’s pushing you closer to the beast.
That night when your face is buried in the sheets and your husband’s grunting above you; you imagine Simon instead.
When morning comes, you grant your husbands wish, and walk the familiar path to Simon’s. It’s early enough you know he won’t be there, sun barely shining through the clouds. Still, when you arrive, you peer through the window, searching for his shaved head just in case.
You don’t know why you feel disappointed when you see a head full of hair.
You give the beef stew a second try. A devotion to cook Simon’s meat better than the markets.
That night, your husband’s not happy when he comes home, slamming the door, and kicking his shoes off. You stay silent, straightening your back, and prepare yourself, turning around with the same tight lip smile.
“Went to the butcher today. Made the beef stew just the way you like it.”
His eyes slit. “Why the hell would you cook me the same dinner?”
You pause where you stand, holding a warm bowl of stew between your palms.
“Well, I thought I was doing something you would like.”
His hand flings forward, smacking the bowl out of your hands. The hot liquid spills down your hands and splatters across your clothes. The glass bowl breaks, shards shattering on the floor, as you gasp from the burn.
“You don’t know shit.”
He stands up, grunting under his breath that he’s going to find dinner somewhere else.
You don’t let yourself cry, not when you have to run cold water over your hands, not while you’re on your hands and knees picking up the pieces of glass, not when you have to scrub the floor, not when you’re left to eat dinner alone.
Your hands don’t even shake when you wash your clothes, steady and focused. Determined for the first time in days.
Your legs take you to the entrance of the butcher shop before you’ve even had time to think or put your clothes in the dryer. Puffing clouds of air with stinging cheeks and ears. You didn’t even put on a coat.
You see him through the fogged glass, big and brute.
He looks up when you walk in.
“Hi.” You whisper.
The corner of his lips curves.
“Hi. How’s your forehead?”
“It’s okay.”
“No concussion?” He jokes.
You shake your head, “Barely a bruise.”
“Glad to hear. What did you need?”
“Nothing.” You say, digging through your bag. “I brought you something.”
He tilts his head.
“I cooked dinner for my husband, but he didn’t want it and well,” You avoid eye contact, placing the container on the counter. “I thought I would pay you back for dealing with my accident the other day.”
There’s a brief pause of silence; it makes your skin crawl, looking up to ramble some more, hoping it doesn’t sound as horrid as it does.
“You brought me the dinner you made for your husband?”
You look at him shocked, lips parting, “Well, that's not how I meant it. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea—“
You reach for it, but he beats you to it, snatching it from the countertops before you even get a chance.
“I want it.” He doesn’t give you room to disagree.
You just nod, let him lead you to the back again. This time you stand against the steel table. This time there’s no head injury.
“Don’t you get cold in here?”
He chuckles, “Does the princess need a sweater?”
“No,” You ignore the name. “You only ever wear a t-shirt.”
“You don’t have a sweater on either.” He points to your chest.
“Forgot it.”
He raises his brow, but he doesn’t comment on it more.
“Got enough muscle to warm me up.”
You inhale.
“Yeah.”
You look away when his lips curl into a smirk.
“Never had a customer cook me my own meat.” He opens the container, steam rising from the top despite the cold walk over.
“Probably never had a customer smack their head on that glass.”
“Never that.”
You watch him put it to his lips, bare hands and all. You should look away.
You don’t.
It should disgust you, the way he dips his fingers into the broth.
It doesn’t.
You think about your husband, for a split second. You couldn’t even fathom staring at him for more than a few seconds without repulsion curling acidicly in your throat. And yet, you can’t look away from Simon.
He eats like a dog, messy and greedy, groaning around each bite like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. Crooked canines tearing through each piece of meat almost savagely.
A man starved.
It drops down his fingers and chin. Just like it had when you were alone. You swallow around the desire building in your mouth. It’s like you can almost taste him, licking your lips for remnants you might’ve missed.
Your palms are sweaty, despite how cold it is. Flesh practically scorching when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. You stare wide-eyed and unblinking as he pulls them out with a wet smack.
When he finally looks at you, his eyes are heavy.
You almost forget to breath.
Don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed strays?
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write
ch. 1 | masterlist | ao3
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You hate him.
Right down to the way he drinks his coffee, too many sugars, and likes his eggs, scrambled, in the morning. Even the way he does his hair, black combover like he’s some gentleman. Pretending to be a man of integrity.
Though you suppose that’s what happens when the man takes his anger out on you. Expects you to treat him like a king when he treats you as much less. Maybe the look fooled you at first. Pristine suits and smooth skin, charming smile and glimmering white teeth. An image that portrayed something he wasn’t.
You stay, there’s no other option. Not when the word divorce makes your mother turn her back to you. Not when she endured far worse and stayed longer.
You should be grateful, atleast that’s what he tells you, and some awful twisted part of you believes him. That this is all you deserve. That this is karma for kissing your girl best friend on the playground in primary school. Or for losing your virginity out of wed lock when you graduated.
You’re lucky— he tells you. Lucky that he married someone so tainted. You’ve heard it so many times that you don’t know what’s true anymore, the edges of your beliefs smeared and faded somewhere.
You don’t believe in a God. Never did. Even when your mother pushed it on you, forced her fears into your mind, and made you second guess all your actions. Maybe your lack of faith caused this. Maybe your marriage is punishment for the doubt in a higher power.
Maybe you should’ve believed.
Perhaps this would all make sense if you did.
Though, the doubt isn’t from lack of trying. You’ve prayed on your knees, seeking questions that have gone unanswered. Even wear the cross on your neck, a silver thing that you play with when his words become too harsh and voice too loud.
You think you loved him at one point. It’s all blurry now. You hope you did. Maybe then you’d have a valid excuse for staying other than a religion you don’t believe in.
It’s all you know at this point, all you’ve ever known watching your parents. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, how this God intended. Tight lip smiles, ducking heads, and shaking fingers out of fear.
You’ve stopped crying long ago, dried up all sorrow and buried it somewhere else completely. You’ve learned to deal with it— you think, if wrapping up all the emotions that threaten to spill from your throat tightly wound with a pretty bow on top to mask your true thoughts counts as ‘dealing with it.’
You’re used to it, despite how draining it is.
You won’t divorce. That’s not an option. Not like this. You weren’t raised that way.
You don’t know how to leave, can’t leave, so you find escape in the small things. The way the sun shines through your kitchen window, casting beams from the sun catcher your husband hasn’t torn down yet. He will, in a stupor rage, and you’ll have to save up for a new one again. Or the bunny that’s found sanctuary in your backyard, a white innocent thing, covered in dirt. Even visiting the small flower shop on the way to the butcher, the same one you get your sun catchers from, is better than any of this.
The bunny’s there now, creeping out of the bush its made its home, branches dented where it crawls. Slowly, hesitantly, it approaches the lettuce you had tucked away for it, nose twitching as it inspects the contents. It draws a smile, the first in a while thats not forced at your new little friend’s bravery.
The smile falls fast, torn from your lips when the front door slams shut loudly. It makes you jump, makes the bunny run from the noise, lettuce falling from its grasp and back on to the ground. You swallow thick at the sight, the man finds a way to ruin everything that happens to bring you joy.
The clock on the stove reads 4:30. An hour early.
The tension in the rooms already shifted before he’s even entered, wooden house creaking under him. You feel it in your spine, an anxiety that only he manages to claw out of you, curled around your back firmly.
“What’s for dinner?”
It’s the first words he speaks. Not even a hello. Grunting them out like it was a chore.
You turn to face him, drying your hands with a rag, tight lipped smile on your face, feigning a warm welcome. “Chicken Gnocchi.”
His ties out of place, white shirt you pressed this morning wrinkled, hair disheveled. You ignore it. Pretend you don’t notice any of it.
He scoffs. “Don’t want it.”
Your smile falters, brows meeting in the middle. “Sweetheart, I’ve already made it. You told me you wanted it before you left this morning.”
“Don’t care. I want rib-eye steak.” He cuts you off, dismissing your words with a wave of your hand.
“We dont—there’s no steak in the freezer.”
He looks at you like you’re dumb. “Then go to the butcher?”
You pause, inhaling deep, fingers tight around the rag. You’ve learned not to fight it. Your response is weak, meager, putting on the same forced smile.
“Okay.”
You take a final look through the window. You wish you could join the bunny, hide away in the bush until the big bad man leaves for work the next morning and you both can enjoy the sun again.
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It’s dark by the time you arrive, cheeks and fingers numb from the winter air. Sighing under your breath when you see the long line.
You’ve never been this late, your husband expects dinner to be made before he gets home, so you don’t recognize the person behind the glass.
He’s big. Awfully big.
There’s blood smeared on his apron, red splattered up his blue gloves. It’s a sight you don’t normally see with the morning shift. A bit sickening, filthy, but you watch him anyways.
Eye’s trained on his brows, squished together with stress, or maybe it’s annoyance. Wrinkles deep on his forehead, scars gashed along his lip and down his arms like he was cutting practice for apprentices.
His shoulders are broad, pulling the white t-shirt he wears under his apron taut. Head shaved, crooked teeth. The tattoos curled along his arm flex with every shift, veins prominent each time he slices a new slab of meat.
He’s brooding, intimidating. In a far different way than your husband.
You can’t look away from his hands. Swallowing thick as you watch him slice slab after slab. A weird part of you, somewhere deep, warms your skin. Licking your lips instinctively because you can tell how thick his fingers are even under the gloves.
It’s like a moth to a flame, the way your eyes zero in on his movements. Inhaling between your teeth, breathing deep like some animal, unlocking something you didn’t realize you had.
The tag on his apron reads ‘Simon.’
It takes you two seconds to realize it’s the owner of the shop when he stares at you expectantly.
“I asked chatgpt–” I’m gonna stop you right there pal because I asked Penelope Garcia and she said you’re a whiny little bitch loser and we’re all laughing at you <3
it was embarrassing. but you can't miss out. but.. i mean, what if he rejects you? what if he doesn't want a relationship? what if he cares too much about work? what if-
you get his number.
you both are in bed already. his body is carved like a greek sculpture. dips in the right places. looks like an angel sent from heaven itself.
but what you both were doing wasn't very heavenly.
his house was filled with the noises of soft whimpers and labored breaths. matt's body lay under you, his chest moving up and down in fast, quick breaths.
his senses were heightened. due to his blindness, you knew he was aware of every other touch. you used that to your advantage. not like he hates it, in fact, he craves it.
"fuck. goddamn, if you don't go slow i might-"
"quiet, murdock."
the tip of your finger slowly trailed down towards his abs, your finger rubbing between each one. you leaned over him, and you kiss his neck.
"ghn- oh..." cute, whispered noises fell from his mouth, as you sucked and bit on his neck. a pinkish-purple bruise started to form. another near his collarbone, and one right on his jaw.
your finger trailed down towards his pelvis, your palm laying on his hard-on through his boxers.
"babe- no-oh fuck..."
"tell me you need it."
"i need it."
"sorry? what was that?"
"i... i said i need it."
"you don't have manners, do you, sweetheart." you love joking around with him, throwing around a little teasing here and there. you love seeing how his face flushes with that cute pink.
"please. please- i need it so fuckin' bad- i need you baby-"
"attaboy."
he lets out a little whimper at that name. that's a new thing to tease him with.
your fingers link with the waistband of his boxers, slowly pushing down, revealing his flushed cock. a blushing reddish pink tip, slightly glinting.
"d-didn't know you were so... brave."
you smirked. "ya know, i told you to stop talking."
"mm. sorry. fuck.."
you leaned down from his neck, slowly rubbing the tips of your fingers against the base of his cock. now slowly, up, towards his tip. you loomed over him again.
you don't respond with words. rather with a hard squeeze against the base of his cock. the pad of your thumb brushes against his tip.
"fu- ghn!-"
"will that keep you quiet?"
matt doesn't respond in words. he simply responds in a moan.
you continue, rubbing his cock up, down, up, down. seeing his body flushed with that pretty pink is adorable, especially when he's trying to keep the noises from getting out his mouth.
you tease him a little more, feather-like touches towards his tip, and towards the base. you can tell he's getting worked up. and annoyed, probably.
"wh- what the fuck- are you doing? please. jus'- just. give it t'me!"
"aww, hah. do you know how fucking pathetic you sound right now?"
"please. ma'am. please." tears pricked at the corner of his eyes.
"oh? what was that?"
"....mm.."
"matt."
".... m-ma'am."
"sorry, couldn't hear you. wanna say that louder for me?" you never expected being called ma'am was so fucking hot, especially from matt. he just sounds so desperate, its adorable.
"ma'am. i said ma'am. please."
"attaboy. you're such a sweet thing, aren't you, baby?" you continued rubbing him quicker. you finally got what you wanted, some pleading and an audible "ma'am."
his cock pulses at that praise. "yes ma'am. i am- fuck- yesyesyes-"
you almost laugh at his desperation. you rub faster and his torso starts tensing in pulses, signaling his orgasm is close.
teasing him a little more, "you're allll mine, murdock."
"yes- fuck yesyes- c'mon- please make me cu-uhm-"
a few more rubs, and his whole body tenses, eyes tightly shut, and finally, his release hits.
his pretty eyes finally open, his mouth still ajar, taking in breaths after such a release. you bring your thumb to your mouth, where you lick off a bead of his release.
"you did so well, sweetheart. so good for me."
"babe.. i.." he's still out of breath. you can feel a bit of pride in yourself, for being the one who caused this. "i love you. thank you for that."
a kiss to his jaw. then to his lips.
"i love you too. now i know how to get to ya." you lay next to him, and he snuggles his neck into yours.
karen was right. it's good to have a little fun. even if it's making a man plead.
i haven't written anything in so long, im sorry if this sucks !! was half asleep at 3am writing this 💔 this is my own kinda spinoff of sub!matt cuz.... sub men🤤🤤
Inspired by this lovely bit @silverlullabies gifted us.
Omega!reader who accepted a long time ago that their scent is disgusting because it reminds people of blood and gunpowder.
It might have been acceptable for an alpha but not for an omega. How would you ever be able to soothe your pups with this kind of violent scent? Nothing sweet or calming about you. You had to wear blockers from a young age because your scent was disturbing for others. When you entered the military you quickly learned that you could cause flashbacks with your scent and it had been used against prisoners more than once until you couldn't take it anymore. It left you broken in ways you didn't even fully understand, all you knew was that alphas either found you disgusting, disturbing or they were panicking, because all their instincts screamed 'wounded omega' once they got so much as a whiff of you.
You adapted. Scent blockers and suppressants, special mandatory leave once a year to go through a heat, so you could avoid long term affects on your health. Although you hoped secretly that your body would finally give up the craving for a mate and pups. You would never have that and you found it ridiculous to keep pretending otherwise.
So you grow cold. They call you ice princess. You don't object. You learn to use your scent like a weapon, a tool. Best decoy on the field to lure the enemy to the injured omega, only to find a deadly surprise. Easy to slip into shelters and hospitals. You are very specialised and the professional praise you get has to be enough to feed your twisted omega side.
When you join a mission with the 141 you don't expect it to be any different. You tell them they don't need to know your scent, but they insist, so they know what to prepare for and not get confused. Fair enough.
And of course you are not surprised by the looks of pity and sadness Gaz and Soap give you when they realise the reason why you use the thick patches and never participate in friendly scenting
What you are absolutely unprepared for is the way Ghost takes a deep breath, then another and then growls when Price calls him back. He doesn't move. Instead he grabs you, holds you close and presses his nose to your scent glands like an addict.
And you have no idea what to do because you can feel his length and a knot building, pressed against your hip. Hands that hold you but in a way that feels protective. And your brain screaming alpha alpha alpha at you.
ngl there is something very homoerotic about a man having a “right hand man” … he is a part of me, he is his own man but all his actions are for me or to further my goals. very dog and master coded.
