#cm writing

[writingquillsandpainpills]

The BAU as what Ana (@fightingdragonswithreid ) and i have said in the middle of the night

part 1/???

tagging a few mutuals: @anastasiahotchner @deadravenclaw @deaddpoet @lil-stark @reidselle @foxy-eva @38across @sadgirlml @reidsbookclub @ellcsgreenaway @ssahctchner @samuel-de-champagne-problems @pretty-boys-book-club @lilacprentiss

[maschotch]

A Taste Beyond Comprehension

day six: sweet treats

part two of my “hotch is good at everything” hc. penelope’s a little jealous, but it’s outweighed (and outnumbered) by the team’s bewilderment. i tried actually writing fucking dialogue since i realized i hadn’t done that yet, so it was kind of a last minute addition. anyway. pretend this isn’t a day late

Hotch was a good baker.

Not a lot of people would’ve guessed that about him, but if you thought about it a little bit, it’s really not that much of a surprise.

It’s meticulous. Precise. Everything is about following every rule to the letter. It requires patience.

It’s right up Hotch’s alley.

Penelope was the one known for bringing tasty treats to the BAU. She enjoyed cooking for others; she would recipe test weekly, and whatever passed inspection would get mass produced and left on the break table or communal fridge. It was an irregular, but common, tradition.

Common enough that no one questioned it when a platter piled with cookies showed up one day in the kitchenette. Or the next week when a dozen pounds of fudge appeared on the counter. Or the following week when there were stacks of tupperware filled with cupcakes.

Penelope was a little confused when a passing agent would compliment her on her latest creation, but quickly brushed it aside. It wasn’t until the third week of undue praise that she asked Derek if he knew what they were talking about.

She didn’t leave the batcave often—especially when the others were out on a case—and even when she did she was either in the round table room or hovering around her friends’ desks. She rarely had reason to be in the break area, other than the times she dropped off food.

So it came as a bit of a shock to them all when she admitted she hadn’t brought anything recently. Curious, with nothing better to do and a laughable social life, they decided to attempt to ferret out the resident baker.

It took a few days of arriving hours early and staking out the breakroom (they had duos on a daily rotation: Penelope and Derek were today’s) until they finally saw Hotch walk in with a tin of brownies.

They thought they were delirious at first. The others definitely did when they broke the news. They sat on their desks in a circle, uncharacteristically silent, lost in thought as they imagined Aaron Hotchner baking. It was painfully domestic; certainly not unreasonable—they knew he had a family, after all—but such a stark contrast to their mental image of their powerful leader. It took nearly an hour for each of them to shake off their stupor and they resumed the huddle to determine their next move.

The confrontation was as boisterous as expected: not by Hotch, mind you, but by the gaggle of excitable agents tripping over each other to get into his office like crabs trying to get out of a bucket. The small room was suddenly very crowded.

“…Can I help you?” Hotch asked warily, raising an eyebrow as the commotion settled.

For once they were quiet, eyeing each other waiting for someone else to say something first. JJ was ultimately the one to muster the courage and blurt out, “Do you bake?”

It was more of an accusation than a question, and Hotch’s face remained impassive, though he felt a hint of a tug on his lips. So that’s what this was about. “Yes.”

They all knew better than to expect him to elaborate on his own. Emily shouldered her way through Reid and Morgan to stand in front. “And you’ve been bringing stuff here? To the BAU?”

Another question that wasn’t a question. Hotch simply nodded.

Penelope huffed, growing a little impatient and admittedly a little peeved that someone else—their unit chief, no less—had been providing food for the rest of the team. Good food. She’d always been better at cooking than baking, and it was a little embarrassing to be outdone by someone she forgot even ate food. “Any particular reason?” Morgan asked, smartly phrasing it in a way that would garner an actual response.

Hotch shrugged noncommittally, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. If they squinted hard enough, it almost seemed like he was smug. The nerve.  “Jack’s been wanting to bake more often. He’s trying to figure out what to bring for the class party. It’s too much for just the two of us.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He could hear Emily smile more than he could see it, which should’ve been enough of an answer in itself. He knew he would be teased no matter what he said, and he wasn’t interested in encouraging them. He remained silent.

Reid, practically married to the coffee machine therefore in the break room constantly, ran through his recollections of food available in recent months. “Did you bring the sugar cookies last June?”

Hotch nodded curtly, growing tired of questions they knew the answers to. If it was possible for five people to collectively wince, they would have. They knew they would wear down his patience eventually. They probably had about a handful of questions left before he sent them away.

“How long have you been baking?”

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, silently counting. “About 25 years.”

“Oh shit,” Emily hissed quietly, earning an elbow in the gut from JJ. Though none of them could really fault her for voicing their surprise.

The interrogation continued. “Have you brought food before?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been bringing food?”

Hotch jutted his chin towards Rossi’s office. “More in the early days. Didn’t have much time when I was adjusting to the unit chief workload. But I still do every once and a while.”

Reid was making a mental note of all the times there had been baked goods waiting in the breakroom. He locked eyes with Penelope and they silently agreed to go over the list later to check what she had/hadn’t brought and figure out what exactly their esteemed leader fed them.  

“What else can you make?”  

Another shrug, but this one was laced with barely perceivable exasperation. Their time was running out.

An energy sizzled in the air as they all feverishly whittled down their curiosities, trying to decide what to prioritize. It was only a handful of seconds, but with their minds were working overdrive, it might as well have been hours.

Morgan ultimately made the final request. “Will you make something for us?”

A pause. The other silently approved the question, but they feared all they’d receive in return would be a blank glare. But it was worth a shot. It opened the door for future discussions, which they knew wouldn’t go unnoticed by the senior profiler.

The next few seconds were excruciating before he finally replied. “What would you like?”

If the room was buzzing before, it was positively electric now. They turned to each other and whispered in a hushed deliberation. They hadn’t really considered the possibility that they would have options. Seemingly endless options if his vague responses were anything to go by—a known indicator of Hotch’s humility. He was likely more skilled than they previously thought. It was impossible to decide.

“Can we ask later?” They were all wide eyed, brimming with hope and practically pouting. It wasn’t dissimilar to Jack’s kindergarten class.

Hotch hummed and waved them off with one hand as he returned to the paperwork on his desk, taking care not to smile until the door closed behind them.

[hotchnerfuckmeup]

Bite Me

Anon asked:  I heard your requests were still open :) Could you please write a Hotch x reader where the reader has a biting kink/fetish, and Hotch decides to tease her at work? xoxo you're the best

Some smutty Aaron for you.  So read with caution for those of you with sensitive palettes.  Short summary: Hotch teases Y/N and she gets so sexually frustrated she pulls him into the single stall bathroom to get some relief.  this is so short im sorry, im really trying to get back into the groove of writing

Y/N sat at her desk, reviewing the file for the last case.  The endless amount of paperwork she needed to sift through was agonizing, but it was just an unfortunate part of the job.

It was a slow day at work, every member of the team buried in their work, files stacked on each desk.  These days were boring and time consuming, but very necessary.  

Sighing, Y/N got up from her seat and grabbed her coffee mug, heading to the break room for a much needed refill.  She made he way to the coffee maker and poured the hot liquid into her cup, next adding a bit of sugar and creamer into it as well.

“Tired?” Aaron said behind her, making her jump a bit.

“Just ready to be done with this damn paperwork.  There’s always so much to do,” she whined, blowing on the top of her mug to cool off her coffee.  Aaron smirked as he stepped closer to her so his face was a mere inch from her ear.

“I can think of a way to relieve your stress,” he whispered quietly before sucking her earlobe into his mouth, gently nipping at it. 

Y/N groaned in approval, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Too bad we’re at work,” he said, stepping away and filling up his own mug, leaving a hot and bothered Y/N in his wake.  “Have fun with the paperwork,” he finished with a smile and pecked her on the cheek.  She looked at him incredulously and frustrated.

About half an hour later, she was back at her desk, still recovering from her boyfriend’s teasing, trying her best to delve back into her work, but she couldn’t focus on the files in front of her, instead her mind drifted to the though of Aaron biting her neck and sucking on her tender skin.  She crossed her legs, hoping to force down the sexual frustration and relieve the throbbing ache of her core. 

Jesus, one little nip from him and she was practically screaming ‘take me’.

“You okay, Y/N?” Prentiss said from her desk, looking at the girl who had suddenly flushed red.  “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine, I- I’m just tired,” she replied, brushing her hair from her hot face.

“Sure you’re not sick?” Derek asked, walking up behind her.  “You look like hell.”

“Bite me, Morgan,” she blurted, the outburst sounding harsh.  Jesus, how did Aaron get her so worked up over one little nibble?

“Damn, I’m sorry princess,” Morgan replied holding up his hands in innocence.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bite at you- BARK.  I didn’t mean to bark at you,” she said hurriedly, stumbling over her words.  “Shit,” she said under her breath. 

“Seriously, what is the problem?” Derek asked, suddenly showing concern.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she replied quickly before shoot out of her seat and down the hallway towards the restrooms.  The other agents watched her speed away with a mixture of concerned and confused looks on their faces.

As she passed the double doors towards the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of Aaron talking with Rossi.  When they met gazes, he took in her flustered figure and smirked at himself, quite pleased with the damage he’d done.

Y/N shook her head in annoyance and threw open the single stall door, plunging inside, knowing full well he’d follow her in there.  She started the faucet, collecting the cool water to splash her face.  It only did so much to cool off her skin, but her insides were still burning with desire.  

She heard the door open behind her and close quickly, the lock sounding within seconds.  She didn’t need to look up to know Aaron was coming up behind her, probably erect with anticipation.

“Fuck you,” she whispered without looking up.

“As you wish,” Aaron said before turning her around in one motion and hiking up her skirt, revealing the lacy french cut undies she was wearing.  He wasted no time pushing the thin fabric to the side and inserting his fingers into her throbbing pussy.

“Damn it,” she whispered, leaning back on the counter to keep balance and arching her back so she had a deeper angle.

“You don’t like it when I tease you, do you?” he asked, bringing his face to her neck, sinking his teeth into her hot flesh.  She wasn’t able to suppress the moan that escaped her, the still running water thankfully loud enough to cover it up.

“You frustrate the fuck out of me,” she admitted before grabbing his wrist to hold it steady as she all but rid his fingers.  All the while, he continued to nip at her skin, sucking and licking her chest and neck.  Her hips moved  quicker as she approached her orgasm, her clit rubbing against his knuckles as they pounded together.

“As your boyfriend and boss, that’s kind of my job,” he whispered against her skin.  With one final bite to her neck, she came around his fingers, reaching complete bliss and euphoria as she rode out her high.

She panted as he removed his fingers from her, smirking at the mess they made.  On the floor beneath them was the puddle of her climax.  He quickly pulled he rin for a kiss before turning away.

“You might want to clean that up,” he said as he started towards the door.

“Asshole,” she replied with a small smile.

“Oh, and you might want to put some makeup on that,” he said, motioning to his own neck then to hers.  Her eyes widened as she turned back to the mirror, seeing the growing hickey and bite mark he just left on her skin.  “That looks like a job well done to me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said quietly.

“Just marking my territory,” he told her with a wink before clasping the door handle and walking out.

“Bite me, Aaron Hotchner.”

Masterlist

[shadowoods]

Fandoms Masterpost

so today it’s this blog’s one year anniversary and I thought it would be nice to bring a bit more organisation into this mess. 

thank you so much for following me, liking and reblogging my things! it means a lot and i hope this one (which I’ll link in my bio) is helping a bit! x

Masterlists

The Vampire Diaries

The Originals 

Shadowhunters 

Pretty Little Liars

Game of Thrones

Teen Wolf

The 100

Criminal Minds / Rizzoli and Isles

Divergent / the Hunger Games

The Flash

Anime

Things you can request: » No smut requests, thank you!

Scenarios  » very short and simple what-ifs. Characters: max. 8

Fake-Texts  » Character and topic

Moodboards/ Aesthetics  » Characters/ Shows/ Episodes

Snapchats  » Character and topic

Headcanons  » a list of things to a certain topic, e.g. “Dating would include”

Gif imagines  » “Imagine….” + gif(s) and sometimes a few lines

Long imagines  » One shot stories

Ships/ Match-ups

Fandoms I write for (Alphabetic order) » Some characters might be excluded. » It is also stated how “up-to-current-events” I am. So please no spoilers! » I write anything from above for all the fandoms below.

Bungou Stray Dogs (anime only)

Criminal Minds + Beyond Borders (Season 11 + Season 2)

Divergent 

Free! (anime, no movies or ovas)

Game of Thrones 

Haikyuu!! (anime only as for now + ovas)

Kuroko no Basket (anime + all ovas, not the movie)

Kuroshitsuji/ Black Butler (very beginning, anime only)

No. 6 (manga only)

Owari no Seraph/ Seraph of the end (anime only)

Pretty Little Liars (7B, will be watching the weekend after it was released)

Shadowhunters 

Shingeki no Kyojin/ Attack on Titan (anime + manga until chapter 74)

Teen Wolf

The 100 

The Flash

The Hunger Games

The Originals (season 4)

The Vampire Diaries

Tales of Zestiria (on hold atm)

Tokyo Ghoul (anime, ovas, manga; always up-to-date)

Things I consider watching are: Skam, Riverdale, Supergirl and Yuri!!! on Ice. :’) 

[maschotch]

Criminally Negligent

day seven: “check that again, are you sure?”

derek’s getting a little worried about hotch’s self destructive tendencies. hotch hates emts almost as much as he hates hospitals. he’s quickly adding cyclists to the list. a little moment in between scenes in roadkill, inevitably turned into a hotch character study halfway through. i actually managed to post this on day seven. i had an hour to do it, so if it’s all over the place i’m gonna blame it on that. but hey one shitty fic is better than no fic at all

Getting hurt on the job isn’t exactly rare. It’s not unreasonable. They’re hunting murderers, after all, so it’s bound to get a little dangerous. The occasional bruise when an unsub puts up a fight, a sprain from chasing someone down, a cut every now and then, a graze from a bullet if things really go south. It wasn’t uncommon. You have to accept at least a little risk to get anything done before someone else gets hurt.

 But crashing the SUV into a literal killer-truck was pushing it.  

“I’m fine,” Hotch said through gritted teeth, more out of annoyance than actual pain.

The EMT struggled to grab his arms. If he would just stop moving. “Sir, sit down.” They had the patience of a saint.

“You cleaned it, you put a bandage on it, it’s fine.”

Lightheaded and thrumming with adrenaline, Hotch didn’t even notice Dave come up behind him until a hand clapped on his shoulder. “Atta boy,” he grinned a little too broadly to be encouraging. Hotch knew when he was being mocked. “Give ‘em hell.”

Hotch stilled briefly at the familiar touch, though it was unclear if he was relaxing or tensing. He turned to glower at the old man, Morgan laughing as he approached not two steps behind. “Don’t give them such a hard time. Let them do their job.”

Hotch fixed his glare at the younger agent. They were ganging up on him. Fan-fucking-tastic. “Like you always do?” he snapped more harshly than he normally would’ve.

Morgan took it in stride, not really expecting anything else. He grinned as Dave used the grip on his shoulder to push the unit chief down to sit on the back of the ambulance. “Exactly.” He didn’t bother to hide his mirth, but he turned serious when he spoke to the medic. “How is he?”

“Fine.”

The interruption went ignored. “Small cut near his temple. The bleeding’s stopped but he probably has a mild concussion.” They looked pointedly at Hotch. “He’s lucky, all things considered. The backside of the car got the brunt of the impact. Other than that, he’s fine,” they winced half a beat after the word and turned back to the others to avoid Hotch’s satisfied smirk, “but he’ll probably have some bruises in the morning.”

Hotch had a rather petty “I told you so” look on his face, but Morgan’s brows were still furrowed. “Can you check him again? Just to be sure? This isn’t the first time he’s been too reckless for his own good.”

“You’re one to talk,” Hotch muttered under his breath, but it’s not like Morgan was wrong. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time Hotch had crashed a car.

The EMT did another scan, double-checking areas Morgan pointed out where Hotch had been wounded previously with extra attention and taking a closer look at his ear upon request. Still agitated and now surrounded by prodding touches, Hotch bounced his leg and fiddled with his fingers, flinching every once and a while at the physical contact. Not really out of pain, but out of discomfort. It was bad enough it was a stranger, but he also had an audience. More than just Morgan and Dave: the group of cyclists still lingered and were giving statements while glancing occasionally at the smoldering car and the men around the ambulance. “Are we done?” Hotch growled, trying to sound threatening, but the hint of anxiety wasn’t lost on the other two agents.

They locked eyes and seemed to come to some silent agreement before refocusing on Hotch. If the injuries genuinely weren’t too severe, staying here was probably doing more harm than good. They got a final clearance from the medic along with an order to drink lots of water, then pulled the stubborn man over to the remaining SUV.

Hotch grabbed the handle of the driver’s seat. “You’re kidding, right?” Morgan snorted as he very nearly lifted him by the shoulders to pry him away from the door.

Hotch cast him a particularly withering scowl, which only deepened as Dave waved his fingers from the opposite side of the car. “Senior agent gets shotgun,” he announced with the attitude of a five-year-old.

“Senior citizen,” Hotch grumbled just to make himself feel better as he slid into the backseat.

When all three doors slammed shut, Morgan angled to rearview mirror to look at Hotch. “You’re really alright?”

“I’m f-“

“Fine, fine, we get it,” Dave finished his sentence for him. He turned in his chair to face Hotch. “You’re seriously good, kid?” Kid, Hotch scoffed internally. “Crashing into the truck like that…” he trailed off but his concern conveyed the point pretty well.

“It was the best thing I could think of,” Hotch knew it was a mistake as he said it, but the groans from the front seat affirmed their reactions. “We were a handful of feet behind the last bike, what was I supposed to do?”

“Risk your life by ramming into the death truck, obviously.” Dave rolled his eyes as if his statement wasn’t dripping with enough sarcasm. “You could’ve been seriously hurt, you know. What if something happened and you careened off the cliff?”

“I didn’t,” Hotch mumbled unwisely. He was being a little too candid today, but at least he could blame the head wound.

“You’ve gotta be more careful,” Morgan added, a heavier note sobering the conversation a little. “If not for yourself than for us. It’s been tough to see you out of sorts this year.”

Hotch didn’t exactly need reminding of the explosion he’d somehow survived. Images of the flesh of Kate’s back shredded down to the white of her spine flashed through his mind and he could practically smell the burning remains of the car. But thinking of the fear in Morgan’s eyes as he ran up to help him while everyone stood back and watched made his gut twist. He thought of a late night long ago when the younger man shared the memory of watching his dad die in front of him over a bottle of whiskey. The familiar weight of guilt pulled at his stomach.

He wasn’t conceited enough to think Morgan considered him as a replacement for his father, but he doubted having to stand idle while someone he cared about was hurt didn’t stir up some deeply rooted trauma. After everything Morgan had done for him, it was the least he could do to keep him from having to relive that moment again and again.

Hotch had never really bothered with prioritizing his own safety. He wasn’t actively looking for life-threatening moments, he just supposed he didn’t avoid them as much as he probably should. It was different once Jack was born: a new layer of anxiety blanketing his subconscious, not wanting to abandon his son. But now that Haley had left… well it wasn’t hard to slip back into old habits.

Dave kept looking at him, his gaze making Hotch’s skin itch. No, it certainly wasn’t the first time Hotch had gotten a little too reckless. Particularly as a newer addition to the BAU when he used to handle the chase-and-tackle stuff he usually left to Morgan nowadays. But Hotch later admitted to allowing himself to get roughed up a bit more than necessary, something Dave was well aware of. Whether it was the adrenaline rush that accompanied potentially fatal altercations or some sort of self-inflicted punishment for things Hotch tried not to let himself think about, as a young agent he returned to Quantico beaten and bloody more often than not.

Hotch broke eye contact and glared out the window. No matter how Hotch felt about it, it wasn’t fair of him to be so impulsive when he had so many people depending on him. Even with Jack and Haley gone, he could at least admit that his team looked up to him, maybe even cared about him. It wasn’t fair for him to be so casual flirting with danger like that when he had so many responsibilities. It had been particularly difficult recently to attribute any kind of value to his life, but it was easier (and harder, in a way) when Morgan looked at him like he was someone else, someone long gone and far away.

He really was lucky, wasn’t he?

He wanted to apologize for making Morgan worry so much. He wanted to promise that he would be more careful. He wanted to thank him for his constant support and loyalty, and for making him feel like he actually deserved it. He wanted to swear that he wouldn’t put Morgan through anything like that ever again.

There was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t think of a way to express the depth of his gratitude. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on some imaginary beacon outside the window, the pounding in his head matching the guilty pounding of his heart. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I’ll work on it.”

That would have to do for now.  

[maschotch]

Mirror, Mirror

day eight: monster

if this is exactly the same as that other post, no it isnt :) i was too lazy (aka indecisive) to come up with names for hotch’s parents. which might make things a little confusing but it’s better than giving them names im gonna regret a week from now. tw child abuse (mentioned)

Mirrors had always been a bit of an issue for Hotch. He tried not to look directly at them if he didn’t have to, and would duck his head when passing a window that seemed adamant to show his reflection. It made shaving a little tricky, but as long as he focused on the task at hand he could manage to avoid thinking about the face looking back at him. A face that wasn’t just his own.  

Hotch looked like his father.

He’s gotten used to it by now, but back when the testosterone kicked in as a budding teenager, it would freak him out every time he passed a mirror, like a manifestation of his nightmares

What was he supposed to do if the ghost that haunted him wore his face?

Sometimes, on nights when it didn’t seem like sleep would come no matter how hard he tried, and with the comforting burn of amber liquor lingering in the back of his throat, he set aside his reservations, braced his hands on the edge of the sink, and studied himself in the mirror. He would frown at first; he was always frowning, but having to actually see the tense expression he automatically wore every day caused him to properly scowl.

This is what people saw when they looked at him?

He ran his hands over his mouth but it just made him look more exhausted. He tried to relax and trailed his fingertips across each of his features. The sharp jawline, distinct cheekbones, prominent brows, dark hair, and deep, sunken eyes were all too similar to the monster from his youth he didn’t need a daily reminder of.

The mirror seemed to mock his unease. He glared menacingly, but despite his attempts at intimidation, the mirror was unphased. He bit his cheek until he tasted copper—anything to drown out the bitter taste in his mouth as he locked eyes with the foul creature he hated most.

Learning to hate his father took him longer than he wanted to admit. His undeveloped mind had such a limited grasp on the world; by the time he even realized dads weren’t supposed to cause their kids pain, he had already accepted that he deserved it. Surely he must’ve done something. His father was a respectable, reputable man with deep connections within the community. He wasn’t yet able to process that all people were capable of bad things—even the ones he looked up to. Layers of lies and misunderstanding enveloped his understanding of the world.  

It was a bit of a shock to realize it wasn’t normal for his heart to pound frantically when he heard heavy footsteps approach down the hall. It wasn’t normal to know the taste of cigarette ash, or recognize the sting of alcohol from flying shards of glass. It wasn’t normal to grope his way to his bed in the darkness after being struck blind. It wasn’t normal to be more familiar with the feeling of his father’s fist more than his embrace.

He wasn’t normal. It took years to learn that it wasn’t necessarily his fault. It was something he still struggled to unlearn decades later.

He isolated himself from the other kids in the neighborhood. Even if his mother hadn’t warned him not to embarrass their family, he was already sure that they would notice everything that was wrong with him. He was disgusting, a disappointment, something to be reviled. So he kept his distance. Not that any of them were particularly interested in him in the first place.

As the years went on, he began to notice the whispers around the town. How awful it was for such a loving family to have such an insolent child. How the esteemed lawyer—a pillar of the community—didn’t deserve to have his good name defiled by such a disreputable son. How endlessly patient his parents must be, to deal with such a troubled boy.

He was skin and bones for most of his childhood; smaller than most kids his age. Family meals were reserved for days with guests, and he quickly needed to learn how to smuggle away what he could while he could for the weeks where food was hard to come by. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him alive.

He shot up quickly as a teenager, but just as gangly and thin. That was when he began to back away when he thought he saw someone else in the mirror. His cheeks were hollow compared to the firmly set, square jaw of his father, but it was close enough to catch him off guard more than a few times.

It wasn’t until his mother flinched at the sight of him that he accepted that he truly was his father’s son. Probably in more ways than one. In more ways than he could see for himself.

He ate better than he ever had when he went off to college. Through regular exercise and regular meals, he managed to fill out: his shoulders broadened and he reached a stable weight. He was thankful for that, he really was, but now he was hyperaware of his looming figure. His father had been dead for years, but he still lingered in every movement. As if the scars weren’t enough of a reminder.

He knew the similarities didn’t end there. As much as he may wish the commonalities were only skin deep, he feared he would inherit the aggression, or that his own unaddressed resentment would unleash into an outburst of violence he couldn’t control. He had built a life for himself—even had his own son—but the shadow of his father seemed to cast over all of it. Living with his father’s hands sometimes made him feel like they were one in the same. He could never get away from it.  

There was one saving grace: he had his mother’s smile.

He’d seen it in his grandparents’ photo albums. The wide, toothy grin with dimples on either end, radiating genuine joy. He only ever saw his mother’s plastered, thin-lipped smile, one that never quite reached her eyes. Even then it was only used for polite decorum. Careful and calculated. Upholding the façade of a perfect little family.

Truthfully, it wasn’t much easier to look at. It was just another grim reminder that he never once saw his mother happy. He didn’t know how his father’s poor parenting strategies overlapped with his husbandly duties, but, simply judging based on his disposition, he highly doubted she’d been granted any kindness either. All he knew for sure was the cold wall of indifference he felt with his mom; so different from the pictures of the happy woman she’d been before.

Whether it was before her husband of before her son, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer.

Mirrors were threatening, loaded with a disquieted despair that pulled out everything Hotch didn’t want to see: a grim narrator recounting the inexorable pain of reality. Every feature—from the hair on his head to the hair on his hands; from his deepest frown to his rare smiles—was corrupted in one way or another. There really was no escaping it. Hotch knew logically, as a byproduct of his parents, there were bound to be physical similarities. It was impossible to look at himself without questioning whether there was any difference at all between him and the monsters of the past.

He knew the kind of violence he was capable of. He knew how he needed to the adrenaline coursing through his veins to feel truly alive. It was sick, but he couldn’t tolerate inaction, or the restraint of being under someone else’s thumb. He needed the initiative, the freedom, the exhilaration. He didn’t want to question where that endless restless came from. He could only appreciate that he had found the perfect outlet in his career. He would close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t following his father’s footsteps. How long before Hotch caught up with him?

The mirror said he wasn’t far behind.

The last thing he wanted was to be his parents’ child.

[maschotch]

Stains

day five prompt: hand holding

reeeeally struggled trying to figure out what to do with this prompt. i’m truly incapable of writing fluff so this here’s some more redundant hotch angst by yours truly: hotch struggles with the concept of being a dad

The most important thing in Hotch’s life was undeniably Jack. From the moment that child was born, Hotch was sold. Jack’s little hand curled around Hotch’s finger with an impossible grip. It was inconceivably soft, the scent of fresh baby lingering on Hotch’s skin even after he let go. The perfect picture of innocence—the complete opposite of Hotch.

It was an immense, absolute joy that Hotch didn’t deserve to have.

He’s always been a little reluctant to have children. He didn’t exactly have the best family history, nor the most ideal role model when it comes to fathers. No matter how Haley tried to comfort or reassure him, he just couldn’t help but think he’d end up the exact same. It was in his blood, after all.

He could fight it all he wanted—he may even win most of the time—but it doesn’t change the anger that laced his veins. He was fighting his own nature. The memory of his own father forever singed into his flesh, the old, faded scars a perpetual reminder of what he’s capable of.

He didn’t want his son to go through same fear he grew up with. He got accustomed to it eventually—kids are adaptable that way. But the icy shudder running down his spine when he felt his frustration mount was a different kind of fear entirely. It frayed his nerves, like a powerful electric current buzzing just under his skin; pins and needles drowning out all his senses, making him numb to anything other than the overwhelming horror at the thought that he might hurt someone he loves.

He shut down in those moments, much to his long-suffering wife’s irritation. (Haley preferred to be straight-forward with confrontation, so it annoyed her constantly that he refused to so much as raise his voice in an argument.) There were certain situations where he felt he could appropriately release his anger—the interrogation room, mostly—but it was easier to suppress everything than risk lashing out. It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.

It’s easier to run away. Easier to bury himself in work and fly halfway across the country every week. Easier to let Haley move out and file for divorce. Easier to cut off contact with people he cares about so he doesn’t hurt them. Easier if he’s not around anymore.

Easier if he’s not around at all.

That point was never made clearer to him than his encounters with the Reaper. At first it was just guilt. Guilt was something he was used to, guilt was something he could handle. How he was sent away all those years ago, tail between his legs, after failing to do anything useful. How there was a part of him that was frustrated that the killing stopped, because it meant he couldn’t finish the job. How he’d looked George Foyet in the eyes and didn’t see anything but another victim, never once understanding who the man truly was. How, when he was given a second chance, he let the man slip through his fingers again, failing again.

The humiliation of being caught off guard in his own home. The unspeakable agony he felt—too weak to even writhe on the carpet—as Foyet carved into him. It was fitting that they matched, even if he retched at the memory when he looked in the mirror the first dozen times. He forced himself to look, anyway, nearly breaking bone with how tightly his jaw was clenched. Marked by the two reflections of himself manifested in a brutal reality.  

He’d only be lying to himself if he said he didn’t deserve it.

If he hadn’t been there, maybe someone else would’ve seen what he couldn’t. If he hadn’t been there, maybe Foyet wouldn’t have started killing again. Maybe Haley—

No. Haley’s fate was sealed the day they locked eyes in the theater all those years ago. It was an inevitability he didn’t want to confront, so he shoved it down and pretended he was capable of living a happy life, of making someone happy. Hotch couldn’t blame Foyet for her death. If it hadn’t been Foyet, it would’ve been something else Hotch’s existence wrought.

Somewhere in the back of his mind as he was slamming the corpse of Foyet into the floor over and over again, he had the sense to be disgusted. But it wasn’t a surprise. The shock on Derek, Emily, and Dave’s faces as they got a taste of what kind of monster Aaron Hotchner kept locked up were expressions he didn’t want to see. Every horrible truth about himself that he tried to contain proven in an instant. He was violent. He was dangerous.

He couldn’t hug Jack that day. Couldn’t even look him in the eye, just ushered him into JJ’s arms so he could be held by anything other than bloody hands.  

Every fear he ever had about who he was had been confirmed; the evidence was growing cold downstairs with a face so distorted it was almost hard to recognize. Hotch wasn’t capable

He had to adjust that mindset when Jack moved into his apartment. He had someone who relied on him to do… well… everything. The kid was only 5. He could barely brush his teeth by himself. Hotch shoved aside all the fears that came hand in hand with attachment—he needed to. There was no other option. He had to be there for his son.

He had to be a father.

The mental adjustment of Jack living with him wasn’t as difficult as he thought. He still startled when he tripped on toys littering the hallway, as if he forgot Jack was even there. He performed his fatherly duties on autopilot, spending most of his time processing this huge adjustment in his life, dimly recognizing in the back of his mind how much of a threat he posed to his son.

Jack sat on the carpet playing with Legos in the same spot that had been stained with blood—wounds inflicted by the man Hotch beat to death with his bare hands. It was grounding, in a way. Sometimes it was encouraging: showing how far he’s come and how happy Jack is despite Hotch’s anxiety, replacing blood on his hands with washable marker. Sometimes it was excruciating: a reminder of the darkest parts of him that he didn’t want Jack to see. A reminder of what his hands were actually good at.

It was beyond horrifying. He wondered if Jack noticed the way his hands shook in their first few months of living together, or the way he hesitated every time he went to touch him. Physical contact eventually became routine, but there was still that underlying fear that he would do something to hurt Jack.

It was a deep, sinking feeling that he was going to fuck this all up somehow.

But when Jack reached out to him… When Jack crawled up to sleep next to Hotch in bed, or raced to throw his arms around him in a bear hug when Hotch returned home, or snuggled closer on the couch during movie nights, it was as if a slight weight lifted from Hotch’s chest and he was able to breathe a little easier.

Hotch could ruminate on future regrets as much as he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that right here, right now, Jack didn’t fear him. Jack loved him. It tugged on Hotch’s heart almost painfully, but he’d gladly take that unabashed, unconditional love his son gave, even if he was unworthy of it.

When Jack reached for his hand, still unbelievably small, Hotch could pretend they had a chance.

[writingquillsandpainpills]

Thank god for @samuel-de-champagne-problems (godsend!!) for helping with this. heres the very final :

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