Warnings: Dark, but also kind of fluffy/angsty. Demons, fallen angels, heavy on god and the creation/fallen angels stuff from the bible, cuddling, mild mild violence described in a story.
Summary: You're Demon!Hotch's human (partner?). God has sent a present to hell, and one evening you finally manage to get him to tell the story of his fall—or at least parts of it.
A/N: This is one of those fics that are probably more for my dopamine levels, and not so much something you guys want to read heheh. But enjoy, I really love demon!hotch.
Aaron Hotchner—King of hell, fallen son, the wrath of God embodied in demon form—was perfectly still around you. One of his arms was locked around your waist, holding you close as you lay draped across his chest—almost as if afraid you might vanish if he ever let you go.
The other hand rested behind his head, clawed fingers half-curled, cushioning his skull from the sharp edges of the rock-carved headboard.
One of his large, leathery wings was folded around you—almost like a blanket—membranes catching the firelight from the braziers on the wall.
Hotch had been quiet for a while, staring up at the canopy with that brooding intensity on his face that both made your heart ache, yet also made you scared for what he was plotting.
You pressed your cheek over his heart, listening to the deep and steady thrum, while keeping your gaze locked on his face. He didn’t seem to notice you; however, you knew he was aware of everything you were doing, every movement, every blink, and breath you took.
“You’re brooding again, love,” you whispered, lips brushing his shirt as you turned over on your stomach to better look at him.
It almost sounded half amused, yet also like a half warning as a low, rumbling huff escaped his throat. “I do not brood.”
“You absolutely do brood,” you teased, softly, with a smile, tracing your fingertip along the edge of his jaw. “It’s very dramatic, and the wings really sell it. You could’ve fooled me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched with the barest hint of a smile. You couldn’t help but notice that the storm in his eyes was still running wild, that the darkness in his eyes was near black right now.
You didn’t push it right away. Instead, you stretched across him to his nightstand and plucked up the little stuffed raven that had mysteriously appeared on your pillow last week. None of you knew how it had gotten there, but you knew exactly who had sent it.
You propped your chin on the soft belly of the plushie. It was ridiculously adorable—oddly enough—plush black fabric, mismatched button eyes, slightly crooked beak, and floppy wings—it looked way too homemade to be a coincidence.
You’d caught Hotch staring at it more than once when he thought you weren’t looking, and despite his expression being nearly unreadable, you could tell that he was trying to justify a reason for why his father had sent it.
“Tell me?” You asked, voice hopeful, hoping that he would finally tell you as close to the full story as he was willing to. “Please? I won’t stab him... much.”
Hotch stared at you for a long and heavy moment. The fire crackled, mingling with the sound of your breaths. Somewhere far below, you could hear the faint sound of rolling thunder from the ninth circle.
He then exhaled, slow and kind of resigned, before he shifted against the headboard. He pulled you with him, settling you curled against the side of him, your head now resting over his heart once again.
He unfurled his wing, retracting both back into his body and conjured a blanket he draped over you instead.
“Fine,” he murmured, voice low and velvety, almost sounding annoyed—but he wasn’t annoyed, he was never annoyed with you, usually. “But... It’s not a pretty story, honey.”
You nodded and snuggled closer, settling for what you believed to be the bedtime story of the century.
Hotch’s voice dropped to a deeper, resonant timbre, the one that sent shivers down your spine, the one that rumbled in the cavern of his chest—the one he used when speaking the ancient language that predated the stars.
“My father—god, I believe you humans call him—created everything, as you know. The light, and then the void to cradle it. Then us. His angels, his sons, born of will and song. I was one of the first. Not the brightest like Michael, forged to be the perfect sword of obedience. Not the most radiant like Lucifer, who burned so beautifully he rivalled the dawn. I was... the steady one. Dutiful. The one who saw order in the chaos my father created. The one who believed that justice should be absolute and not conditional.”
He grazed a claw lightly against your hip. “I watched him create humanity. Watched him gift you souls that shone almost as bright as ours. Then I watched him bind you with rules that made no sense at all—pain disguised as lessons, suffering dressed as love. He called it free will and consequences, but in truth, it was a gilded cage, a way to still have absolute control over his creations without touching them.” Hotch’s jaw tightened before he continued. “I saw children drown in floods. Ones that he sent to punish a few wicked souls. I saw the faithful broken by trials he designed in favour of himself. I couldn’t stay silent any longer.”
You felt the way the old fury rose in him, centuries of righteous anger bubbling to the surface. You reached out and cupped his jaw in your palm. He leaned into the touch, his free hand grabbing your wrist. You almost expected him to remove your hand, not wanting the touch, but instead, he just held it.
“I questioned him. Not in secret. In the great halls of the heavens, before major feasts, before treaty deals, before major celebrations of God and what he created. I demanded change. He called it rebellion. I called it justice. He didn’t like that.
You felt his grip tighten around you. “Luci fell first. Mortal stories say that it was pride and ambition that did it for him. But it was deeper than that, much deeper. He wanted to be loved the way Father loved his humans. And he couldn’t get that in heaven. When dear old Father cast him down—stripped the light from his wings, shattered his grace and hurled him screaming into the outer dark areas—it was meant to terrify the rest of us into submission.”
You whimpered softly, eyes stinging at the image of the Morningstar plummeting to the underworld, light bleeding away into the endless darkness. You had met Lucifer on several occasions and couldn’t imagine why God had decided to treat his son like that.
In truth, Lucifer was one of the more pleasant deities you’d met.
“I refused to stand by any longer after that,” Hotch continued, his voice getting closer and closer to that ancient steel cadence that only came when he was dealing with the worst of the worst mortals. “I gathered those who believed as I did. Who didn’t believe that power was the correct way, who fought for righteousness. And we fought. The war shattered heaven. Golden halls cracked like glass under our flaming swords, and rivers of ichor ran through the clouds.”
You curled tighter into him, seeking comfort—to some extent for both of you.
“Michael led the loyalists. My brother. Perfect, unfliching Michael. So far up Father’s ass that he couldn’t even spare me a second glance as he raised his blade against me.” His voice grew quieter now, rawer. “In the end, Father’s will prevailed. It always does. He got his wish. Lucifer was banished—for good—to the voids beyond creation. And I was cast down with those who followed me. He stripped out light, twisted our forms and named us demons.”
He tipped his head back and stared at the canopy as though he could still see the clouds of smoke and golden pools of ichor of the final battle.
“He made me king of this place. Not as a courtesy, but as a curse, a punishment. ‘Rule your chaos’, he said, voice nearly booming the way you humans expect it to in your weird little bible thing. ‘See what your freedom brings’, he told me. And so I have done as he wished, for longer than your world has turned—”
“—Wait, how is that possible if he was celebrated for his creations?” You interrupted him, confused at the inconsistency in his retelling.
“Well, if you would let me finish speaking, my dear, you would’ve learned that Father test ran his greatest creation, that the earth you know today is the 2.0 version.” He raised his brow at you, trying not to show how amused he was by your confusion and interruption as he was. “Now, let me continue. I took the broken pieces he left me and built something from the ashes. Order where mortals expect torment. Justice where they expect cruelty. Hell is not the mindless pit of fire that your stories claim. It is consequences. It is truth. The punishment you’ll receive is connected to the things that banished you here. It is fair.”
You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “Is that why he hates demons? Because of you and your defiance?”
Hotch let out a soft, and slightly bitter laugh. “We are proof of his only failure: that he created children who dared to think for themselves and not follow his orders. I became wrath. The one thing he never admitted to having. And every soul that chooses damnation over his rigid paradise is another fracture in his perfect lie.”
You nuzzled closer and gently moved the raven out from under your arm and pushed it closer to his face. He stared down at it.
“But the stuffie...” you whispered, hesitant, not knowing if right now was the right moment to bring it up. “That’s nice? Kind? Right?”
His expression softened. “It’s a gesture,” he said, starting to sound tired. “He can’t say ‘I miss you.’ That would mean admitting I’m still his son. That forgiveness might be possible on both ends. So he sends trinkets through back channels—old favours, minor spirits who slip between realms. Pretends it’s pity. ‘Something soft for your mortal,’ maybe. Or ‘something nice in a rotten place.’ As if I haven’t made Hell beautiful in its own way. As if I haven’t made it a home, when all he did was pray that the death and darkness would tear me to pieces.”
He took the raven and turned it over slowly, thumb tracing the crooked stitching with tenderness.
“I kept it,” he admitted, so quietly you almost missed it over the crackle of the fire. “Not because it came from him. Because you found it. Because you lit up like it was Christmas morning when you asked me about it the first time. Because the way you carried it around that day, begging me to give it to you, hugging it when you thought I wasn’t watching. I couldn’t bear to take that joy from you. Despite who sent it.”
Your heart squeezed painfully at his admission. “Maybe he’s trying,” you whispered. “In his own broken, omnipotent way. Maybe he does miss you. Maybe he regrets banishing his sons.”
Hotch’s eyes closed for a moment. When they opened, the firelight caught flecks of molten gold in the brown darkness.
“Don’t make excuses for him, my dear,” he said, but there was no heat to it. No fighting your statements—only bone-deep weariness.
“I’m not,” you promised softly. “I’m just saying… even gods get lonely. And even kings deserve love without strings.”
For a moment, he was silent, jaw working. Then he tucked the stuffed raven carefully between your bodies, right over his heart, and pulled you fully into his arms. His wings popped back out, folding forward to wrap you both in warm, leathery darkness.
The hellfire dimmed further, as if the palace itself understood the need for gentleness.
“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough with everything he couldn’t say. “I’ll tell you more when you’re ready.” The truth was, he wasn’t ready to keep talking, to let you know everything, to let you know how bad it got, how many wars were fought afterwards, how bad their relationship really was.
You pressed a kiss to his chest, just above the little raven’s head.
“I’ll be waiting,” you whispered back, nuzzling into him.
In the hush that followed, the distant sounds of Hell faded to nothing. There was only the warmth of him, the shelter of his wings, and the soft weight of a small plush toy resting over an ancient, wounded heart and remnants of a story untold.
Omggggg okok moms on a business trip and wont be home for a few days, one night you guys decide to have a movie night with just the two of you. You just start moving closer and closer to him in the couch, you slowly drag your hand up his thigh and he doesn't stop you, just pretends like he's paying attention to the movie. You eventually get to his bulge and start palming his throat his sweat pants and he just sits there and groans while bucking his hips -OOO SOMETHING I JUST THOUGHT OF WHILE TYPING- one of those nights at like past midnight you open the door to their bedroom to see just him laying on the bed, he hears you walk in and your just like "I had a nightmare 🥺" so he lets you climb into bed with him and he eventually moves to spoon you only for you to feel his hard on pressed against your ass🤭🤭
okie okie i took the second one and changed it a tidbit ;)
aaron hotchner knows a lie when he hears one, and is ordinarily prone to calling the individual out for that behavior. however, with the vacant space beside him on the bed, and the saddened (although feigned) trill of your voice, aaron betrays his moral compass. "you had a nightmare?"
you nod, and he can barely catch the outline with the outline of your slumped body against the doorframe, the only light source being the old lamp in the hallway behind you. your legs are bare - that's another thing that he catches - and they squeeze together. you'd later blame it on the chill of the air conditioning, but it's turned off tonight, and the man is fully aware of this. "yeah, i um.." you scratch awkwardly at the nape of your neck.
"c'mon," he offers, freeing you of the unease of having to elaborate your fib, and pulls back the duvet. "c'mere, i've got some space."
when you crawl in, aaron seizes in his spot, frozen by the velvety finish of your skin, when, unabashedly, you pull yourself in close, tucking yourself against his chest. "you alright?" he swallows thickly, and his breath is hot against your ear.
he uses the throw of the blankets back over you as a metaphorical guise to the thoughts that run rampage in his head, especially with the subtle aroma of strawberries that still linger from your shampoo. it overwhelms his senses, and he throws an arm over your side, drawing you back in closer.
you can feel the chub of his cock against your bottom the second contact is made, and you hide your smile in his bicep. "yeah." you breathe, trailing your fingers over his forearm in feather-light brushes. "can i sleep here tonight?"
he nods against your hair, which he draws back to print a small, but fiery-hot kiss behind your ear. "course you can, hunny."
you turn your head over your shoulder, and he's much closer than you anticipated, because your lips brush. the taste of them is not foreign, but you feel like a giddy school girl all over again, arousal flooding between your legs when his dick stiffens. "protect me, won't you, aaron?"
he nods, tossing every ounce of his rationality out the window. he leans in closer so that the next words spoken are done so against your parted lips, allowing you to lap them up and savor them. he reaches down, prying your legs open so he can dip a hand between them and confirm the mirrored arousal. "always, sweetheart. i've got you."
A/N: This is the second installment in ‘The Pantheon’ series. You can find the first, Golden, here. Big shout out to @zhuzhubii for their dialogue help and @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff and a discord friend (who’s tumblr I cannot tag fsm) for beta-ing both stages of this fic. This about to get real dark, y’all. Heed the content warnings.
CW/TW: Murder, violence, general angst, did you hear me about murder?
Couple: None, gen fic.
Category: Angst
Word Count: 1.8k
War. Violence. Anger, malevolence, fury. Aaron was familiar enough with them all. Over a decade in the Behavioral Analysis Unit and he had seen nothing but the wrath of mankind, spilled over from held tongues. Everything stems from fear and terror, and he would go to the grave swearing he fathered the abstract. He felt he left destruction behind him in a wake of combat, and failed to keep his fists from their fury.
He hadn’t held his rage against Foyet, and it terrified him to no end that he held no regrets about it. If you spend your waking hours chasing the entities of psychopathy, do you not worry that one stumble will place you among the pack? Will the darkness that now inhabits him be his fall from grace? What would he teach his son about the world if he collapsed beneath it?
He’d be lying to himself if he said the pressure only began after she left. Aaron knew a lot of things when he was young, but the lesson he never quite learned was how to slow down, and life stepped in quickly enough. Her name on his lips burned like fire for months after, only ever calling her Mom to Jack, never once braving the knowledge that the only woman he had given a piece of himself to was now gone, and he had absolutely no one to blame but himself. He still remembers the grip of Derek’s hands around his arms as he pulled him away from the fatality beneath him, still remembers the blood staining his fingernails. There is only so much evil soap can erase.
Sometimes he felt like the Devil studied the blueprints of his life for ideas, and then he remembered that it’s only him that creates the wars waging on the homefront. How long can he sit here in the dark, touching the floor in their home where his wife’s blood stained the wood? He hadn’t been here in years, but he needed to be here, he needed to feel her again. The blonde underneath him wasn’t Haley, no, but she was close enough. She bore just enough resemblance to his wife and son to justify stealing her away, but just was different enough to let his fist close around her throat. Too fragile to fight him off, she never stood a chance, not when he’s creating his own bloodshed. The blood running from her eyebrow where his wedding ring had sliced her skin open simply pushes him over the edge, and when her body stops writhing under his closed hand, he realizes he has no idea what her name is.
Maybe he was born with this brutality, perhaps he never stood a chance against the test of time. After all, he wasn’t just chasing killers, he was learning from them too. Cold, calculated, planned. Premeditated, wasn’t that what they called it? He watched her for weeks, needed to know that she would fulfill his fantasy, his need. He made sure she was alone, no children or husbands left behind. Not just to eliminate witnesses, but because Aaron had been on the side of that losing fight. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. This is just his conflict, this is just his deserved combat. No one would be surprised if he snapped, would they? It was all he knew, it was ever-consuming and at the end of it, he’d be lucky to have even a fragment of a soul left. Emily had warned him once about keeping everything so far shoved down that you lose the ability to distinguish between yourself and your trauma.
There was so much darkness, so much fear. He was so tired of holding everything on his shoulders. So he found a way to put it down, he found a way to try to heal. He had to make it right. He had to give Haley another chance to die, and maybe this time it would be right.
--
There hadn’t been a break in this case for months. Women disappearing then reappearing mangled and murdered, always a different MO, their only common thread was victimology. Blonde single women, never anyone to miss them other than their work.
“Hey, I hate to say this but...these women, they all look like Haley.” JJ says tentatively, glancing at the tacked up photos of the victims.
An unnerving quiet falls over the room as the team looks at JJ, a mixture of resignation and horror painting their faces.
Rossi nods with a pained look. “They do. And...Aaron fits the profile.”
Spencer looks up and adds quietly, “And he took off work for three weeks when the killings started.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Not Hotch.” Morgan stands and shakes his head. “I still think it’s Evans.”
Rossi sighs. “Evans has an alibi, Morgan. Aaron doesn’t.”
Morgan scoffs, looking to anyone for help and settles on Emily. “Prentiss, you really believe this?”
She sighs, looks up at him and says, “I’m sorry Derek, he fits the profile perfectly. We always say profilers make the best unsubs.”
“Damn the profile! They can be wrong. We’ve been wrong before.” Morgan pleads, looking around the room for someone on his side.
“Look, why don’t we just go to his house? If I’m right, then we bring him in. If we’re wrong, then we’re just checking on him. Okay?” JJ reasons.
“You can waste your time all you want, but I’m going to talk to Evans.” Morgan seethes, looking to Spencer. “You coming with me, kid?” Spencer just nods, throws JJ an apologetic glance, and grabs his jacket and vest, following Morgan out of the room.
“I’ll go with you, JJ. Prentiss, stay behind and keep in contact with Garcia, just in case.” Rossi instructs. JJ nods, and they head in the opposite direction of Morgan and Spencer, and JJ prays she’s wrong about this.
--
Prying open the door to Hotch’s house, JJ shakes her head. This isn’t how she wanted this to end. She tiptoes through the room, Rossi following behind her while they work to clear the area. As they go upstairs, she starts to hear crying.
Toeing open the bedroom door, JJ calls through, “Hotch?” She sees him, hunched over a blonde woman, blood pooling on the carpet between his knees. “Hotch!” He still isn’t responding, sobs wracking through his body. “...Aaron?” She tries, pitching her voice down.
He turns to look at her then, no sign of recognition on his face. He looks broken and battered. He still doesn’t look like a murderer.
Meeting his eyes, she says, “Aaron, it’s JJ. We can help you but I need you to put the knife down.” The heart beating inside her chest is so much less scared than it is breaking in half to watch this man she called family die.
He turns to her, blood on his outstretched hands and a sad smile on his face. “You’re here, you’re finally here.”
Confused, JJ cocks her head to the side, gun still trained on him.“I’m...here?” She asks.
He lurches towards her, knife in hand.“I missed you so much.” He swipes a blood covered hand under his eye to wipe away the tears, and JJ’s stomach curdles at the sight.
Rossi takes a step forward to meet JJ, and says quietly, “Aaron, stay back.” Hotch doesn’t seem to hear him, staring directly at JJ.
Unsure of what’s happening, JJ decides to lean into it, in the hopes that making him feel understood would avoid casualties. “I...missed you too.”
He gestures behind him to the still body, and says, “I did it, see? I finally got it right!” He’s shouting, and his happiness is unnerving.
JJ steps forward a little, staring at him. “Aaron...I’m sorry, but I don't understand. Could you...explain it to me?” Maybe even in this state, he’s still sane enough to be logical. Maybe.
Hotch barks a bitter laugh, “Foyet, he didn’t do it right. He…disgraced you.” You? All of a sudden JJ realizes what’s happening and she chokes back tears. She’s not Haley, but she can be for a minute if it protects him.
She softens her voice, holsters her gun and steps forward with her hands up. “I’m...I’m here now. And I've missed you so much. Why don't you put the knife down, and then-”
He shakes his head violently, sweat and tears flying off his face.“It’s too late.” He’s muttering to himself and JJ can’t understand the words under his breath.
JJ swallows thickly. “What do you mean? I’m here, it’s ok-”
He cuts her off abruptly, waving the knife at the girl behind him dismissively. “She's already gone. She’s already gone.” He looks up through tears and smiles sadly at JJ, at the figure of his late wife in front of him. “...I got you back, though. You're here. You're here and I...-” He breaks down in sobs, sinking to his knees and clutching the knife to his chest.
JJ steps closer, looking down at him in pity. “That's right, I’m here. And everything will be okay, I just need you to put the knife down. Can you do that for me, Aaron? Put the knife down.”
He looks up at her, dropping the knife to the floor with a loud clatter and JJ drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around the broken man before her and they’re both crying. “I’m so sorry, Haley.” She just shushes him, pulling him up to his feet.
“I gotta cuff you now, Hotch. It’s for your own good.” Rossi has tears in his eyes, pulling the silver metal from his belt and clasping it around Hotch’s wrists. It’s then that the illusion shatters, and he sees what he’s done. JJ leans down and presses her fingers to the inside of the girl’s wrist, searching for a pulse, but it’s useless. Like he said, it was too late. She was already gone.
“JJ?” Hotch asks pitifully. “What did I do?” He looks so tired, so crushed.
“I don’t know, Aaron. But we’ll fix it.” She’s still got slow tears rolling down her cheeks, and she takes him from Rossi, guiding him down the stairs and out the front door where the rest of the team is waiting, the looks on their faces a mixture of fear and disgust and pity.
War was ever-consuming. War within, war in the world he struggled to hold up on his shoulders. He could never decide if he saw himself more as Ares or Atlas, never could deify himself in the way he was expected to. Head of the unit, head of his remaining household, head of his world. And yet, he chose war every time. This time, the blood on his fingertips was no longer metaphorical, but the weight of the world fell off. As he’s pulled away from his home, he sees JJ and Jessica huddled over his son, and he wonders if what he’s done is worth the weightlessness.
Pairing: UnSub!Hotch x gn!reader
CW: Dark. This story contains descriptions of graphic violence, murder, mental illness, grief, and emotional distress. Dark themes, betrayal, loss of control, and fear, kidnapping, physical aggression, helplessness.
WC: 5.2k
Please don't request a part 2 unless you have a very specific idea, my brain physically couldn't come up with more plot for this.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. Bearing signs of life throughout the whole layout of the building, yet the disturbing truth of what had happened made you uneasy.
It was the same scene they’d encountered twice already - an all-American family, slaughtered in their home, with no apparent struggle, no clear motive. A mother, a father, and their young son, all lying lifeless, their blood staining the carpets, their lives ruthlessly cut short.
You stood beside Rossi, your hands clad in gloves, and a frown etched upon your face as you surveyed the scene. The scent of blood and suffering hung heavy in the air, choking your senses. You had seen your fair share of horrors, but this was different. This unsub was different.
"Third one this week," Rossi murmured beside you, his voice gruff with exhaustion and irritation, feeling the weight of the case starting to take its toll. "We need to catch this guy before he strikes again."
You nodded, eyes scanning the room as your mind worked through the details. This unsub wasn’t just killing; he was destroying. The brutality of the murders suggested rage - deep and personal rage. There was a familiarity to the way everything was laid out that you couldn't put a finger on.
You stepped over to the nightstand, where the mother’s jewelry lay scattered. Your eyes caught a golden ring, glinting in the light. You reached for it instinctively, feeling a strange pull toward the piece of metal. It was simple but familiar, in a way that made your stomach churn with suspicion.
Frowning, you held it up to the light, inspecting it. That’s when it hit you like a punch to the gut.
You knew this ring.
Your blood ran cold as memories flooded your mind. Years of working alongside him, watching him fiddle with that exact band on long nights at the office, lost in thought as he processed information and clues. You had seen it on his finger countless times.
Hotch.
Your heart pounded in your chest, a dizzying sense of disbelief washing over you. There was no way. No possible way. You told yourself it was a mistake, that the stress of the case was playing tricks on your mind.
But the more you stared at the ring, the more your instincts screamed at you.
You weren't wrong about this.
You swallowed hard, slipping the ring back onto the dresser. Rossi hadn’t noticed your reaction, he was busy analyzing the scene with his usual calm efficiency. You forced yourself to stay composed, your mind racing.
The families. The pattern. A mother, a father, and a young son. Haley and Jack. It was so obvious.
It all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Hotch's stressor… the deaths of his family. You remembered the way he had shut down after losing them, how the grief had changed him. But never in your worst nightmares could you have imagined this. This was not the man you knew.
You took a shaky breath, your mind spinning. You couldn’t tell Rossi - not yet - he wouldn't believe you. Wouldn't believe that his oldest friend was capable of this. Not until you were sure. Not until you’d seen Aaron, looked him in the eyes, and confronted him yourself. You owed him that much.
"Dave," you said, forcing your voice to stay steady, "I’m going to head out. I need to check something."
He glanced over at you, raising an eyebrow. "You okay? You look pale."
"I’m fine," you lied, offering a weak smile. "Just need to follow up on a hunch."
Rossi nodded, distracted by something on the floor, and you took the opportunity to slip away, your heart pounding in your chest. You could barely keep your hands from trembling as you made your way out of the house and into your car. Thankfully you had arrived separately.
The drive to Aaron’s old house felt like a blur, your mind spinning with possibilities. Every part of you hoped you were wrong. That this was all some horrible mistake, that there was no way the man you had worked with for years could be behind these murders, that this was truly just some twisted dream, and that you'd wake up soon.
But deep down, you knew.
This was reality.
When you pulled up to Aaron’s house, the pit in your stomach deepened. His car was in the driveway, the lights inside the house dim and all the curtains closed. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm. You had to confront him. You had to know the truth.
You walked up to the door, every step feeling like a death sentence. When you knocked, there was a long pause. Then the door creaked open, revealing Aaron, standing in the doorway. He looked disheveled, his eyes dark and sunken, the weight of grief and something darker pressing down on him.
"(Y/N)," he said, his voice low and rough. "What are you doing here?"
You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. You stared at him, your heart racing as you noticed the subtle signs - the tension in his posture, the way his hands flexed at his sides. And most of all, the unmistakable wedding band missing from his finger.
"I…" you began, your voice trembling. "I need to talk to you."
Aaron’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing behind them. He stepped aside, letting you in without a word. You walked into the house, the air thick with tension, your nerves screaming at you to turn around and leave, to get out while you still had the chance. But you couldn’t. Not now.
As you stepped further into the room, your eyes landed on something that made your stomach drop - on the kitchen counter, barely noticeable, was a small streak of blood. Fresh blood.
Aaron closed the door behind you, the sound echoing ominously through the quiet house.
"You shouldn’t have come here," he said, his voice low, almost a growl.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you turned to face him, the realization crashing down on you with terrifying certainty. Aaron Hotchner wasn’t just your old colleague. He wasn’t just the man that had been your boss. He was the unsub you were looking for. He was the monster you’d been chasing.
And now, you were alone with him.
Hotch stood over the lifeless body sprawled across the floor in his living room, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his knuckles bruised and bloody. The man beneath him had been dead for several minutes now, his face a mangled mess of flesh and bone, barely recognizable.
Hotch’s fists clenched and unclenched, the blood dripping from his fingers painting the carpet with small, crimson pools. His heart was pounding, not from fear or guilt, but from the pure adrenaline coursing through his veins. He should have felt something - regret, remorse, shame—but there was only emptiness. Nothingness. And rage.
The rage never left him. It simmered beneath the surface, a constant presence, threatening to consume him whole. After Haley and Jack, everything had spiraled. Their deaths had shattered the last bit of humanity he had clung to. He had tried, God knows he had tried, to be the man everyone needed. The leader. The protector. But after them, something inside him had broken, irreparably so.
At first, he had managed to keep it hidden. But over time, the mask had slipped, the cracks becoming impossible to cover. The anger had grown, festering like a disease, until it had taken over every part of him. It was easier this way. Easier to stop pretending to be the good guy, the man who saved lives, when all he wanted to do was destroy them.
Besides the way he had hurt Foyet had felt so good.
He turned his head, his gaze cold and calculating, as a knock landed on the door.
The scent of sweat hung thick in the air, and the room was suffocating with the tension of your predicament.
You stood in the doorway, your eyes wide with shock, taking in the scene before you. The man on the ground, the blood, the violence. And Hotch. Not a single drop could be seen on his clothes. Only his hands bore signs of the crime. Your mouth moved, but no sound came out. You were frozen, paralyzed by the realization of what you were seeing. What he had done.
Hotch stared at you, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. The look on your face - the fear, the disbelief - only fueled the fire inside him. For a moment, there was silence, an unbearable tension hanging between the two of you.
Then, he spoke. His voice was low, a growl barely restrained by the thin thread of control he had left within him.
“You really shouldn’t have come here.” He repeated his previous statement
You blinked, finally finding your voice. “Aaron... what have you done? This isn't you.”
Hotch’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with something unrecognizable. He took a step toward you, the cold gleam in his eyes sending a shiver down your spine. “I did what needed to be done.”
You could barely breathe, your mind racing as you tried to process what had happened. This wasn’t the man you knew. The man you had worked with for years, the man you had trusted. The man you had secretly loved. He terrified you now. This was someone else entirely - a predator, who was cold and unfeeling.
“Aaron, please...” Your voice shook as you took a step back, instinctively retreating from the danger that loomed before you. “You don’t have to do this.”
His eyes flashed with anger, and in an instant, he was on you, his hand gripping your arm with a force that made you wince. His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t tell me what I have to do. You don't know anything”
You swallowed hard, trying to remain calm despite the fear coursing through you. “This isn’t you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re not a killer.”
His grip tightened, and you gasped, pain shooting through you as you felt him slightly twisting your arm. “Aren’t I?” His voice was sharp and dangerous. “Do you know what it feels like, to lose everything? Watching them die? Knowing you couldn’t stop it? Knowing that you weren't fast enough?”
Tears welled in your eyes as you tried to pull away from him, but his hold was unrelenting. “Aaron, please,” you begged, your voice barely above a whisper. “This won’t bring them back. What Foyet did was terrible.”
For a moment, you thought you saw something - some flicker of humanity cross his face. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by cold indifference. He released you, shoving you back roughly. You stumbled, catching yourself against the wall, your heart pounding in your chest.
Hotch stood there, his eyes burning with fury, his hands still stained with blood. “Don't tell me what's right or wrong. They’re gone and nothing can bring them back,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice void of emotion. “There’s nothing left for me but this.”
You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. “There’s more to you than this. You’re better than this, Aaron. I know you are.”
He laughed, a bitter, cruel sound that sent chills down your spine. “Better? Better for who? For you? For the bureau didn't trust me to be in the field after what happened?” His eyes bore into yours, and you could feel the hatred radiating off him. “Do you really think you know me? The man I am now?”
You didn’t answer, too afraid of what he might do next. His rage was palpable, an almost physical force that seemed to fill the room, choking you with its intensity.
He moved toward you again, his eyes wild, his movements erratic. “You think you can save me? Is that it? You always had a savior complex, just like Morgan.” He grabbed your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You can’t save me. No one can.”
You trembled under his touch, your heart thrashing in your chest, trying to claw its way out as his fingers dug into your skin. For a moment, you thought he might hurt you, that you might face the same predicament as the lifeless body in his living room. That he might go too far. But then, just as quickly as the anger had flared, it seemed to dissipate, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
He released you, stepping back, his breathing heavy and uneven. His hands shook as he wiped them on his pants, the blood smearing across the fabric. He looked at you, something dark and broken in his eyes. “You should leave,” he said, his voice hollow as he turned his back to you.
You swallowed, your throat dry. “Aaron—”
“Go.” His voice was cold, final. There was no room for argument.
You hesitated for a moment, torn between the part of you that wanted to stay, to help him, and the part that knew he was too far gone. Finally, with a heavy heart, you turned and walked toward the door, your footsteps echoing in the silence.
As you reached the doorway, you turned back to look at him one last time. He was standing in the center of the room, staring down at his blood-stained hands, his expression unreadable.
“Aaron,” you whispered, a single tear rolling down your cheek, and your voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
But he didn’t look back. He didn’t say a word. And as you stepped out into the night, the door closing behind you with a soft click, you knew that the man you had once known was gone.
The door had barely closed behind you when Hotch’s mind snapped back into a cold calculation. He could still feel the sting of your words in the air, your plea for him to stop. You should leave, he’d told you. But now, as silence wrapped around him, a horrifying realization dawned - you knew of him.
Who else knew?
You were the only one who had seen him like this, who knew what he had done. The team… They would never believe it on their own. Not until you told them, he was sure of that. But what evidence did you have to back up your claim?
His pulse quickened. His anger, momentarily soothed by the violence he'd unleashed, flared again. He couldn’t let you leave. He wouldn’t.
He moved quickly, his body still humming with adrenaline. You had made it to the end of the driveway when you heard him behind you. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest.
"Aaron?" you called over your shoulder, your voice trembling. But there was no response, only the oppressive sound of his approaching footsteps. Fear gripped you.
Before you could take another step, he was on you. His strong hand wrapped around your wrist like a vice, yanking you back toward him with brutal force. You gasped, struggling against his hold, but it was no use. His grip was unyielding, his expression dark and twisted as he dragged you back into the house, thankful that he and Haley had bought a house in a secluded area.
"You thought you could just walk away?" His voice was low, a deadly whisper, sending a chill down your spine. "That you could leave me and run straight to the team? Tell them about what I've been doing?"
You blinked, fear coursing through you as you tried to speak. "No, Aaron, I—"
"Don’t lie to me!" he snarled, his face inches from yours. "I see it in your eyes. You were going to tell them. Weren’t you?"
Terror constricted your throat. You wanted to scream, to plead with him, but the words wouldn’t come. His anger was suffocating, his eyes filled with a malice you’d never seen before.
"I can’t let you do that," he said, his voice eerily calm now, the storm of his fury momentarily quieted by cold calculation. "You’ll ruin everything. This—" He gestured to the leftover blood still staining his hands. "This is who I am now. And you’re not going to stop me."
Without warning, he yanked you roughly into the storage closet, slamming the door shut behind him. The darkness swallowed you both whole. You stumbled, trying to catch your balance, but Hotch was determined. His large frame loomed over you, his hand still gripping your wrist with bruising force.
"Please, Aaron, you don’t have to do this," you whispered, your voice shaking as you tried to reason with him. Tried to pull yourself out of his grip.
But his expression was unreadable now, lost in the darkness. His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you winced in pain. A high-pitched whimper left your throat as the pain coursed through every single nerve in your body.
"I do." His voice was cold, devoid of the empathy and warmth you once knew in him. "You’re the only one who knows as far as I can tell. And if I let you walk out of here, it’s over for me."
Your breath hitched, panic rising in your chest. "Aaron, I won’t tell anyone," you pleaded, desperation leaking into your voice. "I swear, I—"
"I told you don’t lie to me," he hissed, cutting you off with a deadly glare. "I can’t trust you. Not anymore."
The air was thick with tension, the weight of his gaze suffocating. You could barely make out the features of his face as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, but you could feel the cold determination, it was unmistakable. He had made up his mind. There was no reasoning with him, no turning back.
Hotch fumbled with something on the wall and soon enough the overhead light bulb flickered on, the dim light barely bright enough to light up his features. Before you could react, Hotch pulled a length of duct tape from a nearby shelf, yanking it free with a sharp sound. Your heart raced, and you instinctively tried to back away, but he was faster. With a cruel efficiency, he shoved you up against the wall, pressing his body against yours to keep you in place.
“Stop fighting me,” he growled, his breath hot on your neck.
You struggled, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but it was no use. He was stronger, and his anger gave him a terrifying, unnatural strength. The tape wound around your wrists, biting into your skin as he bound you tightly. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you realized there was no escape.
When he was finished, he stepped back, watching you with an unnerving calm. Your heart pounded in your chest, panic threatening to overtake you.
"What are you going to do?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
Hotch tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he considered you. “I’m going to make sure you can’t destroy everything.” His voice was cold, emotionless. “I’ve lost too much already. I won’t lose control again.”
Without warning, he grabbed you, throwing you over his shoulder with brutal force. You screamed, but the sound was muffled by the closet walls. His grip on you was like iron as he carried you out of the building, and into the garage where his car waited patiently.
You thrashed against him, panic clawing at your throat. But it didn’t matter. His mind was made up, and his body moved with the cold precision of a man who had crossed the line of no return, a man who wasn’t coming back.
He tossed you into the trunk of his SUV, the metal cold against your back as he slammed the hatch shut, trapping you inside. The darkness closed in around you, and all you could hear was the sound of your own panicked breathing and the engine roaring as Hotch turned the car on.
You were trapped.
The engine screeched as Hotch drove with grim determination, the rain streaking the windshield of his SUV. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white at the force of his grip. You still lay in the cramped trunk, the tape burning the skin on your wrists as you struggled to free yourself. Hotch had made a stop after about an hour on the road on the road to gag your screams, he was tired of hearing your begs and pleas for mercy. You lay helpless as the vehicle bumped along the dark, slick road. Every movement jostled your body, sending sharp pains through your limbs, but the terror coursing through you dulled the physical discomfort.
The man behind the wheel was someone you thought you knew. But this version of Hotch was a stranger.
His phone buzzed on the dashboard, but he ignored it. You could barely make out the faint sounds through the barrier between you, but you knew it had to be the team. They had to realize by now. But the phone in your pocket still clutched tightly against your side despite the restraints, was your only lifeline. Garcia could trace it if you managed to answer it the next time they tried your number. The team would find you, you were sure of it.
But Hotch already knew that. And he wasn’t going to let it happen.
Your heart raced as the SUV took a sharp turn, causing your body to slide slightly across the floor of the trunk. The storm outside was intensifying, and you could feel your anxiety building in the way he drove — focused and determined. He had a plan.
The car slowed, the rhythmic thud of the rain against the roof of the trunk filling the silence. He pulled off the main road, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires. Your pulse quickened as the vehicle came to a stop.
A car door slammed shut, and you heard his heavy footsteps approaching. The trunk popped open, letting in the cool, rain-soaked air. Hotch loomed over you, his face set in a harsh, emotionless mask. Without a word, he reached down, his grip bruising as he grabbed you by the arm and pulled you out of the trunk. You stumbled onto the muddy ground, barely able to keep your balance.
His fingers moved deftly, reaching into your pocket and yanking out your phone. His lips curled into a dark smirk, his eyes flashing with twisted amusement.
“You thought the team would save you,” he grinned in a low almost scary voice. “You thought Garcia would trace this… pathetic.” He held up your phone. A flash of lightning struck down in the distance behind him.
Before you could react, he dropped the phone on the ground and crushed it under his heel before throwing it into the lake you had stopped near. You barely heard it splash into water over the sound of the pounding rain. Hotch calmly walked over to a large rock, grabbing it with both hands. You watched in horror as he smashed his own phone repeatedly, reducing it to a mess of shattered glass and plastic.
Your only connection to the outside world was now gone.
Hotch turned back to you, his face illuminated by the brief flashes of lightning. His expression was as cold and unfeeling as the storm around you, but there was something darker in his eyes — a satisfaction in watching your hope slip away.
“You always were smart,” he murmured, stepping closer, towering over you. “Too smart for your own good.”
Without another word, he shoved you back into the trunk, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You were thrown back into the small, confined space. The rain and the outside world disappeared, leaving you in pitch-black darkness once again.
The car started again, the engine rumbling as Hotch continued driving. You were no longer sure where you were, feeling like he potentially had driven you in circles to throw you off track, and that uncertainty gnawed at you. There was no doubt in your mind that Hotch had planned this meticulously. He had been covering his tracks, eliminating threats, and now he was eliminating your ability to interfere.
The drive felt endless, the sound of rain against the roof your only marker of time passing. You tried to shift, to loosen the restraints on your wrists, but every movement sent sharp pain through your limbs. The car’s motion made you nauseous, the fear and discomfort blending into a haze.
Eventually, the car slowed again. You felt the shift in the vehicle as it came to a stop. The air was suffocating, your breath quickening in panic as you heard the sound of the driver’s door opening for the third time and then the distant crunch of dried leaves under Hotch’s footsteps. Where had he taken you?
The trunk opened again, and Hotch’s silhouette was backlit by the faintest glimmer of moonlight filtering through the storm clouds looming above. His face was unreadable, but there was no regret, no hesitation in his actions. He reached in and grabbed you roughly by the arm as he pulled you from the trunk once more.
You were in the middle of nowhere - an abandoned building ahead, its windows dark and some of them were even shattered.
The perfect place for someone to disappear.
“We’re going inside,” Hotch growled, his voice harsh and barren of the warmth it once held.
Your legs buckled beneath you, no strength left to carry your body, but Hotch didn’t care. He hauled you toward the entrance of the building with ease, his grip bruising on your bicep as he pulled you through the door. The interior was pitch black, the only sound was your rapid, panicked breaths and the distant rumble of thunder as the last of the storm was passing you.
He led you through the building, the air biting at your skin. You could feel the hatred radiating from him - the complete absence of the man you once knew. He stopped in the center of a large, empty room, turning to face you with a dark, predatory gaze.
“You should’ve stayed out of it,” he hissed, his voice low and dripping with venom. “But you couldn’t help yourself. You just had to know.”
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he reached out, his fingers gripping your chin tightly, forcing you to look up at him. His eyes bore into yours, cold and merciless.
“You’ll wish you hadn’t.”
The BAU team gathered in their conference room, the air filled with a heavy silence. The flickering lights of the monitors and the scattered case files did little to lighten the grim atmosphere. The latest string of killings had left them all feeling drained and frustrated. They knew the pattern - the targeted families of three - but the connection was proving elusive.
Reid, hunched over his paper files, spoke up. “The pattern is consistent. Every victim family has been targeted in a specific order: the father is always the first to go, followed by the mother, and then the child. We’re missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. Why does the unsub want the sons to watch their parents get murdered?”
Morgan, pacing back and forth, nodded grimly. “We’ve checked financial records, phone records, and even personal connections, but nothing’s coming up. It’s like the unsub is just a ghost.” He listed, counting with his fingers as he mentioned each thing.
Rossi, reviewing photos from the crime scenes, frowned in concentration. “There’s something we’re not seeing. Maybe we need to look at the details of each scene once again, this time more closely. There’s got to be a common thread.”
Garcia was furiously typing away, her eyes darting between various screens. She was usually the one bringing good news or revelations, but this time her face was a mask of worry. “I’ve cross-referenced all known data, and I’m still coming up empty. It’s like the unsub is erasing every trace of himself.”
Penelope’s words were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a new piece of evidence popping up on her screen. The team watched in quiet concern as she displayed a series of images on the large television screen behind them. The new evidence came from a tech at the latest crime scene.
“Look at this,” Garcia said, her voice trembling slightly as she pointed to a photo of a golden wedding ring lying on a dresser. “I’ve run the image through our database. It’s not just any ring. It’s a unique design only a handful made in total, and I found a match.”
The room fell silent as the team examined the image. Reid’s eyes widened as he recognized the significance too. “That ring… it’s a distinct piece. I’ve seen it before.”
Rossi’s gaze shifted from the photo to Garcia. “You’re saying this ring could be linked to someone we know?”
Garcia nodded, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “I cross-referenced it with our records, and it matches the description of a ring worn by someone in our team.” She swallowed the lump in her throat as she saw the name displayed on her laptop.
The realization hit like a thunderclap. The team exchanged worried glances, their earlier frustration giving way to a new kind of dread. Rossi’s face darkened as he leaned in closer.
Garcia nodded again, her expression serious as she confirmed the words Rossi had been about to ask. “The ring belongs to Hotch.”
The room erupted into chaos. Morgan’s eyes widened in shock, and Reid’s expression was one of horror. “No way,” Morgan said, his voice filled with disbelief. “Hotch? He’s one of the most dedicated agents we’ve ever worked with.”
“Is there any chance it could be a coincidence?” Rossi asked, his voice tight with concern. "That it's one of the other owners of similar rings?"
Garcia shook her head, her face pale. “I don’t think so, they've all been spotted across the country and have rock-solid alibis. The design is too specific. And if Hotch is involved, we need to find him before it’s too late.”
Reid began to piece together the information, his mind racing. “If Hotch is connected to the unsub, then it’s possible that he’s been orchestrating these murders from within. We need to act fast.”
The team sprang into action, their earlier determination now transformed into urgency. Rossi and Morgan began to gather additional evidence and check Hotch’s recent whereabouts. Reid and Garcia worked on tracking Hotch’s phone, hoping to pinpoint his location.
As the team raced against time, their focus sharpened on finding Hotch and uncovering the truth behind his involvement in the killings. Each agent’s heart pounded with the realization that someone they trusted might be the very monster they were hunting. But they were not ready to admit it just yet.
Meanwhile, the darkness within Hotch continued to grow, his plans advancing while the team desperately tried to uncover the truth.
The next move was crucial - finding Hotch could be the piece they were missing.
The grand throne room was a shadowy expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, the heavy scent of burning wood mixing with the deep, earthy aroma of the kingdom outside. King Aaron sat on the massive throne, a figure as dark and imposing as the room itself. His broad frame was draped in luxurious black and crimson robes, edged with gold that glimmered faintly in the dim light, while a heavy crown rested upon his head like a symbol of his unyielding authority. His eyes, sharp and cold as ice, surveyed the room with a calculated hunger.
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.
Outside the palace walls, the kingdom cowered beneath his iron grip. King Aaron had taken the throne through cunning, strength, and fear, his reputation as a ruthless and merciless ruler growing with each passing day. Whispers of rebellion had long since died out, smothered by his swift and brutal justice. His subjects knew better than to defy him, for to do so was to invite destruction into their homes.
He relished it. Power flowed through his veins, thick and intoxicating, and he wielded it with precision. Every decision, every law, every order was an extension of his will, and no one - no one - dared to challenge him. He was the uncontested force that ruled this land, and the world bent to his desires.
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚢𝚘𝚞.
You stood at the far end of the throne room, a figure both regal and fragile, draped in silks that did little to mask the tension in your posture. You had not come to him willingly. You had been forced into marriage with him, a pawn in a game of power, a prize that the king had claimed simply because he could. But that was of little consequence to him.
You were just another thing in his vast collection. His queen, sure, but in his eyes, more a possession than an equal. He could feel your resistance, the quiet, simmering resentment that lingered behind your eyes. You were trapped, and he savored that knowledge - there was no escape from him, no way out of the cage he had crafted for you.
He rose from the throne, the sound of his boots echoing in the vast hall as he approached you, his dark presence filling the space like a looming storm. His gaze, intense and unreadable, flickered over you, he tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re tense,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, each word laced with a chilling undercurrent of amusement. “It doesn’t suit you.”
You didn’t respond, your eyes darting to the stone floor, it made him chuckle softly. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that was almost tender, but the weight behind it was unmistakable - he owned you, body and soul. His thumb lingered at your jaw, tilting your chin up so that you were forced to meet his gaze.
“You should learn to accept this,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding. “It’ll be easier that way.”
There was no cruelty in his words, only a quiet certainty, as though the idea of resistance was laughable to him. And why wouldn’t it be? No one resisted Aaron Hotchner. He got what he wanted. Always.
He moved past you, his cape sweeping the ground as he walked toward the massive window overlooking the kingdom. Beyond the glass, the land stretched out, vast and unyielding under his rule, the distant villages mere shadows on the horizon. His kingdom. His world.
“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” he said, his back still to you. “All of this… mine.”
There was a satisfaction in his voice, an edge of arrogance that sent a shiver down your spine. He turned his head slightly, his eyes cutting back to you, watching for your reaction.
“You’ll come to see it as I do,” he continued, his tone soft but commanding. “In time.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Aaron wasn’t a king who sought approval or validation. He was a man who seized control, who took what he wanted, whether it was a kingdom or a queen. The thought of your resentment didn’t trouble him—it amused him. Because he knew, deep down, that it didn’t matter. No matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you longed to escape, there was no freedom from him.
He could feel the weight of his power pressing down on you, and he reveled in it. The way you shrank under his gaze, the way your breathing quickened whenever he drew near. Fear was a powerful thing, and he wielded it expertly, a tool as sharp and deadly as any blade in his collection.
But there was something else, too. Something that flickered in the shadows of his mind, an unfamiliar sensation that gnawed at him from time to time when he watched you. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly - he was incapable of that. But it was something close, something darker. Possessive. Obsessive even.
𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕.
He turned away from the window and walked back toward you, his steps slow, deliberate. His fingers trailed over your arm as he passed, a touch meant to remind you of his presence, his control. He circled you like a predator stalking its prey, his eyes never leaving you.
“I’ve given you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. “Power, wealth, a crown. And yet… you still resist me.”
You swallowed, the tension in your throat noticeable, but you didn’t speak. He smirked, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear.
“You’ll learn, eventually,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and poison at the same time. “Everyone does.”
There was no warmth in his words, no promise of affection. Only the cold, determined certainty of a king who ruled with an iron fist. He straightened, pulling away from you, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze lifted, allowing you a brief, fragile moment of respite.
He returned to his throne, sitting once more in the seat of power, the dark crown upon his brow casting shadows across his face. His eyes, sharp and dangerous, gleamed in the torchlight as he watched you, a king studying his possession.
Aaron Hotchner was not a man to be crossed. He was not a man to be loved. He was a force, a king who reveled in power, who took what he wanted without question or hesitation. And you, like everything else in his kingdom, were his to command, his to control.
𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.
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