So Freaking Hot🫠🫠😏😏

Reposting it, to read them all💖💖

Chris Evans Masterlist

Fics with a ❤️‍🔥 contain smut and are 18+. MINORS DNI!

I do not have a schedule please don’t ask when updates will be!

One Shots

Speak Now

Lip Sync Battle

The 2020 Election 

Best friends

Swap

Happy Mother’s Day

Tease

Which Chris?

Hiccups

Surprise!

The girl on set

Evening Activities ❤️‍🔥

Call it Even

Favour

Call me babe for the weekend (Follow up to Call it Even) ❤️‍🔥

Let It Snow

Surprise Visit

Think about it

Floofy Haired Surprise

Floofy Haired Delight ❤️‍🔥

Floofy Haired Treat 

Glammed Up?

Under The Stars

Silver Fox

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to

Rollerblading Hero

Okay Gramps

I told you so

The Perfect Wingman

Dog Sitting

Cuddle Buddy

Sexiest Man Alive ❤️‍🔥

Pumpkin Carving

Sweet Nothings

New Girl In Town (Bookstore AU)

Greatest Regret

Series

Boston ❤️‍🔥

Best Friend’s Brother ❤️‍🔥

The Interview Series

Burnin’ Up (Firefighter AU) ❤️‍🔥

This one is perfect and sad. I need a part two!😢😢

i’ll be watching you (every step you take) — carlos sainz

pairing | carlos sainz x leclerc!reader

word count | 3.1k words

content warnings | forbidden romance, age gap (reader is 24, carlos is 30), lots of crying (on both ends), charles is not the best brother to reader, brief mentions of anxiety & depression, ANGST

authors note | this in no way is to put any negative light towards charles, it is merely fiction and no way depicts the friendship he has with carlos or his personality in general. so sad seeing carlos leave and writing this just made me even more sad so…beware if you can’t handle angst rn </3

navigation. | requests — open | main masterlist.

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THE FINAL RACE of the 2024 season was going to begin in just a few hours but all Carlos could think about was you. Only a few hours left to be around you and then you’d no longer be in his sight like you usually were every race week. He wasn’t thinking much of his last race with Ferrari, yes he was sad about it but it was you who was invading his thoughts.

You’d no longer be there to offer some words of wisdom when he had a bad week. You’d no longer be there with a cup of coffee and baked goodies to debrief with each other. Carlos would tell you all about the race and what was going on from his end and you’d tell him any gossip you heard around the paddock. The secret handshakes you had no longer would be there as he’d be in the Williams motorhome and you’d be in the Ferrari motorhome way up front; supporting your brother.

“Charlie, please just hear me out. I could make this work with him and it won’t interfere with—.”

“No! Absolutely not we agreed you’d never date any of my friends especially those on the grid. I don’t want you with him. Why are you telling me all this now?!” Your older brother Charles paces back and forth in your hotel room.

“I-I…I love him. Why can’t you be happy that I found someone who treats me right and will love me too? Don’t you want me to be happy?” Charles knew you loved Carlos he could see it since day one. You had stayed away from the limelight as he entered Formula one and went to study abroad in England until you quit school in 2020. You no longer wanted to be a doctor but decided to open your own cafe.

Your dream to be a doctor was to somehow level up on your siblings who were successful. But you didn’t want to spend your life in a career you didn’t love. Baking was your passion despite your brother thinking it was a silly hobby. Your Maman was happy with whatever you wanted and your twin Arthur supported you. So did Lorenzo, but it was Charles who never showed interest in your dreams despite being his biggest fan growing up. Once he got into Formula One the bond you had with him drifted away.

You didn’t attend his first race in Formula One and ever since then you only visited for Christmas in which Charles mostly ignored you. You never understood why he was so mean to you when he’d vowed to protect you when you lost your Father a few years ago. You were daddy’s girl and losing him caused you to close yourself off to ever let someone into your heart that wasn’t family.

After quitting school you took up an internship with Charles in managing his social media. He used this to his advantage to try and convince you opening your own cafe would be a mistake and you could do greater things. He begged for a year and you ended listening to him and taking up a full time position for the Ferrari social media team.

You wanted your brother to be happy, but when would it be your turn?

As you were involved setting up videos with the two teammates you began growing a close friendship with Carlos. A close friend to your brother and teammate but they definitely had their fair share of moments on the track that left you picking up the pieces. Carlos never showed the frustration or anger towards you. Instead he would invite you out to golf (better yet teach you since you were terrible golfer) or even invite you to Spain during the breaks so you could spend time together and with his family.

“Be happy with someone else. You can find anyone why my teammate?”

“He won’t be your teammate next—.”

“No! Don’t use that to somehow justify you two could work out. It won’t work out…not if you want to lose me.” His words hit you and snaps you out of any thoughts of Carlos you had going on.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire par là? (what do you mean by that?)” You question, your chest feeling heavy at what his response may be. Lose him? You can’t live without your brother in your life despite the distance you’ve had in the last few years. But getting a job in Ferrari has helped build that bond again.

With an unready expression from Charles he stares into your eyes almost trying to intimidate you, “Qu'est-ce qui compte le plus pour vous ? Amour ou famille? (What matters to you more? Love or Family?)” The question destroys any poker face you had and your lips tremble trying to keep calm.

“Ce n'est pas juste, Charles. La famille, c'est l'amour ! J'aime ma famille. (That's not fair, Charles. Family is love! I love my family.)” You try defending yourself from the question, or more so the threat he was making.

“D'accord, tu as raison, alors... Carlos ou moi? (Okay you are right so...Carlos or me?” The question was mean, Charles knew that becuase he knew what you would decide. You were a ride or die for your family even if they didn’t always do the same for you. You could never imagine choosing someone else other than your family but Carlos…you really love Carlos.

“Please, Charlie that’s not fair. Don’t do this to me please, please, please…Je l'aime. Il me rend heureux. Il est tout ce que j'ai toujours voulu. (I love him. He makes me happy. He's all I ever wanted.)” You were close to begging on your knees, hands pleading with your brother but he stands there with a stoic face despite his heart breaking to pieces he’s causing this pain to you.

“We can make you happy. Family can be enough. You choose us and we’ll make more of an effort…quit the social media job and open your cafe. I’ll help you open it up anything to make you happy. Carlos won’t be a stable person to be in a relationship with look at our schedules we have all year? Don’t you want something stable?” His words spit out so easily, like he’s had it rehearsed. He felt so conflicted saying all this because he respected Carlos, he loved him as a close friend. But he couldn’t risk losing his sister to anyone.

He had to protect her and being in a relationship with someone as busy as Carlos wouldn’t work. His relationships barely worked out so he knew firsthand. He was going to protect you like he had promised you when your Father had passed. He promised his father he’d step up and watch over you.

You sit on your bed staring down at the comforter in silence as Charles gives you a kiss on the head, “I’ll see you at the race tomorrow and you can tell me then what you decided. I love you, cherie.” He walks out of your room without another word.

See you tomorrow morning, hermosa. Everything will be okay. Te amo.

You read Carlos’ text and send a quick heart reaction before shutting your phone off and laying in your bed to deal with the decision you had to make. It was made already. The thing was how were you going to say it out loud? How do you tell someone you don’t choose them?

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Morning comes around you’ve barely slept at all throughout the night tossing and turning. Carlos is walking into your room with coffee and croissants ready to go over the day with each other. A routine you’ve had for two years now ever since this…relationship formed. You give your best smile as you let him talk about his final day with Ferrari whle you listen he could see something is off. As he nears the end of the conversation he sees you fiddle with your thumbs a force of habit you did when you were anxious.

As he finishes you both sit in comfortable silence and as the time goes by you bite your lip suppressing a sob aching to cry out. Carlos breaks the silence with a deflated sigh, “It’s Charles, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” You whisper before letting out a choked sob and he quickly pulls you onto his lap holding you as tight as possible. You tangle your arms around his neck letting yourself cry in his arms for what may be the last time. This would be the last time you feel him this close to you. This may be the last time you ever talk to each other.

As your breathing calms down your face lays on his chest listening to his heartbeat…each beat registering in your mind. His heart that he says beats for you now breaks with each beat, he knew it wouldn’t be him if you had to choose.

Carlos didn’t blame you, he knew you were a family girl. He knew you had a heart that bled for your family even if they didn’t appreciate you. You would do anything for your family especially Charles even if it meant costing your own happiness in the process. You were close to your twin Arthur but he’d been so busy with his own stuff and Lorenzo was older so you didn’t get to bond as much since he lived further away.

It was Charles who you held a close bond with, you looked up to him. He reminded you so much of your Father after he passed you were lost in your grief. Charles pulled you out of a dark hole you didn’t want to get out of but he made you fight. Your father made Charles promise to protect his younger siblings but especially you. You were tough and could protect yourself but you were also a sensitive girl who was losing her father. Her father who she was attached to the hip to until his final breath. You would give up your own happiness for your family and Carlos would do the same.

Carlos wipes your tears off your face kissing your cheek softly, “I love you,” His voice breaking as you nod your head and get off his lap after those words.

You had to create some distance or else this would hurt more than it already does, “It’ll pass.” You smile sadly at him, his big brown eyes welling up with tears as you remove the necklace he had given you as a birthday present the first year he joined ferrari. You had barely spoken to each other but he remembered your birthday fell during a race weekend and wanted to make you feel appreciated.

A necklace with a sun charm that had his initial on the back something you added after you started dating two years ago. He shakes his head and hands it back to you, “No, no please at least keep that. I want to keep mine so you keep that one.” His voice pleads and you nod your head putting it in your purse.

“I…I don’t know what to say, Carlos. I’m so sorry—.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay I know why and I don’t blame you. We love each other I know that but we also love our families and I…I probably would have done the same.” He gives a tight lipped smile, he was wrong. He would never do that because family would never give an ultimatum of choosing who you love or them. They would do it if they knew you were a bad person but you weren’t and neither was he. So why would Charles not let his sister be happy?

You grab your purse and walk towards the door, “I love you too. Always.” And without another word you walk out of his hotel room, and from his life.

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Celebrations begin all around you as Lando crosses the checkered flag and wins the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix but also winning the constructors championship. You try your best cheering for the Mclaren driver you’ve grown close to but seeing Carlos cross the checkered flag along your brother right behind him was enough to have you walking off to the nearest restroom to wipe your tears away.

You walk back out once they’re out on the podium and as you look up you lock eyes with Carlos who had already been watching your every move. His pained expression watching you clutch your necklace as the british national anthem surrounds the track.

You feel a hand intertwine with yours and to your surprise it’s Reyes, Carlos’ mom. Her gentle smile was more than enough to tell you she knew what went on earlier with her on and despite breaking his heart she was there consoling you silently in the crowd. “He’s going to be a world champion one day. And i won’t be there to see it.” You whisper softly enough for her to hear.

“He’s not winning anything without having you there with him. He loves you too much to not have you there to celebrate his biggest victories. He’ll wait for you. Go do what you have to do, querida. I know you’ll see each other again.” She encourages you, you look up one more time to Carlos who was spraying Lando and Charles. His eyes meet yours one more time and with a simple nod he gives you a quick nod back.

You’d be there for each other; from afar. Every step you take you’d be watching each other.

You watch him give a speech to the entire ferrari team including your brother who was watching you like a hawk. Your eyes remained on Carlos wherever he moved as he hugged everyone and tears started filling almost everyone’s eyes. Except your brothers.

Carlos reaches you after giving everyone hugs and to the rest it may seem like a simple interaction but if only they knew as Carlos arms wrap around your waist and your arms snake around his neck you held onto each other like you never wanted to let go. Silence fills the room as a few members walk out to pack up and only Carlos’ team and family wait for him.

Charles walking up to break the hug, “Sœur. Nous devons y aller maintenant (Sister. We have to go now)” He refuses to make eye contact with either of you, guilt filling his chest. Before you could look back up at Carlos your brother has already dragged you out of there.

Every step you took you felt further and further away from him. You have to live with that.

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“Yes, I’ll be there in about 20 minutes. Sounds good.” Carlos hangs up the call, walking the streets of London he enjoyed the cool air hitting against him. He’s going into his second year with Williams and he could see the improvement the team has made and think he’s got a good shot at the wdc this season which starts in just a few weeks.

A year without you had been the slowest year he has lived. He was so used to never keeping track of the time or days when he was with you. Now without you he was mostly filled with silence on days he wasn’t with the team or family.

His friendship with Charles grew stronger after he left the team despite knowing he was the reason you weren’t together. Charles thought he got closer to keep tabs on you but it was quite the opposite. Since that night you hadn’t heard from each other at all, the only thing keeping you connected was the necklaces you kept.

His star chain hanging on his neck was worn at all times and questions were asked if there was a significance to it which he would reply with it was a cool chain. The meaning would always be between the two of you, it’s the one thing you could both keep as yours.

Charles lived with the guilt every single day despite him being a better brother to you and supporting what you wanted (except your relationship with Carlos). He still had his days but he’s been one of your biggest supporters when you had opened your cafe. You still felt betrayed he made you choose but in the end he was your brother, you could never be mad at him. He was your best friend.

“Have a great day!” You smile at your regular customer who has picked up their order just now. Your cafe had been gaining popularity after a few months of being open and you couldn’t be anymore grateful. It was noon and that is when you get the most busy so as you help ring up customers you don’t feel the eyes on you staring from across the street.

Carlos stands across the street from where your cafe is, seeing you through the display window a smile adorned on your face he couldn’t help but cross the street. His heart beat picking up as he got closer to you and standing at the window he looks up at the name.

Café Étoilé

“You’re my sunshine. You brighten my whole day just looking at you.” Carlos sighs contently as you lay your head on his chest. You giggle at the nickname and smile up at him, “Well you’re a star so that makes you my star. My starry eyed man,”

“Starry eyed?”

“Yeah. Your brown eyes are my favorite feature of yours, they’re starry eyed.” You tell him, staring the obvious.

“I love it.”

You named the cafe after him, in a way that Charles couldn’t say no because he didn’t know the nicknames you shared together. This was yours. No one else’s.

His smile meets his eyes watching you do what you loved, it was enough for him to realize that despite not communicating in over a year you’d always have a special place in each other’s hearts. For now you’d watch each other from afar and celebrate your accomplishments in that way.

You finish ringing the last customer up apart of the rush and you feel the need to look out your window feeling a pair of eyes on you but as you look up you find nobody except stranger walking along the street. Instinctively your hand grips your necklace and trace over the engraving of Carlos’ name.

Your love for each other did indeed not pass.

This one is so cute🥺🥺

Couldn’t stop thinking about you bringing home a stray puppy and Hotch not being surprised by it at all, so I had to do write something

Something was off as soon as he walked inside his apartment. It was oddly quiet despite the tv being turned on.

“Honey?” He called for you, but there was no answer.

Maybe you’d gone out to the store? your favorite sneakers were exactly where you’d left them this morning before going to work, though, right under the coffee table in the living room.

He stripped off his jacket and loosened his tie before he went to your room.

You weren’t there either.

A muffled squeal came from the bathroom followed by a quiet “don’t bite me.”

He’d normally knock, but this time he just opened.

There you were, sitting at the edge of the bathtub with a just-bathed puppy wrapped with a towel on your lap.

“I can explain.” You shot him a guilty smile.

His eyes went from your face, down to the trembling dog then up to you again. “Looks like a rat,” he simply said with the most monotonous voice.

It was a matter of time you’d bring home a stray puppy.

“Mean.” You acted offended. “I found him inside a box at the subway station. He’s scared.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is.” He walked in and crouched in front of you, staring at the puppy. “Someone just took him and threw him in a bath.” He bopped its nose.

“He was smelly.” You kissed the puppy’s head then Aaron’s, too. “Can we keep him? He’s definitely a small breed. Look at his short legs.”

Aaron sighed deeply and looked up at you, already defeated by both of your puppy-dog eyes.

“But he’s not sleeping with us.” He stood up and placed both hands on his hips.

You scrunched your nose with an evil grin and said, “sure he won’t.”

Words to describe facial expressions

Absent: preoccupied 

Agonized: as if in pain or tormented

Alluring: attractive, in the sense of arousing desire

Appealing: attractive, in the sense of encouraging goodwill and/or interest

Beatific: blissful

Black: angry or sad, or hostile

Bleak: hopeless

Blinking: surprise, or lack of concern

Blithe: carefree, lighthearted, or heedlessly indifferent

Brooding: anxious and gloomy

Bug eyed: frightened or surprised

Chagrined: humiliated or disappointed

Cheeky: cocky, insolent

Cheerless: sad

Choleric: hot-tempered, irate

Darkly: with depressed or malevolent feelings

Deadpan: expressionless, to conceal emotion or heighten humor

Despondent: depressed or discouraged

Doleful: sad or afflicted

Dour: stern or obstinate

Dreamy: distracted by daydreaming or fantasizing

Ecstatic: delighted or entranced

Faint: cowardly, weak, or barely perceptible

Fixed: concentrated or immobile

Gazing: staring intently

Glancing: staring briefly as if curious but evasive

Glazed: expressionless due to fatigue or confusion

Grim: fatalistic or pessimistic

Grave: serious, expressing emotion due to loss or sadness

Haunted: frightened, worried, or guilty

Hopeless: depressed by a lack of encouragement or optimism

Hostile: aggressively angry, intimidating, or resistant

Hunted: tense as if worried about pursuit

Jeering: insulting or mocking

Languid: lazy or weak

Leering: sexually suggestive

Mild: easygoing

Mischievous: annoyingly or maliciously playful

Pained: affected with discomfort or pain

Peering: with curiosity or suspicion

Peeved: annoyed

Pleading: seeking apology or assistance

Quizzical: questioning or confused

Radiant: bright, happy

Sanguine: bloodthirsty, confident

Sardonic: mocking

Sour: unpleasant

Sullen: resentful

Vacant: blank or stupid looking

Wan: pale, sickly

Wary: cautious or cunning

Wide eyed: frightened or surprised

Withering: devastating

Wrathful: indignant or vengeful

Wry: twisted or crooked to express cleverness or a dark or ironic feeling

This one is so beautiful and perfect 😍😍💖💖

Faultless - Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader

WC: 7.5k / navi / preview

Summary: After a car accident leaves you with a painful concussion, Hotch volunteers to be your live-in nurse so that you don't have to stay at the hospital. He's hellbent on spending the weekend doting on you, drowning in guilt because of the accident and your subsequent injury, but you're hellbent on spending the weekend getting him out of his bad mood.

Contents/Warnings: typical cm case mentions, slight gore/mentions of injuries, reader has a concussion, hotch is sad :((

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

“Easy,” Aaron muttered, his breath short from lugging your bags up the stairs while supporting you under one arm, “Don’t trip.”

You felt around the doorframe with your foot, making a point of stepping over the wooden board on the floor and crossing the threshold into your apartment. You had been exhausted before having to climb up thirteen flights of stairs, and you were going to complain for a very long time about the elevator being out of service on the one day you needed it the most.

You felt around blindly for your couch, gently tugging yourself out of Aaron’s grasp to sit down on the padded cushions. You could feel him still hovering over you, the concerned frown that had been settled on his lips all day probably still in place, but you couldn’t muster up enough professionality to open your eyes, to pretend like your head wasn’t splitting itself open from the inside out.

Your throbbing headache was the result of a rather concerning concussion, one that you’d acquired from your head hitting the dashboard after an unsub had rammed their vehicle into your own. You had been in the passenger’s seat, and thankfully the van had hit you by spinning out and sliding into your bumper instead of t-boning you. You were certain you’d be dead if he’d hit anywhere else.

You wanted to say that you escaped unscathed, but you hadn’t. Aaron’s hand hadn’t quite shot out fast enough to cover your chest and keep you pressed against the seat, instead it had brushed against your shoulder as you lurched forwards in your seat, your skull slamming into the dashboard. 

The medics had said it was only the locking of your seatbelt that had kept you alive. If it hadn’t given what little restraint it could offer (subsequently burning a line into your neck from where it slashed across your skin), you’d have shot completely forward, probably catapulting through the dashboard and dying before you hit the ground.

You’d never been more thankful for seatbelts.

You heard your bag being set down beside the sofa, then the soft click of your door being shut. Hotch was light on his feet as he trekked back through your apartment to stand beside the couch, not wanting to make your headache worse by storming around.

You heard rustling from beside your head, and you blearily peeled open your eyes to look for Hotch. He was much closer than you’d expected, kneeling on the carpet beside you, one of his hands reaching for the bandage on your forehead while the other held a new, fresh one.

“I need to replace this,” He tapped lightly against the end of the bandage, “You bled through it.”

You groaned at the harsh lighting above you, but knew that he needed it to rebandage your cut, so you nodded. You let your eyes drift shut again, only wincing momentarily as Hotch peeled the blood-soaked bandage from your wound and began tending to it.

You were somewhat surprised at how attentive Aaron was being. He had been kind to you since day one, letting you know that the rumors you’d probably heard about him from the rest of the team were just jokes, that he didn’t bite, and wouldn’t rip your head off. He’d apparently noticed your reluctance to relax around him, and wanted to ensure that you weren’t scared off by his reputation. You quickly learned that there were truths in both sides of the story, that he frowned far too often for his own good, but that he was a softie at heart.

You supposed that he had volunteered to take care of you after the crash for three reasons.

One being that he had been driving when you’d gotten into the impromptu accident. Of course, it hadn’t been his fault, the situation was out-of-control. But he often blamed himself for any casualties that happened on-site, simply because he was the Unit Chief. It meant that he was often plagued with guilt over situations that didn’t even concern him, and you’d have to be sure to comfort him later about it.

Two being that you were rather young for an agent. You had joined the team far earlier in your career than almost anyone else had, (save for Reid, of course), so you were, regrettably, babied. Sometimes it was more subtle and caring, like Prentiss remembering to pack your favorite snacks in her bag just in case you didn’t bring any. Or how Derek was always quick to offer up his windbreaker when you were outside without a jacket. But most of the time it was teasing, the way an older sibling would mock the younger one. 

When it was mockery, it usually consisted of playful shoves in the elevator, aggressive pinches to the cheeks, and constant mentions of you being half their ages or more. You were never discredited as a team member because of your age, but everyone was always jumping at the chance to remind you that you were young enough to be Rossi’s child.

That particular joke hadn’t gone over well with Rossi, either.

Then the third reason, similar to the second, you were their newest agent. Your age and your time at the BAU were significantly shorter than anyone else’s, and while one again, no one ever thought you incapable, you noticed that everyone had a tendency to watch over you a little more than they did anyone else.

Especially Hotch. You’d thought yourself delusional the first time you realized that he seemed to hover over you, side-stepping in front of you in potentially dangerous situations and sending medics to you before anyone else. But you’d come to accept that he was especially doting, even if he’d never admit it through the surly frown on his face.

This was extremely evident now. The unsub had died in the crash, a suicide committed so that he wouldn’t have to face years in prison. That left you and Hotch as the only surviving victims, and he’d pulled his seatbelt right out of the wall trying to get out of the car and around to help you. 

--

“Y/L/N,” He shook your shoulders urgently, “Y/L/N, wake up!” 

Your head was throbbing, your throat dry from screaming, and your neck burning from the scratch of the seatbelt. You wanted so desperately to let yourself go, to succumb to the comfortable darkness that threatened to envelop you whole, but the full-blown panic in Hotch’s voice stopped you. You’d never heard it that frantic before, and you used almost all of your strength to peel your eyes open, your head pounding at the sunlight.

“I need an ambulance,” He shouted into his earpiece, the sound only making your headache worse, “We have a federal agent down!”

“Don’t close your eyes.” He urged, his panic-riddled gaze flitting over your bloodied face. He held your head up, your neck too fatigued to support it, “Look at- dammit, look at me, Y/N, don’t close your eyes!”

You tried saying something, anything, but your chest was heavy and your mouth wouldn’t open. You saw the anxiety in his eyes, you wanted to reassure him that you’d keep your eyes open, that you’d pull through for him, but nothing came out. Instead, you studied his face, your eyes grazing over every stunning feature it displayed. His nose, ever-so-slightly crooked, was divided in half by an angry red gash. His eyebrow was slit similarly, a red ooze trickling down his cheek. His lips, always held in that intimidating frown of his, were trembling slightly, his teeth digging into the backs of them to hold in a sob. His hair was caked with sweat and blood, a crimson trail making its way down his temple, but you knew he’d be okay. 

He watched you watch him, his panic dwindling each time you blinked and your eyes reopened. The moment between you two was serene in a morbid way, both aware of the other’s near-death and both relishing in the other’s life. His own breathing was shaky, nearly shakier than yours, but he grounded himself with one hand on your cheek, the other behind your head and supporting your neck.

Sirens sounded throughout the wooded road, and the next unsteady sigh that came out of your mouth was one of relief. Hotch reluctantly looked away from your face, tracking the van that screeched to a halt in front of the crash site and rushed over to you both.

Hotch had helped load you onto the stretcher that they prepared for you, his hand never leaving your cheek as the other slipped around your waist. You stared blankly up at whatever happened to be in front of your face, but as you were loaded into the ambulance, your eyes lingered on Hotch’s bloodied form, standing outside and craning his neck to watch you be hauled into the back of the ambulance.

A medic began asking him what hurt, what possible injuries he might have, and if he could remember any part of his body getting hit specifically. But he didn’t answer while the doors were still open on you, only looking away when they shut in his face, obscuring his view of you.

--

You were honestly jealous that he’d escaped in such great condition. All he had to show for the accident was a sprained wrist and a few cuts, and your brain had been slammed into your skull.

You were jealous, but not resentful. You were glad that he hadn’t gotten injured further, especially because it meant that he was cleared to take care of you. The rest of your team had all volunteered, even Rossi stepping up to offer his nursing services. But Hotch had insisted, a self-loathing glint in his eyes as he told you he’d make sure you were alright over the weekend.

And as he kneeled beside your head on the couch, his tongue pinched between his lips in intense concentration as he rebandaged one of your cuts, you knew he would deliver on his promise. You just wished he wasn’t doing it out of guilt.

“That should last for a few hours.” Aaron smoothed the bandage onto your skin, his voice as low as humanly possible so as not to aggravate your headache further, “We’ll change them again after dinner.”

You let out a soft groan, raising one hand to cover your eyes, “I forgot about dinner.”

“You don’t have to eat if you’re not up for it.” Hotch used your coffee table for support as he stood.

“No, no,” You shook your head slightly, moving as little as humanly possible while doing so, “I meant, like, I don’t have anything here that we could eat. My fridge is empty.”

“It’s fine.” His hand came to rest on your shoulder for a second, a reassuring gesture because you couldn’t see his face, “We can order pizza.”

“Pizza,” You nodded hazily, “Yeah, pizza sounds good. I’ve got cash in the drawer,” You motioned vaguely to your kitchen, knowing full well you hadn’t been specific enough for him to locate it, “I’ll call later and we can-”

“Y/N,” Aaron interrupted you gently, “Don’t worry about that now. You need to take your painkillers, and the doctor said they’d make you drowsy. Why don’t you take them now, and you can nap until dinner?”

“But- but it’s already nine,” You protested weakly, “It’s too late for me to nap.”

“These are not normal circumstances,” You felt the couch dip by your feet, and you bent your legs, your calves pressed flush to your thighs, “You nap whenever you feel tired.”

“Are you hungry?” You peeked one eye open, wanting to see any hidden information he might have withheld from you otherwise.

“No,” He shook his head, and from what you could see of him, he looked truthful, “I can wait.”

You let your eye slip shut again, nodding once, “Okay. Where are the pills?”

They were harder to swallow than you thought they’d be, large and grainy and awkwardly-shaped. Aaron had to support the back of your neck while you sipped, and his other hand supported the water glass from the bottom, your hands too shaky to ensure a safe drink.

The water was heavenly, though, and you regretted not asking for some earlier. Your throat, dry and cracked from screaming during the accident, was soothed quickly by the icy liquid, and you finished the entire glass in only a few big sips.

“I can get you more, if you want?” Aaron’s voice came from directly beside you, and you shook your head lightly, slumping back down onto the pillows.

“No thanks,” You breathed, “I just want to nap.”

You felt a hand on your thigh, pressed close to your knee in a reassuring pat. Then a blanket was draped over you, most likely the fuzzy blue one that laid on the arm of your couch.

“Sleep for as long as you need,” Aaron’s final words to you sent a thrum of endearment up your spine that blossomed in your chest, “I’ll stay right here with you.”

Aaron fought the urge to reach out once more, letting his hand take up permanent residence on your leg. The gesture had been comforting, of course, but he couldn’t deny that it had felt cozy, natural even. He had never been one to get lost in his fantasies, but the single touch had him imagining all of the other blissfully domestic scenarios in which he could replicate it.

You’d be watching a scary movie, your brows furrowed in anxiety. You’d flinch at a jumpscare, tighten your hold on his arm, and he’d shift his hand over to your thigh, squeezing it gently in reassurance.

Or you’d be on the jet after a long case, your head slumped onto his shoulder. He’d rest his hand on your thigh, a soft but intimate gesture, so that you knew you could relax.

Or he’d be laying beside you in bed, his head on the pillow as your back rested against the headboard. He’d reach up and squeeze your thigh softly, compelling you to set down your book and finally lay down to sleep beside him.

His breath hitched and shame burned at his cheeks when he realized that he’d just let himself get lost fantasizing about being in bed beside his coworker. You were recovering from a concussion, one that he blamed himself for, and he was having delusions of married life with you.

He stood from the couch abruptly, shaking his head slightly at his unprofessional behavior. Your little apartment was stuffy from being closed up for five days straight, and he set off towards the windows, keeping the shades pulled for your head’s sake but slipping the windows open underneath. Fresh air rushed into the room and he breathed it in desperately, as if it would purge him of his delusions. 

He shut his eyes momentarily, exhaustion gripping at him but panic keeping him awake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the way he felt when your head had hit the dashboard.

He had reached out as soon as he’d seen it coming, desperately trying to catch you before you could get hurt. But he hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been enough. You had slammed face first into the dashboard, a blood-curdling scream torn from your throat as your nose cracked. It was still crooked, swollen and bloody, but Aaron had just replaced the bandage over its bridge, and you’d mentioned that there was ice in the freezer if the swelling didn’t go down.

None of his own injuries were on his mind as he replayed the accident, the sinking hole in his chest as he’d watched you hit your head. You’d crumbled against the dashboard on impact, and he swore he’d never felt as much raw panic as he had in that moment. Being unable to get to you for those few short seconds had been agonizing, and he’d do anything to make sure nothing like that ever happened again. 

Once he’d finally gotten to you it was like it wasn’t real. He was holding you, you were looking at him, he was looking at you, but it didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel real that you were injured, and at the same time, it didn’t feel real that you weren’t dead. Nothing about the scenario felt real, and he’d stood there in paralyzing panic as he waited for the ambulance.

He’d been a wreck on the ride back. They hadn’t let him into your ambulance, and he’d kept eye contact with you until he couldn’t see you anymore, the doors shutting on your near-lifeless frame.

He hadn’t even accepted his own hospital room, forcing Reid to give the doctors one of his infamous ‘second opinions’ so that he could deny treatment and reach you faster. He was almost certain that the young doctor had only done so out of fear of losing his job, because the intensity that he knew had been present in his gaze at the time scared Reid.

As soon as the doctors had let him go, reluctantly so, he’d taken up a chair by your bedside, waiting restlessly for you to wake.

He turned back to your sleeping form on the couch, ready to go and sit down again. He wanted to sleep too, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to, so he settled for the idea of sitting beside you, staring into oblivion while you slept. It was the most rest he was going to get for a few days, if his guilt never died down.

He realized that you’d shifted in your sleep, your feet now stretched out to the other couch cushion, the one he’d been sitting on. He started for one of your chairs, stopping before he could lower himself into one, and glancing back at you. 

He needed to be with you.

Holding your drained, near-lifeless body had been terrifying. He had felt your breathing shallow, had seen your eyes struggle to open, had watched the life dim in your eyes. Sitting across the room from you at that moment seemed like his personal hell, his fingers itched to feel the warmth of your skin and his ears longed to hear your calm, even breaths.

He padded to the couch, reaching carefully for your feet. He slid his hands under your ankles, lifting them off of the cushions and turning, sinking down onto the couch and resting your feet in his lap. 

It felt perfect, he could feel you, he could see you, he could hear you, but it felt wrong. It felt intimate, just like his hand on your thigh had. He lectured himself once more on not being delusional, his brain already cooking another domestic vision up before he could stop it. He kept his eye on you, his cheek resting against the back of the couch as his eyes drooped. Your chest rose and fell steadily, your eyes shut snugly, the bandage on your forehead no longer soaking up fresh blood. Your injuries were starting to heal, and Hotch took solace in the fact that you wouldn’t be plagued by your cuts anymore.

But your concussion, that would last. He knew that you’d be okay, it hadn’t been fatal, but you were going to suffer for a while. Guilt and despair once again stabbed at his chest as he thought about what it would be like if he had just caught you, if he’d reached over a split second sooner.

--

The painkillers that the doctor had prescribed you hadn’t fixed everything, but they had dulled your headache. It was a soft pounding now, instead of the raging fire that had burned behind your eyes. You blinked them open hazily, squinting around the darkened apartment and shifting to do so. Your feet hit something solid, and you felt it move beneath them. You peered at the other end of the couch, seeing your feet stretched out over Hotch’s lap as he dozed.

His face was set in a deep frown, worse than the one that normally adorned his features, as one of his hands laid over your ankles. You had assumed that in sleep, Aaron would relax, but it seemed as if he was even more stressed than before.

You felt an instant pang of embarrassment, you must have shifted in your sleep to lay your legs over his lap. You chided yourself on probably making him uncomfortable, though you couldn’t deny the butterflies that flitted around your stomach at the feeling of being so domestically intimate with him.

When he wasn’t barking orders at you, he was incredibly attractive. Actually, even when he was barking orders at you, he was incredibly attractive. You’d tried to suppress your feelings towards him, especially because he wasn’t just your coworker, but your boss, and you thought you had succeeded. Sure, the feeling of his hand on your cheek had been nice, the rampant concern in his eyes after the crash had been endearing, but you knew you had to settle for just being friends.

Your stomach grumbled, as if on cue after you’d just woken up, and you tugged your feet out of Aaron’s lap, sitting up cautiously against the arm of the couch. He didn’t seem to notice, although his unconscious frown deepened when his hand fell to his lap, and you grabbed your phone, ordering pizza for the both of you. You were happy that you remembered his favorite type of pizza from an impromptu late night at the office a while back, or you’d have had to wake him, and you wanted him to get all of the rest that he could. The delivery said it would be there in 20 minutes, and you used that time to get yourself another glass of water. It was a simple task, and your nap had apparently returned some of your basic capabilities, but you couldn’t deny that Aaron helping you drink had been better than drinking alone. The bottom of the glass was cold on your fingers, and you wistfully wanted his hand to be there instead.

You stood leaning against your kitchen cabinets, the living room behind a partition wall that shielded the couch from your view. Your apartment suddenly felt empty, and even though you knew Hotch was just sitting on your couch, you felt alone.

You weren’t sure how this would affect your feelings towards him. He’d already been so caring, so attentive towards you, and it was pushing you closer and closer towards a dangerous territory that you weren’t sure you’d ever come back from. You’d stayed sane by keeping a healthy distance between you, engaging in casual conversation or trading jokes, but pointedly avoiding sitting beside him in tight spaces or taking his jacket when he offered. Now that boundary was gone, and he was sleeping on your couch, your feet having been draped across his lap only minutes ago.

You were too lost in thought to hear the shuffling from your living room, but you were alerted to Aaron’s consciousness when he came rushing into the kitchen, eyes blown wide in panic before they settled on you.

“Y/N,” He breathed, his shoulders heaving as he let out a sigh of relief, “I thought- god, you were just gone, and I panicked.” He slumped forwards against the counter, blinking sleepily as he tried calming his pounding heart.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” You set your glass down, leaning over to set a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He nodded, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face and hissing in pain when it irritated one of his barely-healing cuts.

Blood began blossoming along the tear in his skin once more, and you tutted, pulling his hand away from his face. 

“You’re bleeding.” You reached for the bag of bandages that he’d set conveniently on the counter after patching you up, wetting a cotton ball with the disinfectant that sat beside it.

“You don’t have to-” He began, waving you off while prodding gently at his cut, but you cut him off, once again tugging his hand away from his cut.

“Just let me take care of it,” You barely caught yourself before saying ‘you’, deciding that ‘it’ was far less intimate. Your cheeks flared anyways, though, the knowledge that you’d almost slipped up haunting you as you cleaned up his cut.

The cut was on the apple of his cheek, just below his eye. Your thumb rested against the dark circle above it, the pliant skin flushed under your finger. You made a mental note to be sure he slept well this weekend, even if it would be on your couch for lack of a spare room. You felt his eyes on you as you cleaned up his cut, but pointedly avoided looking at him so as not to give yourself and your feelings away.

You weren’t sure if you’d survive gazing into his concerned eyes only inches away from his face.

You discarded the soiled cotton ball, your fingers slightly moistened by the chemical. The bandage crinkled beneath your fingers as you peeled the waxy paper from it, smoothly spreading the cloth over Aaron’s wound.

You left a soft tap on the pad of the bandage once you were finished, moving away to get yourself out of the potentially awkward situation as fast as possible. But you felt resistance, your eyes widening as you realized that Aaron’s hand was cupping the back of your neck. 

You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed him placing it there, but the suggestive warmth that it brought you had your concussion and the car accident wiped completely from your mind. 

All that was there now was Aaron, his dark eyes staring intensely into your own as he tugged you closer so that your noses were brushing. He seemed just as transfixed as you were, barely breathing as he drank you in. The short, soft breaths that he was taking were fanning gently across your face, grounding you even more in his presence.

“Hotch,” You murmured, not wanting to shatter the serene silence with your voice, “We can’t.”

You wished you kissed him. You wished that you’d shut your mouth, pressed it to his, and moved on with your day. You wished you hadn’t said that, hadn’t prompted him to ask ‘Why not?’

“Because,” You breathed, your voice shaky as he leaned imperceptibly closer to you, “We have to-”

The sound of the buzzer to your apartment interrupted your moment, the atmosphere shattering at the harsh sound, ‘Delivery!’

“-go get the pizza! We have to go get the pizza.” You slipped your head out from under his hand, rushing for the door and leaving him standing over the kitchen counter.

You answered the door with shaking hands, nearly handing the pizza man a $50 instead of a $20 for your $15 order. 

Aaron slumped against the counter with a heavy sigh. 

He hadn’t meant to lose what little control he still possessed after the accident. He supposed that the shock and terror at nearly losing you made him want to ensure that he never lost you without telling you how he felt. But that didn’t excuse his actions, or the mortified exit that you’d made as soon as you’d gotten the chance. Clearly, he’d made you uncomfortable.

You brought the pizza back to the kitchen nearly in tears, terrified at possibly never getting the chance to kiss him again. You’d wanted to, you’d even brushed away any fear of losing your job out of desperation to reciprocate, but you’d panicked. You had panicked because what if it wasn’t good? What if he didn’t like it? What if it was a spur-of-the-moment that he’d regret later, and you’d be the one he kissed out of pity just because you’d almost died? You knew that both of you were high-strung, emotions running strong, and you were sure that it was the only reason he’d tried to kiss you. You wouldn’t let yourself believe that he had even an ounce of feelings for you, not the same way you had them for him. You wouldn’t let yourself enjoy temporary happiness if it meant that ever-lasting heartbreak would follow.

“Y/N,” Aaron spoke as soon as you stepped into the kitchen, “I’m so-”

“Do you want one slice, or two?” You cut him off, standing as tall and confidently as possible with the boxes in your hands.

Aaron stilled, stiffening slightly against the counter, “What?”

“One slice,” You swallowed what little saliva was in your mouth, “Or two?”

He stared at you silently for a moment, his discerning gaze picking you apart. Finally, his shoulder slumped, his face falling as he muttered, “One.”

--

The meds that you needed to take before eating were a hassle. This time it was a liquid prescription, and Hotch provided the medicine cup that you needed to measure it out with. It tasted bitter and grainy, and you quickly shoved pizza in your mouth to mask the aftertaste.

“These are supposed to knock you out,” He squinted at the fine print on the bottle, hovering over you much less since your run-in in the kitchen, “It says you might be kind of out of it for the night.”

You nodded silently, keeping yourself as far away from him on the couch as possible. You knew he was watching you shy away from him, and you tried not to look at the expression on his face, whatever it was, because you didn’t want to see it.

If it was disappointment, you didn’t want to see it because then he’d be disappointed in you. If it was anger, you didn’t want to see it because then he’d be angry with you. But if you ignored it, if you never saw it, then it wouldn’t exist.

You ate your pizza in silence for a terrible, awkward, stifling few moments, during which you shoveled as much into your mouth as possible so that you wouldn’t have to speak. Finally, though, Aaron finished his slice, and opened his mouth, this time not to put pizza inside.

“Y/N, I really think we should-”

“Do you want to watch tv?”

“Y/N, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but-”

You had reached for the remote without letting him finish, clicking on the television and turning the volume up.

“Y/N,” Aaron spoke, his voice softer and more meek than you’d ever heard it before, “Please.”

You felt a hot wave of tears brimming at your eyes, and panickedly tried to blink them away, dread tugging your stomach down. The last thing you wanted to do was confess, but your medication was inhibiting your filter and making you more emotional.

“I’m sorry,” You blubbered, “I wanted to kiss you!”

You set your empty plate on the coffee table in front of you, the ceramic thunking against the wood, “I really wanted to kiss you!” 

Aaron watched you slump forwards, your face in your hands as you sobbed.

“Hey,” He reached out, setting his own plate on the table, “Don’t cry! Don’t cry, come here, Y/N.”

He slid his hands around your waist, tugging you upright and back onto the couch. He expected you to curl up against the other arm of the couch again, hellbent on getting away from him, but you fell into his lap, your face pressed against the material of his pants.

He brushed a cautious, gentle hand over your back, the other hovering awkwardly by your face. He couldn’t really see it, not most of it, anyways. Your flushed, tear-stained cheek was all that he could see as you sobbed into his lap, and he reached forwards, brushing a stray tear off of your skin.

“Don’t cry,” He repeated, his voice low, and soft, and soothing, “Y/N, it’s okay, don’t cry.”

“It’s not okay!” You gushed, rising from his lap as a steady stream of tears dripped off of your cheeks, “I feel gross, and you’re helping me, and- and you’re so sweet and I’m tired, and you’re so warm, and soft and I wanted to kiss you so badly but I- I got scared and now- now everything is messed up!”

“Shh,” Aaron cut off your ramblings by pressing his broad thumb to your lips, the rest of his hand cupping your cheek comfortingly, “It’s okay. You didn’t mess anything up, everything is okay.”

“It’s not!” You repeated, “I’m never gonna get to kiss you again, and I ran away! I ran away, god, I’m so stupid!”

“You’re not stupid.” Aaron fought back the smile that threatened to take over his face, upset at the distress on yours but elated to hear that you’d wanted to reciprocate, “I promise you I’m not upset, and- um, if you’d like the chance again later, maybe we can consider kissing again.”

“Do you mean that?” You hiccupped pitifully, a sniffle following it.

“I do,” He promised, half hoping that you wouldn’t remember the embarrassing promise he’d just made to you in the morning, and half hoping that it would be the first thing you asked for when you woke up, “I promise.”

You smiled weakly at his reassurance, blinking drowsily as your medication ran rampant. He continued rubbing your back, though his hand fell from your cheek when you spoke.

“I’m tired.”

He couldn’t help but let out a breathy chuckle, nodding reassuringly, “I thought you would be. Why don’t you lay down, you can sleep for the night and then tomorrow we can- oh.”

Without a second thought, you’d slumped over onto his shoulder, your arms wrapped around one of his own as you clung to his arm. In your hazy, post-cry daze, you pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, the material of his quarter-zip soft against your lips. 

“I love you, Aaron.” You mumbled, your voice still wobbly from your tear-fest.

The admission struck him with the most comforting sense of shock, one that made a smile burst over his face. You shut your eyes without even waiting for him to respond, your legs tucked neatly underneath yourself as you designated him your pillow for the evening.

He knew you wouldn’t hear him, and even if you did, you wouldn’t comprehend what he was saying. But he said it anyways, leaning his head against your own and murmuring a soft, “I love you too, Y/N.” as you snoozed.

Aaron watched your chest rise and fall slowly and evenly, relieved that you were sleeping peacefully. He knew full well that you'd have a splitting headache for far too long, and was happy to see you get some temporary relief.

The dramatic reality show that you'd insisted on drowning him out with was still playing softly in the background, eerie music choices and startling sound effects amping up the ridiculousness of the surely-false story. Aaron reached for the remote that was in your hand, gently uncurling your fingers from around it. He set your hand back in your lap, but it found his once more, a soft whine coming from your throat as you shifted in your sleep.

Your head that had been slumped onto his shoulder fell forwards, your neck surely suffering at the awkward angle. He rushed to readjust you, but you followed the motion blindly, your head slumped into his lap. At first, your nose pressed against the zipper of his pants, and he panicked. Before he could adjust you, though, you turned over, nestling your cheek against his thigh facing the television instead. Your face relaxed from where it had been scrunched in unconscious concentration, a serene expression crossing it as you sighed contentedly.

Aaron thought it was the most adorable noise he'd ever heard. A soft smile threatened to break over his face after his panic, and for once, he let it. You weren't awake or coherent enough to see it, so why not? He smiled warmly, happily, adoringly at you as you slept in his lap. He reached for the blanket that had been folded on the arm of your couch, quickly shaking it out as best he could and draping it over your frame. You snuggled into it just as much as you had his thigh, and after a drawn-out moment of staring at you with a lovesick smile, Aaron let his head fall back against the cushions, his eyes slipping shut as he let sleep take him a happy man.

--

Waking up was warm. You blinked open your eyes, your gaze immediately landing on the plates that you hadn’t cleaned up from the night before. The pillow you were laying on was considerably comfier than any you knew were on your couch, and you rolled onto your back to see that it was, in fact, not a pillow, but your boss. 

Aaron’s face was relaxed as he slept, a stark contrast to his crankiness during his first nap. Now he looked serene, happy even, as he leaned back against the back of the couch, his hand draped over your waist. You were sure that sleeping at that angle would prove difficult for him, so you slowly sat up, humming softly as he stirred.

“What…” He mumbled sleepily, squinting around at your apartment, “What time is it?”

“Really? That’s all I get?” You propped yourself with one arm, your hand pressed flat against his thigh, “You promised me a kiss, you know.”

His eyes widened, any leftover drowsiness instantly vanishing as he stared down at you.

“That is,” You started, uncertainty lacing your voice, “If you’re standing by your promise?”

“You want to?”

“I do.” You nodded, waiting eagerly as he blinked owlishly, his brain running at full speed.

“So do I.” Was all he said before he surged forwards, capturing your lips in a kiss. It was lazy, somewhat sloppy, and uncoordinated, but it was perfect, because it was with him. You hummed softly into the kiss, leaning forwards to rest your forehead against his own, bringing him closer to you. 

You broke away after a few moments, keeping it short and sweet instead of dragging it out. You weren’t opposed to going further, not when it was Aaron you were with, but you were still concussed, and eager to rest. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, your nose nestled against the heated skin of his neck as he sighed contentedly, one hand coming to rest on your back.

“I can’t believe you remembered.” He mused, his voice slightly raspy from sleep.

“How could I forget?”

“I wasn’t sure if you meant it.” He added, “You were pretty drugged up.”

“I meant it.” You spoke softly, “I’ve meant it for a long time.”

“I’m glad,” Aaron admitted, “Me too.”

The silent serenity of the moment capture you both, and you nearly fell asleep again nuzzled into his neck. But your stomach grumbled, once more letting you know that it was time to eat, and Aaron chuckled softly at the sound.

“Breakfast?”

‘Breakfast sounds perfect.”

You moved out of his lap, your heart fluttering as he took your hand, tugging you up onto your feet and guiding you into the kitchen. The pizza box from the night before was still sitting on the counter, as were the medical supplies, but he pushed them aside, making room for your toaster.

“Anything on it?” He questioned, pulling two pieces of bread out from your loaf.

“Just butter.” You hummed sleepily, pulling said spread out from the refrigerator. 

As soon as he emptied his hands, the slices of bread now toasting, you snuck up behind him, your arms winding around his waist. He stiffened in surprise, but melted at the embrace, turning so that your face was flush to his chest instead of his back.

“How’s your head?” He asked, punctuating his query by smoothing his hand over your scalp.

“It’s better,” You started, “Not completely, but the meds seem to be helping.

“That’s good.” He seemed to tense when you told him it wasn’t completely better, the popping of the toaster giving him an excuse to turn away.

“Aaron?” You pressed, standing beside him and watching him open the butter, “Is everything okay?”

“Your head still hurts.” He mentioned dismissively, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because your head still hurts.” He deadpanned, waiting for you to prompt him further. 

“Aaron,” You started, your voice hesitant, "You can't seriously blame yourself for that car accident." You raised an eyebrow at him, knowing the answer but wanting him to hear the words spoken aloud.

"I do." He had no trouble admitting it, avoiding your gaze as he buttered the slice of bread he'd just taken out of the toaster, "You knew he was going to swerve, you even told me."

"I guessed he was going to swerve," You reminded him, "I didn't know."

"Well I didn't listen, and he did, and he hit us, and now you have a concussion."

“Aaron, stop.” You set a hand over his, taking the knife from his grip and abandoning the toast he was doctoring, “Look at me.”

He followed your instructions, meeting your eyes hesitantly, hoping to not showcase the self-hatred swirling in his own.

“You had no possible way of verifying whether my guess was true or not. We were in the middle of a high-speed chase, what if you’d stopped to avoid a crash but he’d kept going? We would have lost him.”

“We did lose him.”

“But now he can’t hurt anyone anymore. He didn’t get away. If you’d stopped, he would have.”

“But your concussion-”

“Doesn’t matter to me. We got the guy, that’s what matters to me. I’m okay, I’m alive.” You gestured down your frame, as if showcasing your living, breathing body, “And you’re okay, you’re alive. Yeah, I’ve got a week-long headache in front of me, but it’s worth it to me to know that that guy is gone.”

“You got hurt, though. We got him, and I’m glad. I won’t deny that. But I can still be upset about you getting hurt.”

“So can I,” You agreed, “But don’t be mad at yourself. I’m not mad at you, why would you be?”

“I… I just-”

“You just have a habit of blaming yourself for things you had no control over. And I won’t let you do it now.”

You huffed lightly at the end of your sentence, and it seemed to bring him out of his hesitancy. He cracked a slight smile, “You won’t let me?”

“I won’t.” You doubled down, “You’re not allowed to.”

“Yes, sir.” He teased, turning back to the toast and laughing incredulously when you bumped your hips against his, sending him stumbling sideways as he was caught off-guard.

“You need better balance.” You grabbed the knife that had slipped from his hands as he’d stumbled, buttering your own toast while he stabilized himself, “That almost floored you.”

“I wasn’t ready for it.” He insisted, a hint of a whine slipping into his voice that you’d never heard before, “No fair.”

“Anything’s fair now,” You laughed, “I’m injured and you have to be nice to me.”

As soon as you were finished buttering your toast you plated it, slicing it in half up the middle. You headed for the living room, intent on turning the television on and eating with Aaron, but he took you by surprise, charging you from behind and wrapping one arm around your waist, the other taking your plate from your hands so that it didn’t fall.

You shrieked indignantly as you lost your balance, but his arms snaking around your waist stopped you from falling. He turned you around, and you heard his soft chuckles against your cheek as he scooped you into his arms, letting you wrap your legs around his waist. You stared down at him breathlessly, your mouth hanging slightly open in surprise.

“You need better balance,” He mocked you, “That almost floored you.”

“Aaron!” You repeated his earlier comment, a bashful laugh escaping your lips as he held you tightly against him, “No fair!”

His laugh, deep and loud and comforting, made happiness swell in your chest, not even dimming when he set you down. You grabbed your toast once more, hearing him pad after you until you got to the couch, sitting much closer to him than you’d elected to the previous night.

“I’m gonna tell Garcia that you terrorized me this weekend,” You mused, biting softly into the buttered toast with a crunch, then as an afterthought, “Oh my god, what are we gonna tell her? The team, they’re all gonna find out. What do we do?”

“Nothing for now.” Aaron reassured you, setting a hand on your thigh while you ate, a smile growing on his lips as he remembered fantasizing about doing just that the night before, “We don’t have to be their big scandal yet, for now, let’s just be us.”

tags: @sunflowermotel @wheelsupkels @honeybrowne @aaronhotchnersbbg07 @la-stuffs @jhiddles03 @criminalmindsandmarvel @anlin2058 @averyhotchner @ink-and-fables-4-u @curr3ntlycry1ng @simpingfortoomanypeople @toomanyfictionalboyfriends

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Mercifull - Maximus Decimus Meridius x (Fem)Reader

Gladiator (2000) Oneshot

Warnings: Confession of suicidal thoughts ( reader makes it and he talks her out of it), some age gap ( reader is young lady fan in age of looking for marriage).

Summary: The company of your favorite gladiator is the only bliss your father has been able to obtain for you since the rule of Commodus got you fearing for your lives.

Bought in clandestinity through the aborrecent mechanisms of roman corruption, your one moment to show Maximus thankfullness for the positive impact he had in you becomes your time to present him with a small part of the comfort fate has denied him through his endless sufferings.

Notes: First piece of Gladiator fic I ever written, inspired by the lovely @wildsaltair and an idea that wandered my mind post rewatch. Despite the grim topics in the warnings, I need to clarify it is mostly a comfort fluff

Maximus wasn't counting with more visits at night and the reminder of Lucilla's warnings regarding the depraved customs of wealthy ladies in Rome haunted him when he got the news. He would have yet to receive someone else, fault of his increasing popularity. It was matter of time untill fame would bring that sort of attention to him and he despised it. Forced to be in the presence of the buyer of instants from the misserable life he had yet to live, he would deny them of the one thing they really paid for. Frightening disdain could be enough to make a corrupt rich matron think twice before venturing.

Once he had you face to face, you confused him to no end debunking all previous assumptions. In his eyes you appeared like a portrait of innocence. A polite young lady that smiled for him with shy blush, not the attitude expected for a lascivous woman seeking satisfaction for her wicked desires from a gladiator. Nerves kept you awakardly silent as you advanced towards him and Maximus followed your every move with disconcerted curiosity.

Only after the guard allowed you some privacy, he finally got to hear your voice.

" It's a great honor, … to be in the presence of the most honorable champion … "

You suddenly interrupted yourself, giving him the impression of a previously practiced introductory speech falling due to excitement.

" … I brought you a humble present, just a honey cake. Self made, none of my slaves were involved. Unfortunately, the guards said we can't have it … What is a shame, because I thought something sweet would be comforting for your spirit. "

Adoration of the purest was all you were showing him. If he could have any doubts about what kind of woman you were, it was all confirmed for him.

For the first time since his life was ruined, something amused him enough to throw a few chuckles.

" You shouldn't be here. What would happen with your suitors if the rumour spreads that you frequent champions at night? "

The inmediate, correct implication showing he knew you couldn't be a married woman had slightly shamed you.

" Do you think that troubles me now? A lot has changed since Commodus crowned himself emperor. What used to concern me feels meaningless. Great damage has he inflicted in such brief time! Giving him a lifespan to rule, he will be the downfall of Rome. If the world our people have built may end, I can at least spend a small portion of my family's fortune for a meet with my favorite gladiator. "

Despite presented as sensical reasoning, your comment made him wary for motives that you couldn't possibly predict.

" Did Lucilla send you as last resort to soften my heart? "

You didn't feel called out in any way and replied with increasing honesty.

" I have no business with her, here I am on my own. My desperate father paid hoping our meeting could reanimate the walking corpse his beloved daughter has become. Your performance in the arena awakened her from the letharge and for once she resembled herself again. "

Unsure of what you meant, he tried to disuade you the best he could.

" He wasted it, I have nothing for you. Not even legendary words of comfort you may treasure for the rest of your life. If an infatuation with the shade of myself you saw brought you here, I'll have to warn you there is no life left in me to share. "

The dark warning had a contradictory effect. Probably because of the frustration caused by such terrible start of the encounter with your idol, some of your initial shyness was slowly dissipating.

" My two brothers gave their lives for Rome, only so Commodus would claim mine! " You admitted right away, controlling yourself to not indulge in reckless yelling. " I know, I saw it in his eyes when I had to swear loyalty to him out of fear. My father ... I am all he has left after sickness claimed my mother and war deprived us of my brothers. Commodus will come for me first. Sooner or later, he will. His wicked smile haunts my dreams turned into nightmares. Your company is the last wish of an innocent who fears herself already sentenced. Can't you not grant such small mercy? "

Maximus no longer could show himself detached from your pleads and your strange fascination became more understandable to him. Far from a superficial admiration, you were moved by his claims. Was that the sort of power Lucilla attributed him? Inspiring terrified people and awakening the conciences of those who remained numb of distractions? He was once a general, but it was not his place to be a revolutionary leader.

And yet, he couldn't help to feel intrigued about your story. He was not in the place to reach you any comfort, but could grant the mercy of listening to you. After all, yours was a moving image for him. Youthfull enough to make him suspect you could as well be a beloved daughter and someone else's fiancee. Innocent and kind, sweet and respectfull of a mere slave.

He relaxed his closed fists, then gave only a few steps closer to you to test if you weren't going to retrocede out of any possible fear of pyshical closeness.

" I am not a good companion, a balsam for desperation, but would like to know what made you expect to find that in me. "

You remained in your position, glance turning softer again before you looked at the ceiling as if you would be confessing yourself to both, him and the gods.

When your eyes were back on him you shrugged, making him smile from amusement.

" Everyday I see the masses supporting him I experience the powerlessness of Cassandra as the trojans cheer arround the wooden horse, because she knows the terrible secret it hides. All what's left for her being the repugnant hands of the lesser Ajax, Agamemnon and the axe of his wife. "

Revisiting the first impression he got of you, Maximus found the comparison fitting. Not because of the terrible fate it augured, but because the image of the beautifull princess cursed with awareness suited with your ways.

" Who am I in this? The priest of Neptune doomed to die for sharing your truth? "

He made you chuckle, but you resumed seriousness to insist with your point.

" You exposed the truth nobody wants to hear loud enough for them to stop ignoring it, and in that I found hope. Your ragefull bright could have burned the cursed artifact of Ulysses. Inspired by it I dreamt of outliving this curse falling upon us."

Your will to share was reaching dangerous territory, but you felt so comfortable with him that you didn't mind to make him the keeper of a secret not even your most trusted slaves knew.

" Before I found you, I was inclined to believe my only way to win would be following the path of the egyptian queen. Take my own life on noble, painless terms before he would command for me the most horrible and humilliating of deaths. My only hope, Maximus, was dying celibate. It was your vengefull hunger for survival what inspired me to think otherwise, ... to crave life. And I am here to show my grattitude, because for a brief instant you made me live again."

It baffled him, incapable of conceibing he could have such strong amount of influence from his position as a doomed entertainer. Aside from the scandall he caused revealing himself, his actions had palpable concencuencies in the most unexpected ways. His cursed existence had a meaning for some, a very real and touching effect on them. Thinking it from the perspective of political manipulation, the sister of the emperor forgot to mention it could reach beyond that.

" My life is brief, girl. I may die tomorrow and what would be left for you to look up to? Survive for your father, your loss would weight too heavy in his heart. Become the wife of a fortunate roman and make him proud. A family to look after will give you the purpose you lack. "

His advice induced you into a very obvious, but delicate conclussion.

" They are your purpose, the reason why you haven't given yourself death yet. Only in your memories they remain, and in the day you will perish, the last glimpse of their existence goes with you. "

Tears began to fall down your face and the sight contained his anger to a mention done by a stranger about his massacrated family. For as incredible as it was, you were the very first person willing to join his mourning.

"You are clever to interpret feelings in the way an augur follows divine signs. "

He managed to bring out one more smile in your still tearfull countenance.

" I suppose that saying I am sorry for your loss would come out as a very empty gesture, but if you indulge me, I will do better to reach you a humble expression of the comfort that was cruelly denied to you. "

The distance between you was shortened at every instant by action of your own approach. Before he would dare to object, your arms were trapping him in an intempestive hug. His chained wrists remained still in their position at the sides, restricted his movement by the ties and his suprise. Your sweet embrace was squeezing thight his firm form, head resting on his chest as if you intended to hear his heart beating.

He stayed there, numb to the comfort that the heat of your body and the scent of jasmines in your skin produced him. From the most ironical of places had someone succeded on the impossible task of caughting him out of guard. Not the fighters on the arena, or the emperor of Rome, but a sweet girl and her infinite kindness.

Unable to respond by receiving you in his arms, he placed a chaste kiss on top of your forehead as soon as you tilted your head up searching for his face.

There were no more tears left in you, only the sweetest delight.

" There are certain moments that can worth for a lifetime and I will treasure this as such. "

He smiled against your skin and pressed another peck.

" You will live again, even if I will not be there to see it. You are strong, way stronger than you think. The kindest roman that my new life has put on my way. "

The praise embarassed you and confused you simultaneously.

" What difference can that make against a monster like Commodus? He has no mercy."

" That doesn't mean he is not fond of finding it on others displaying it for him. " He clarified before completing another advice. " Adoration keeps him pleased. Show him just a brief glimpse of what you have done for me and you may disarm him, like you had disarmed me tonight."

Authentical disbelief to the implied confession made you overlook the rest.

" Have I done that? "

" Your arms are still rounding me. " Maximus reminded you with sweet amusement. " Do you think I would have allowed that if you wouldn't had awakened some sort of weakness? "

You released him a inmediately, raising up your hands with an innocent expression.

" I only meant to comfort you, to share the flame of hope you awakened in me. "

" And you did, … but now it's time for you to leave." He thankfully disencouraged you. " The more time you spend, more dangerous it becomes. If his spies haven't followed you, rumours could lead to a similar end. I want you to never show fright in front of him again, but you will if he finds a reason."

The reminder was sensical and you didn't protest against it.

" Thank you for your mercy, Maximus. "

In that he intepreted your acknowledgedment for the emotional closeness you both had reached through the encounter.

" I could only respond to your mercifull ways, good lady. "

This one is majestic 💖💖🤤🤤 Thanks @rivierasunsetdiner

From 2 to 3 (hotch x fem!reader)

Sequel to The Only Heartbreaker Find snippet here

Summary: Hotch has a steady grip on his life. All measured and predictable. Then one morning in the cold, frigid air of the Alaskan landscape, daylight pours in through the opened windows of his hotel room. His eyes still shut, the sunrays warm up his face despite the lilac breeze. He finds himself with a bedmate but cannot recall the night before. (Also:) After a bad case that leaves you wounded, Hotch and you are scared to cross into 'otherness'.

Tags: daddy issues package, angst w happy ending, angst and fluff, pining, comfort, pushing the agenda that hotch is an acts of service kinda guy, age gap, yearning, longing, hurt/ comfort, protective hotch, soft hotch, the great alaskian landscape for some reason, and summer as a motif, ONE BED trope, a lot of dialogue ngl

notes: no tw! hey all - not really a comeback when idk what THIS is but i been listenin to a lot of peach pit and mitski *once this was named Heat Lightning - and it's all fluff and HOTCH pov, after the events of the only heartbreaker. Some flashbacks. some longing. Some utter nonsense of dialogue tbh sry for grammar errors if any! and sry if this incoherent lmaooo <3 ALSO love being surrounded by friends and a community of creators whose work i love sm - and who in turn inspires me to create. sth i didnt think i had it in me anymore lol but ! lemme know if this work was anything

WC: 7k approx

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Hotch has a firm grip on the events in his life. He is a father; was a fair husband until he wasn’t, and he is a regular at all the establishments he frequents: grocery store, coffee shop, bakery, butcher's, farmer’s market; and he has a strict regiment for exercise and pastimes. All to counteract the unpredictability of his work. It didn’t start this way. Naturally, his position came later and then his attitude: sort of a chicken and an egg situation. Except, people who’ve known him longer than the job – which coincidentally happens to be in a disproportionate ratio to those who know him because of it – would argue that he’s always been like this.

A firm, steady hold on his life. In control.

His work seems to test him on that every single day without fail. If it’s not a murder case, or a kidnapping, then it’s a bomb threat – New York still not the same for him but he’s managed to take a hold on the inevitable, unconscious reactions of his body to the city’s name, after some laborious practice. If it’s not that either, then it is an event that leaves one of his agents seriously harmed in the middle of the day.

Strauss casually reminds him of the last one some days, like she means to make sure he’s not as damaged as one should be after everything he's already endured.

And yet, he’s doing okay. If he were the type to do so, he’d wave a hand in the air dismissing it all: firm, strong grip, of course.

Then one morning in the cold, frigid air of the Alaskan landscape, daylight pours in through the opened windows of his hotel room. His eyes still shut, the sunrays warm up his face despite the breeze bringing in chilled air.

He stirs, something tickling his nose. He huffs out, wanting to blow away whatever irritation that is. It drifts away, settling stubbornly on his chin this time. Refusing to wake up just yet, he decides to move it away but his arms are occupied. His body cocooned under the pile of blanket and duvet, weighed down by a bed-mate, hands firm around the stranger.

No wonder he’s not freezing, he realizes, glancing down in surprise. A handful of naked thigh muscle over one of his legs keeps him locked in, and his other hand is settled precariously close to a chest.

She is sprawled atop him, gently snoozing into the crook of his neck. His eyebrows shoot up, and he tries – and fails – to remember how he’s ended up here. How she did.

He must have gotten uncharacteristically drunk last night. All he remembers is spending the late hours with the team, some jokes from Rossi and Garcia over who in their gracious mind would return to this state due to the temperatures. He must have picked up someone at the bar they were in. It wasn’t anything spacious like in big cities, but a new face could have been exciting for some. It isn’t customary to drink either. Too many issues over dehydration, and how alcohol isn’t factually a good alternative to the cold, and ultimately a prevention for alcoholism as there are no nearby addiction treatment facilities (– he remembers the speech from Reid, but not the woman in his bed?) but there had been booze on their table last night.

Albeit not plenty...

Hotch refocuses. He must have made a move on someone. Or the opposite, most likely. Though he’s done little of any of this in recent months. Quite a long while, if he has to measure it . Not since you started out teasing him with small innocuous innuendos, tying up his libido in knots.

He frowns at the top of his bed partner’s hair, beautiful and shining, but he doesn’t remember anything. Your hair is the same color and length, he thinks uneasily. Maybe that’s why the woman in his arms had his attention last night. He reluctantly releases her… waist , and reaches to brush her hair away from his face. It smells like that first bite of a summer fruit; like the air sticky sweet with anticipation of the season; like it could be the last thing he tastes and takes in for the entirety of his life. Something uncomfortably familiar to it he cannot name.

He reaches down and gently lifts her hand where it rests over his torso. Intent on studying it almost clinically but finds at once he doesn’t need to. Not when slender, long fingers, palm calloused in the same spots his weathered ones are – from carrying guns and handcuffs – shed light to the identity of his bed partner. Partner , he corrects. Just work partner. A noise startles out of him. It rises a groan out of her, that even though he should be restricting causes something else in his body to stir awake.

“Chilly”, she rasps, and lifts her face to look at him through blurry eyes. He knows those eyes, though they’re calculative and sharp, teasing too when they’re directed at him. He knows those delicate features of her face too.

You.

You both stare.

The moment stretches. Limbs become aware. Bare skin prickles with a million buzzing needles wherever skin is in contact. Fuck, he breathes out as evenly as possible, he doesn’t remember a time where he’s felt so much all at once. The open window is reprieve to the perspiration appearing at his temples and neck.

And then it isn’t a relief anymore when a hammering from outside barges rudely inside, shattering the silence. You yelp, and he sucks in a sharp breath, both drawing even closer in confusion.

Hotch slides his hand from the heat of your thigh to your back, cradling your body against his. You both wait, ears perked up and high alert.

The hammering continues rhythmically, before turning into a splintering sound, echoing outside. People huff and puff and it starts up again. He relaxes, the noise becoming un-dangerous to your safety.

“Someone’s chopping wood”, you offer meeting his eyes. The sudden movement has made the blanket slip from your shoulder, baring it to the room. “Cold”, you murmur again.

A shiver courses through you and a fierce, protective feeling in him makes him forget all the million questions in his mind. He’s quick to pull the blanket over you. He even has the reflex to look around the room for something warmer. The surest way is to climb out of bed, and shut the window – he’s fortunate to find he has pajama bottoms on. The outside finally kept out, he strides to the hearth of the room and lights up the fireplace.

It doesn’t take long for the space to fill with warmth, and for it, a strange sense of pride settles in. Like he’s procuring for the basics – like the first men to discover caves and fire and the length they’ll go to sacrifice for the protection of a loved one. Take his health of mind for instance. He has to try to grasp how you’ll react, already prepared to lie and conform to whatever you decide on this .

“Thanks”, your voice is a mere whisper, and he stops thinking. With the small size of the hotel and the limited number of rooms, he hadn’t expected them to be comfortable and cozy. His bed is large, larger than the one he has at home, so the sight of you right in the middle, hair splayed over the pillow he’d slept on these last few days, and hugging  the sheets to your chest…

Hotch has the oddest feeling of… he doesn’t know how to describe it. 

Your cheeks look puffy, colored with warmth, and hair messy almost like ran through gentle fingers. Something blooms in his chest. He’s never felt anything like it. But he recognizes it is laced with something eerily similar to relief.

You clear your throat, and he reaches for the pitcher of water over the table. He pours a glass for you and then downs one himself. He toes on the complementary slippers and glances around. The window had been left open and the dozen of blankets say the opposite – though he knows he runs hot after drinking. His collared shirt and suit jacket are haphazardly thrown over a chair, his shoes by the door. Yours too, though there is a clear trail of your garments littering the floor, leading from the door to his bed, discarded as if in a hurry to more relevant things. A wave of heat crawls up his spine and he casts his eyes to the opposite side of the room.

How can he not recall? It hardly seems…fair.

Hotch turns back to look at you, the surprise on your face not hiding your own study of the room.

“What happened last night?”, he simply asks.

You draw in a shaky breath. “Do you not remember either?”

He walks to your side of the bed, sits beside you and offers the glass.

The proximity doesn’t make you as jumpy as before, though it’s the first time he’s the one making the distance between you two. Whether out on a case, or back at the office – wherever and whenever, as if it was a second nature to you – he is the one relying on you making the first move and approaching him. It had been almost funny the first few times it happened. You’d just been hired as a replacement for JJ – another kid on the way right after her second – but instead of attempting to make friends with the group you’d bantered with him.

Out of everyone.

“ You’d think this would be easy, no?”, you’d muttered under your breath, right in front of the police captain in Ohio – or had it been Oklahoma? – and your face so serious and professional Hotch had thought he’d imagined the words. Dead in his tracks, he’d stopped to peer down at you by his right.

It had been mid-June. The exhaustion of a humid day spent over casefiles weighing Hotch’s soul – almost like the first heat spike right after spring. Heavy. Draining. And more to go. Dressed to the nines in a suit like you’re the unit chief, you’d show up at the office on your first day a bit over-eager to start. Hair away from your face. But the top of your nose and cheeks are a different tint of color, sunburnt though he knows the unit you transferred from allows vacation days as much as the BAU. Not even a hint of a polite smile when you’d shaken his hand. Neat, polished, tidy – Hotch had thought: There’s an agent who knows how to be professional.

In Ohio or Oklahoma – you'd angled your body a bit like a bodyguard towards him. A certain stance you never seemed to drop, as familiar to him as if you’d always been there. Funny how that seemed to happen too. Shorter than Hotch, smaller in stature, but as feral as you’d been having a stare off with a criminal. Funnily protective.

“Excuse me?” Hotch had cleared his throat.

“Cops?”, you’d said in a serious tone, “you give them a donut and coffee and surely that means the work is done?”

His gaze had followed yours to where other police officers were gathered, with boxes of take out and pasty shops had been discarded over a meeting room table. As if the BAU and Hotch personally hadn’t requested files necessary for the case they were there to help with.

A kid caught for misbehavior, Hotch had looked up in shock but the police captain had no ears for your jokes – not that he had any during the whole speech he had given him over not antagonizing victims. Victims, for god’s sake. You’d scoffed that out too. (Hotch remembers).

“What?”

You’d rolled your eyes. An uptick of your lips and the smallest scrunch of your nose. “I’m just messing around.” He had nodded, flabbergasted, but had paused when he’d seen you pull out something from your pocket.

“Figs”, he’d stared down at your hands clasped together. Carefully wrapped in towels, you offer him fresh figs which you'd untucked individually before handing one to him. The interviews you’d both done this morning in a white suburb had brought you through gardens and parks and playgrounds. Wives and mothers had gravitated to you first, like in any case as this one. Accommodating you especially with teas and lemonades and fresh fruits.

“I usually eat them whole”, your knuckles had covered the bounty, hiding it away from the captains and the precinct. Voice a whisper, you had leaned in, your elbow brushing against his.

He had a white collared shirt on, sleeves rolled up, while you had long shed the suit jacket in favor of commodities. “But you peel like this”, thumbs together you had teared at the unblemished skin of the savory fruit. It had pulled apart, thin and flimsy as you explained how the color of it signified an early season picking. Then once satisfied, and with fingers stained, you had popped the whole thing in your mouth. The grin that had followed was mischievous, but it was accompanied with a slight crease of your brows.

“Not ripe”, you had given your verdict, “but I was dying to try them out. Now, I know and I’ll be back to buy them once they’re ready”

His own fig had come apart in his hands, but he scooped it all up and chewed quickly. It had been years – an eternity even – since the last time he had been this keen and appeased by stolen fruits. Sweeter than he remembered, more so than what yours must have been.

The third fig you had eaten raw. A quick flicker of your brows up and wide, daring him to say something in reaction as you swallowed. Then you scrubbed your hands clean with the towels before resuming your previous position. Seriousness and professionalism once more, and the captain had re-approached like nothing’s occurred. No testimonies or evidence as you hid your tracks too.

“You’ve got a little something there”, you had pointed with the tip of your pinkie at your cupid’s brow, not looking back at Hotch. He had gotten the cue a bit late, but then followed - swiping at the same spot on his mouth, without realizing his gaze intent on yours. The clear sticky substance had been scrubbed off just in time.

Then a split second before the captain opened his mouth, your last words had swooped in like a heatwave.

“Not a lipstick stain and unfortunately harder to explain” The consequences it left seemed to remain for long, not bound by the weather. He paid half a mind to your following statement.

“ – Captain! Shall we insist again on how not trivial it is not to dismiss the statements of the civilians...”

The glass of water still full to the brim doesn’t spill over even with his hasty movements.

He swallows thick before asking, “Did we…?”

You take the glass from him, tilting it and refusing to respond – your face going beet-red. Hotch smothers a smile. Water slips from the side of your mouth and he fists his hands, the inanest, strangest desire to clean it up with a thumb resurfacing.  You slam the glass to the bedside table with purpose and swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand.

“No”, you let out, breaths irregular, but voice not as raspy as before. As you settle into a proper sitting position, the sheet drop to your collarbones, held by your arms.

He's mesmerized by the movement, like he hadn't experienced the same privileges as that sheet moments before.

“I think I’d remember”, you shrug.

No, he almost corrects aloud, he’d remember and never permit himself to forget.

He stands abruptly, feeling parched. Fills another two glasses with the jug of water and looks down at the quarter zip you’d donned the night before, now lying at the foot of his bed.

“I don’t remember a thing”, he admits, frowning at the garment.

“Last thing I recall,” you glance back at the door, “Was Derek pulling out that bottle of absinthe in his room.”

Hotch winces. That seems to be his last memory too, even though he’d given the other man a look of disapproval.

“We each drank some but Reid started on his monologue again and we ended up playing cards”, you raise your eyebrows and he nods, understanding that the bottle had been then forgotten for the game. Yet after 3 sleepless nights chasing a lead from the Cyber Unit, they’d all felt restless, tired, and drunk without drinking. Exhaustions of the likes he hadn’t experienced since law school.

He would have been used to the feeling but now finds himself out of his depth.

Just as fiercely as you’d broached the subject, you look away from him, and move again. He recognizes the look on your face. Something of a realization, he notes.

“I, uh,” your voice is a timid whisper, “My leg doesn’t ache”

Hotch blinks. “What?”

“Extreme temperatures make my bullet wound ache”, you reach for a hair tie by the bedside table. It’s mingled with his personal belongings: his wristwatch, a pen and notebook he keeps when he cannot sleep because of late night work observations he writes down, and the silver cuffs of his button-downs. With two steady hands you gather all your hair away from your face and into a tight ponytail. “My surgeon said I would always be a little sensitive and I usually take numbing pills”

Something akin to regret ignites in his chest. The day he’d beheld you bleeding out, gunshot wound to your leg, had been the longest day of his life. That was nothing to wait in the hospital.

He’s unconsciously moved closer, clearing the distance once again. Any shame he’d felt over the situation you’ve both found yourselves in dissipates.

The back-to-back cases surely have not helped. They’d gone from Florida, hot and humid and unbearably long summer nights, to a case in Alaska. Case after case like usual, but then he’d asked the team if they’d rather take a few days off – all unanimously agreed they’d rather hop to the other flight.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?”, he stops himself from offering comfort, your leg propped up under the covers. He belatedly recognizes it had been the same one holding him down while sleeping, as if both your bodies remembered the transaction of comfort – offering and seeking it – without preamble.

You wince, “It’s my responsibility. I don’t want to be an influence on the decision-making of the team.” Yet you still seek to bring levity. “Wouldn’t want to sway the vote. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest when you would have held me to different standards, boss ”

“I already do”, he confesses softly, and watches with satisfaction as the words brighten up your face, the same way it makes you shy away. Yet as much as he’d prefer to make you see the truth, clear as the snow outside, he redirects.

“I’d rather you’d told me. We might have been better off another night in Florida”

“In that motel room?” you echo, brows up, “Are you kidding me? I slept with moths and mosquitoes in my room. I’ll let you know I didn’t impact that building’s electricity bill at all. I shouldn’t have even paid since the showers were inhumanely hot too.”

Surely that had been the deciding factor for all of them to want to leave Florida at once in favor of Alaska.

“I didn’t even sleep well”, you say under your breath, and cross your arms before you, frowning. “If anything I would have left Florida even if you’d said the case was in Antarctica”

He watches with amusement as you finally meet his eyes. Once unable to do so, after the place you’d both found yourselves in, your gaze is challenging again. Teasing.

“Are you telling me you had a better time in Florida?”

“It was fine”, he says, not admitting to anything.

You sigh, no smile yet so he continues.

“It was humid but we did have air conditioning—”

“Yes,” you murmur talking over him, “one in 3 rooms had it and my room wasn’t the lucky one.”

Hotch goes on, unaffected, “-- and Derek bought those tablets for insects to install in the room. If you’d only plugged one in a socket…”

You lean forward, to be heard though your voice doesn’t raise in volume, “The rechargeable night light which doubled as a pesticide? Which smelled like chemicals and expired?”

“And even the quality of the motel wasn’t up to perfect standards the restaurant nearby was satisfactory,” He has to stifle the smile that wants to escape. You fully sit up this time, the tiniest wince shadowing your face as you switch into sitting cross-legged and move even closer, arms falling away at your sides.

“ You mean the restaurant which was open from 11am until 3pm and then only two hours at dinner time? The only restaurant open for miles in that location?”

“The food was good – great even.” Hotch insists, “ Someone even called it a contender for Michelin stars”

Your right hand curled into a fist lands on top of his knee. “Why did you have to remember that? I mentioned it once. In passing.”

One of his brows shoots up, but he doesn’t smile just yet. It would be admitting defeat – your positions switched whenever you both argue over something.

Your smile, on the contrary, is tentative. Triumphant even, the minute he notices a memory flash in your head.

“Remember the second night?” He halts as you speak, and in retrospect that is a mistake. Finally all attention is on you. “When you suggested we order take out from there?”

How could he not remember when he had gotten the urge, for the first time in his life, to walk back to the establishment and demand his dinner – which had arrived in the little boxes all scattered and pressed as if someone had sat on them before the delivery driver had handed them out to Derek. He’d even considered Yelp and one-star reviews. The sudden burst of anger was so cataclysmic that of course, you’d notice first.

It had been you who’d marched back to the building and said no more than a few impolite words. You’d both agreed to pretend like Hotch hadn’t joined in halfway into that speech.

“Don’t”, he warns, “Don’t bring it up”

Your attempt at appearing formal falls short, immediately, because your hair comes apart from the strict do. Wild strands frame the sides of your neck and cheeks, and that same sunburnt look graces your face.

“But I will,” you argue, your fist bumping three times over his knee to punctuate your words, “Nothing to complain – my butt.” An indignant scoff, “ You wanted to flee Florida faster than the rest of us. If you hadn’t been already around us, having that phone call, I’m certain you would have called the pilot first to give commands to Alaska.”

The sheet and the duvet and any semblance of a cover have been forgotten. They never even cross your mind as you’re in a full-blown out winning argument – gesticulating with arms and body.

“I know with goddamned certainty you would have walked into the cockpit and turned that plane around if we had been mid-flight too.”

“I’m not a pilot”, he offers, his one-track mind diverted. Your shoulders are bare to the air. Thin straps pool at the sides, right next to the sheet at your biceps . Bare, he realizes, his mouth dry. Unlike him clad in pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt, you seem to be the opposite. A fire tendril reminds him of the state of your leg too – his palm had been wrapped up comfortably over bare thigh not as if he’d urged the position but had found comfort in discovering it there. Had made sure it didn’t move back.

“I’m not so certain that is the truth.” You spearhead the argument, unencumbered. “That there might even be a field you know nothing of – seems impossible to me.”

The last trail of decency perspires with his sanity of mind – the cover slipping further below your collarbones.

Hotch calls your name with gentle urgency, and tears his eyes away from yours at once.

Not before he notices the heat spreading across the unblemished skin. Neck and top of your chest – apparently they get sunburned too.

“Oh,” your breath is a shiver. He feels it from the head of his hair to the tip of his toes. “Sorry”

Your knuckles stay over his leg, while the other pulls up the sheet. He feels your eyes on him still, and the tension that fills the air is unlike the one before. Awkward and stifling.

His voice sounds foreign in the room. “Are you…”

“No”, you let out at once, “I have shorts on and well… a stupid goddamn tank top.” You tuck back up the thin straps, frustrated and breathing heavy.

“God, I’m sorry again”

He turns sensing something else in your voice: hurt.

“Nothing to be sorry about”, he reassures, “nothing at all”

“Easy to say,” you mumble, “when you’re the one in decent clothing.”

“You are too”, he says with some fight, not allowing you to reprimand yourself.

“Come on,” you murmur, staring at your hand over his leg, “We haven’t even gone swimming together. Not sure anyone is meant to see this much from a coworker before.” Your tone of voice chokes him up, “Thought bleeding out and clothes teared at the back of an ambulance was going to be the height of it.”

A reflex as normal as breathing, Hotch reaches for your hand, clasps it over his knee. He must be the only one who feels the jolt of the touch. Pushes through it because he won’t ever let you spiral into the dark motions of insecurity and shame.

You’d had this discussion more times than a few. A wound as the one you’d bared was no easy feat. Not only did it impact your job for months, having you stationed in the office and out of the field. It has done a number on your self esteem too. The health counselor had helped you come to terms with associating the value you bring at work with the one you hold within yourself.

Hotch had been unaware of the fight going inside you at the time. Some of the frustration had been angled towards him too, being the unit chief and the one commanding your stay-in. That was, until one late night Friday, he'd ordered you to stay seated after everyone had left, and he’d come clean about New York.

Hotch had never brought up New York in the months and years that followed. Not even to the people that had saved his life: Derek and Penelope. The ones who’d seen him bleed and scream, shrapnel on his skin after the SUV he was supposed to get in with Kate had exploded before the two of them.

He wasn’t sure Penelope even knew how long he’d clung unto Kate’s hands, after. Derek had because he’d been the one to pull him up, firm hands under his elbows.

Hotch watches the emotions on your face play out with the story unraveling.

He would have liked to lie until death if possible, never wanting to bear having you see him as anything else but frail and vulnerable. But that hadn’t seemed to help you and he was at wit’s end. Dark undereye circles and similar body exhaustion – Hotch had been feeling the consequence of you pulling away from his companionship.

“I don’t know what to say”, you conclude after minutes in silence. The air conditioning in the building had been shut off; the entire office was dull.

Hotch stares down at his empty hands, the memory of holding you in them long vanquished.

“There is nothing to say”, he inhales deeply, “I was reminded of it because Strauss requested I attend a conference in NYC next month.”

“Shit,” you shake your head, your hands over the table slightly trembling. “I can’t stand her”

Hotch smiles.

“Can’t someone else go? Can’t you miss it?”

He shrugs. “It wouldn’t serve me any good in the long term.” He leans over the table, his voice conspiratorial, “It’s a large piece of land with five boroughs – the jet would have to land there sometime.”

“Right,” you nod. He stands up before he feels compelled to confess other vulnerabilities. You do the same, both mutually agreeing not to bring it up.

He'd thought for sure that had been in it but a month later, inside the elevator, you’d broached the topic.

“Are you meant to head out alone?”

His gaze pans to yours.

“To New York?”

“No”, he replies.

You nod, staring at the doors, before turning to him to ask, “You leave on the 11 th ?”

“Yes”

“Count me in, then. I’ll bring my paperwork with me.”

Surprise and a tinge of something else but he hadn’t argued back.

Months later, you’d willingly knocked on the bedroom door out in another state, everyone getting ready to pack and leave after the case had been solved successfully.

Your second one back in the fieldwork. Surprisingly for him, you’d followed all his orders to not strain yourself. Closer to Rossi and Reid, helping with their work in different precincts. Conducting interviews and examinations, and around more people than precedent.

“I don’t know how to act like before”, you lean back against his door frame, voice a muddled whisper, rivaling the noise of the heater he’s yet to turn off. The air is stale inside the bedroom. Dusty furniture and nothing remarkable apart from the fact he’s the one occupying it.

He finishes zipping up his go-bag, throws it further over the made bed but doesn’t turn around; overly familiar with the hardship of opening up to someone while looking into their eyes.

“I don’t think I used to be careless or freer before- before the shooting”, a soft, subdued bump, your body slumped against the door, eyes almost closed. “I didn’t think there would be anything different about me – people get shot all the time in our line of work but I am different.”

At the silence, Hotch turns to sit down at the corner, elbows over his thighs. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling different.”

“That’s just it, right? It could have been worse…should have been. I know how lucky I am.” The hurt in your gaze is not hidden. “That’s why I feel so stupid to say this now—” a gulp, “I’m acutely aware of my leg”

Hotch pauses. “Aware?”

He meets your gaze though he doesn’t find amusement there, only the echo of regret, guilt and sorrow.

“It’s as if everywhere I go or what-whatever I wear, my leg has been painted red and everyone can see it. As if I’m carrying with me a marker that tells everyone how much I was hurt or that I’m not the same”

You cross the floor of his bedroom and perch on the other corner of the bed, leaving the door wide open.

“Physical therapy helped with being back on the field and retrieving my stamina. Then again…”

You mimic his position, and look down at your feet - at the phantom of the bullet wound on your thigh. Hotch hadn’t left your side in the hospital. He hadn’t dared to when he’d never felt fright like the one that day. He hadn’t reeled it in either. Long stays by your bed after recovery, talks with the nurses and doctors, and when you weren’t on painkillers or somber – you’d both act like him holding your hand in his, chatting about easy things was normal.

The wound had brought you closer for a few weeks, until therapy began, and until he made it clear you were not to return to work for some time  Until the reminder that he is your boss froze the progress made.

Anger and frustration built and it eased up only after the talk on New York.

Still. None of you dare touch the other. Funny that, Hotch thinks, staring back at his hands. He’s come to terms that he might have just pictured it all in his head.

“I’m doing good mentally”, you say convincingly, hands moving as you gesture. “There are no more nightmares or panic attacks. I’m good in that respect.”

“If anything I feel more regulated now, with the tools I have on how to deal with a bad case or another bad scenario. I just…”

“Just?” He pushes a little.

You push your hands through your hair, remaking a ponytail and then giving up, fingers unsteady. “I feel hideous.”

The turn to watch him is so quick, Hotch equates it to the same reflexes out in the field. As if he would laugh or be insensitive to your feelings.

“I can’t look at myself in the mirror”, you swallow thickly, “For god’s sake I can’t wear dresses anymore”

You disguise the tremble in your voice with a laugh. “I know it’s stupid in the grand scheme of things. You can say so. It’s all in my head.”

You slap your hands over your knees and stand. “Well. Thanks for hearing me out. It’s not New York 2.0 at least.”

“Wait—"

All those hesitations that had frozen Hotch into place fall away. You stare at his hand clasped around your wrist, pleading with you not to leave. Another minutiae reflex.

 “Hotch, I’m fine”, the words in your mouth wobble and face to face he finally notes the tears gathered in your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me what you’re going through,” he rushes out first, “However unimportant you think it is, I always, always value what you share.”

You bite your lip, frowning so not to cry. His hand traces back to hold yours steadily, his thumb making soft circles over your knuckles.

“You went through something traumatic.” Fuck, he did too, that day. “Give yourself some time”

You sigh, your shoulders slumping further. “Sure, Hotch. Time is all I have as a medicine lately.”

Your fingers squeeze his before tugging you tug your hand away. You give him a weak smile. “I hope it fixes my self esteem too eventually, when I think nobody finds me attractive anymore--”

“But you are.” Hotch stands abruptly, and he doesn’t think before he blurts. “You’re a beautiful woman”

The stance you’re both in – close but not too much, a stand-down but not technically one, both of you frowning and looking almost angry at one another – might appear to an outsider as if you’re both arguing. Even in the back of the ambulance, you’d fought all the way.

“Hotch…”, your voice is a warning, and you’re about to roll your eyes – he can tell. “Honestly, this is all…nice, but I wasn’t looking for fake compliments”

You grimace when he doubles down. “Fake?” he sputters. “Fake? You think I’d lie about this?”

“Come on…”

“I don’t let out vacuous words.”

“Yes, when you’re on the job or whatever but I’d rather you not give me empty flattery…”

“I am being honest”

“I doubt it’s the same as when you pointed out Spencer’s awful new haircut…”

“I mean it”

Your reaction – a scoff and a glower – makes him fight harder. The anger climbing up his bloodstream is inane. It makes his entire body overheat.

“How about you tell me?” He pulls you in swiftly, a quick gasp parting your mouth open. His intense eyes meet yours – narrowing. The tears in yours dry out as you gaze up at him. “Tell me if I’m being dishonest with you: you’re the single most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life”

Those eyes of yours – the color sometimes sprouting up in his dreams when he couldn’t sleep – meet his mouth for a fraction of a second before darting away. Blush dusts your cheeks and your legs wobble.

His heart does the strangest thing: starting up a new hurried rhythm.

“So? What’s the verdict?”

You clear your throat and straighten, extracting your hand from his grip. “Truth”

You put a step between each other. “Thank you”, you mumble, “but you don’t have to do that”

The fire from the fight – or maybe your presence - had ignited in him still but he wants it to die down quicker than this. “What was the solution, angel? Let you doubt yourself?”

 Even regret, he’ll battle if he has to, though his own is more due to his poor memory.

“I don’t mind at all, angel,” he says softly. Sweet as you look right now, he feels weak to his bones. Thus he bites his tongue, omitting just how beautiful he finds you right now.

“Good,” you reply, blushing “good then… I’m, uh, glad. I’m relieved I have these on when I usually sleep with far less.”

Another tear in his heart.

“I was going to bet you slept in a full suit,” you mock with a smile, “Penelope and Spencer have theories, though his were that it was more of a nightdress and night cap situation – Disney’s Scrooge rendition.”

A chuckle escapes him. “No hats.”

“Your best pal, Dave, isn’t helping the allegations either. The things he’s said behind your back…” None of you notice the gravitational pull, both your arms now resting over his legs.

He laughs at the giddiness on your face. “Would I want to know?”

“He’s mentioned a silk suit once or twice”, you shrug, laughing, “so it doesn’t wrinkle during sleep. Smart, but unrealistic”

“Sure.” He smiles back, “Not as much as a hat you wear to bed”

“I denied that theory too”

“Good to know”, he gives your hand a small squeeze; your other clutching loosely the hem of his shirt, distracted by its softness, “I wouldn’t want people thinking that of me.”

“I’m protecting your honor if anything”, you continue, enjoying the tangent this conversation has taken. He’s too taken by the shine of your eyes to care. Too caught on your every word. “I had something to say against the suit as well. Penelope didn’t consider the summer.”

“Ah,” he shakes his head, all serious, “what a mistake”

“Not breathable with all those layers…”

“What was your theory?”, Hotch has both of his hands softly wrapped around yours, massaging the muscle of your forearm. He’s convinced himself not to linger on the goosebumps pebbling your skin. It could be a result of the fireplace, or the temperatures.

Your teeth latch onto the softness of your lower lip. “It wasn’t anything too crazy like Derek joked about…”

One of his brows goes up in question.

“Birthday suit”, you respond with a stifled laugh. “I simply said you’d probably prefer comfort. Boxers and a soft tee.”

The words are hushed, intimate.

Your fingers toy with his shirt, “Though I would have preferred a white one.”

His mind is hazy and slow. “Preferred?” He blinks.

“Not that this one isn’t…good”, your breath fans his chin, and looking up at him, you say, “White would make you soft… gentle. Opposite of what you appear on the outside but how you truly are from within.”

He lets his eyes fall shut. He hurries for something wise to say, the ground beneath him having tilted. “I do choose comfort above all else”

“I know”, your fingertips sneak underneath his shirt and the first touch makes his whole body tense up, though your hand stops there. The muscles of his stomach ripple. “You’re burning”

His large palms engulf your arms, rubbing up and down slowly. The tremble of your breath is hot against his jaw, your mouth near.

“As warm as the fireplace”, you let out a laugh, though you don’t move away from the breadth of his body. Hotch watches in fascination the shiver taking over yours.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“Mhmm”, you shake your head. A strand of your hair tickles his chin. He watches your eyelids flutter shut and the moments remain suspended.

God, how he wishes he’d bottle up this feeling every single time it occurs . A piece of him lives in each of them too, every time they happen.

The first time he’d felt time pause, and resume trickling slowly had been when you’d both shared a dinner together. Nothing peculiar over that night. Not the food, nor the location. Not even the city the BAU had been stranded in for a case. Nothing except for the company. You, sitting on a barstool, elbows perched over the marble ordering greasy food, still in work clothes, neat and polished, but your hair loose over your shoulders.

“I’m not mad about it”, you speak softly, pulling him back to this present moment. You tilt your head to look up at him, “When I realized…”

He nods, a massive boulder of a weight loosening from over his chest.

“I was conflicted –” you swallow, “embarrassed too”

He encourages you to continue with comforting touches, gentle patterns on your arms formed by his thumbs.

“I was thinking, what if you kick me out of bed? And I think I’d have relived the shootout again instead.”

He shakes his head, “Never. I would never have”

“I know—”

A breath rushes out of him when your hand splays over his stomach, having dared to reach fully under his shirt. You’ve always been more courageous than him, he thinks. In another life he would have already crashed the distance. Pulled you into his arms and tasted your mouth.

“I think I’m… Happy.”

Your eyes full of emotion do it for him. Something compels him, a deeper pull than anything he’s ever experienced.

That’s when the knock on the door resounds.

You both retreat with a smile. You untangle your legs from him, shifting away from his lap.

“It’s okay you can get it”, you say, “but let’s not go back like nothing happened once you do”

Hotch brushes a kiss on the top of your head. On your temple. On the apple of your cheek before standing up. “I’d die if I did, angel.”

Turns out behind the door awaits none other than hotel room service – something Hotch didn’t know was provided in this tiny establishment. He takes the trays and lines them on the table. Waffles and eggs and fruits, together with freshly brewed and hot coffee. The concierge tells him it had been prepaid by Hotch himself, the night before, though ordered for past midnight with a message he’d left on the phone.

“Wow,” you let out, “That’s a lot of food”

He hands you a coffee and sits down at the foot of the bed.

“I know.”

“Maybe we are smarter while drunk”, you say overjoyed, taking a plate of waffles.

He settles with the plate with eggs and bacon. “I wonder how wise we are when we can’t remember everything…”

The memory of the night before would return. 

Hours later. Long after you’re both sated with food and the company. Again in bed, but this time sober and fully aware of how you curl around Hotch’s body, and how he tucks you against him.

Another few hours of sleep, until both minds and bodies were fully rested. Followed swiftly with fevered grasps. Kisses that were bound to happen at last.

“Absinthe” you laugh, pointing at Hotch like he hadn’t been in the same room where Derek had pulled out a full bottle of alcohol out of thin air like a magician.

“Are you going to penalize him over it? Will it impact his annual agent evaluation?”

Your laughter is loud enough to wake up the entire hotel – the entire small city. His jaw hurts from grinning all night. Hotch grabs your hand in his once he notices how unsteady your feet are as you walk down the hallway.

You wrap your other arm around his, “Are you going to, Aaron?”

“I wouldn’t”, he smiles down at you. He’s lightheaded but not drunk on the one glass he had.

“I feel unsteady.”

“How much did you drink?"

You happily sigh, leaning fully into his side, cheek against his bicep. “I don't know. I must be drunk. I’m taking pills so it probably messed me up.”

“What do you feel?”

“I don’t know”, you huff out, “restless and exasperated. Like my heart is in my throat too. Maybe I might get sick”

“Oh, angel” You smother your smile against his arm. He reaches with his free hand to touch your forehead and feel for temperature. “You’re fine. You’re not hot”

But you don’t move away and neither does he. Both having stopped in the middle of the hall, nowhere near either of your rooms.

You’re warm. Eyes intense and stirring like clouds before a storm. Entire face heated and… blushing?  Unmoving from your position next to him, you lean into his touch, his hand dropping to engulf the side of your face.

“Do you want to stay tonight?”

Your eyes flutter closed before opening to gaze at him in wonder. “In your bedroom?”

“You could take my bed”, he murmurs. His thumb traces a line from your cheek down to your jaw. “I’ll be there if you need me”

“Nonsense”, you blurt, “We can share”

He doesn’t know how he manages to make it to his room. He’s in a daze, dreaming surely, even though you’re solid and warm against him. His key is in your hands, unlocking his door. His hands on the small of your back, comforting and steady. He feels on fire just from your presence, from the act of watching you hurrying to get into a room you’ll both spend the night in.

The innocence of it all is intimate. His heart beats rhythmically fast and he feels it everywhere on his skin.

“Make yourself comfortable”, his voice is unwavering as he folds his suit jacket on a piece of furniture. He can’t help but be fast in his motions, like this is all part of a dream unless he’s not under the covers as fast as possible.

A like-mindedness you share as well. Your clothes end up in heaps on the floor. You quickly tuck yourself under the covers.

That lightheadedness makes him stumble. He’ll dry out – die out - feeling your body against his. If not from the emotions he’s kept hidden for so long, then it will because of the warmth you’d exuded.

“Good idea”, you say as he leaves a window open. “I love feeling the sun on me when I wake up.”

It must be real, after all. He pauses, thinking of other things that might make your stay as comfortable as possible.

“The fireplace?”

“That’s okay” your voice is muffled by the duvet up to your nose. “After we wake up”

That reminds him.

“Breakfast?”

You nod enthusiastically. You had skipped dinner because of work so the only other thing he looks forward to – apart from waking up to your face in the morning – is sharing breakfast together.

After a message left to the receptionist, he lies down, pulls the covers up to his stomach.

“Mhm, it’s nicer than my bed” you say through a yawn. You reach for his forearm, squeezing it lightly once. “Goodnight, Aaron”

He brushes a soft kiss on your bare shoulder, goosebumps chasing it on your skin. “’Night, angel"

============

Tagging: @the-modernmary @laurensprentiss @genevievedarcygrangerreading @hotchs-bitch @skyler6666 @rousethemousee @arsonhotchner @ssa-izzy @fatherhotchner @anetoupekelly

tagging people who've interacted w part 1 :)

@azenpal @mischiefmanaged71 @fromthewalls @jhiddlesbatchles03 @jasmine-galaxies @jaspxr @multiobsession @caprisunzz

This is so good!!!! I love it 💖💖 I need a part 2🥲🥲

The Only Heartbreaker (Hotch x Reader)

Summary: A case hoists your whole team to a location where you're forced to work closely for a week with your boss and the man you've been harboring unwanted feelings for. Those emotions start to fester, making you both act unlike yourselves. (aka someone yearns over someone and is MAD about it) // Rating: Teen up (case mention, blood, guns etc) AN: this brought to u by me procrastinating and a heavy dose of mitski <3 FLUFF FIC

Tags: daddy issues package, angst w happy ending, angst and fluff, pining, case HEAVY, comfort, pushing the agenda that hotch is an acts of service kinda guy, age gap, yearning, longing, hurt/ comfort, protective hotch, soft hotch,

WC: 4.5k approx

---------

It wasn’t a good day. It was a hard one: with interrogations that never end, seemingly stretching out longer than average because of people (and you couldn’t really blame them) being reserved and restrained in speaking out, ;and no rest. You’d grown familiar with the latter, but not the first. And you were by far the only one suffering from the events of the day. Prentiss and Reid had slipped away earlier, choosing to go back to the morgue for another talk with the medical examiner.

Rossi and JJ sit in the room nearby, talking with some of the kids, unfortunate for witnessing something they never should have known existed. Terror lingers in their faces, even after they’d been pulled away from the piazza where bullets had rained upon. Morgan is still out there, refusing to return and standing watch with SWAT, in case the culprit wanted to show up again. Not that they’d ever let him go alive at this point.

Hotch, the man of few words and your boss, stands by your side, body tense and nerves taut. He’s as close to losing his temper at the police chief before you as you are. Which is why you defuse the situation before that happens.

“Chief Smal, how about I get back to you on that after an hour?”

The man, who’d been rambling on and on about the incompetence of the FBI for not stopping something that you couldn’t ever predict, stops. He gapes at you, offended and angry. If he was any less animated he wouldn’t be fuming out of his ears and nose.

“Excuse-me?”

Hotch makes a sign to move, talk or whatever he thinks can fix this. But you don’t allow him.

“Great”, you chirp, feigning better than an actress, “You are excused.”

You turn sharply away, leaving the man sputtering and shocked, and continue down the hall. He’d been so goddamned annoying and useless, keeping you both away from your jobs – and hounding Hotch like he’s the boss. Like Hotch can’t just wave a hand and have the man dismissed without a contradiction. But this man, the one who is always direct and curt, was being nice. He’d been nothing but fucking courteous the whole time.

You knew this. You’d had an entire fucking week working close by with him, paired up since the jet dropped you off on location. And that niceness you’d once found commendable and charming and had made you swoon far too many times to count (not that you would admit you do, you’re not insane), is now irking you.

Even now you can almost hear his voice. First, gentle when he calls your name. But then not. And you realize he’s trailed behind you. Long strides made by his longer legs and taller frame, and he followed you easily as you stormed off.

There’s no hint of niceness in his clipped tone as he calls your name again.

“Agent, I’m speaking to you for fu—”

You swirl around, stopping abruptly. He doesn’t swear. He never does. And you don’t storm off, nor do theatrics, like this one, where you pausing so suddenly almost causes him to crush into you. Both blinking at each other, you realize none of you feels like themselves.

Hotch exhales, some of the tension easing out of him. You’re fucking welcome, you want to rush out. Not having Chief Blabbering Mouth pestering you has made you both calmer already.

“What was that about?”

You decide to act, yet again. “What was what?”

“Stop that”, he says in exasperation. A police officer passing by winces at his tone.

He doesn’t know Hotch. Not like you do. This pitch of his deep baritone, and the look on his face – he’s not mad at you. He’s mad with you. Knowing him, even madder that he’d succumbed to the pressures of diplomatic righteousness and bureaucratic relationships, and let a random, inconsequential chief of police get to both of you. Knowing him, he’s already blaming himself for it. Sinking deep into that hole of guilt trips, faults and self-criticism.

His body language is hostile, weary, very high-strung. You bypass all red alarms blaring in you telling you not to – but you reach out either way. A hand on his elbow and he flinches.

“Hotch,” you will your voice to sound soft, though your mannerisms mirror his, “I know what the fuck I’m doing, okay? Give me some credit”

One of his dark brows flicks upwards in question.

“I know” you sigh, not taking it personally when you touch him again and he grimaces. “I know. I was right there okay. Right fucking there”

The rest of the BAU had been inside the shopping mall at the time you and Hotch were having a fully fledged argument in the piazza. Some topics you don’t even recall. On more snipers. More check-ups. Or less law enforcement visible in the streets, making civilians antsy.

When the first bullet had hit, it had been so loud, you’d instantly forgotten. Everything had gone quiet. Not just you and Hotch, but the entire world. Then the second bullet had pierced the air, and the man you’d been bickering with – some would say even yelling at – had caught both your arms, lifted you up like he’d turned superhuman with a click of a button, and made himself bigger and taller, shielding you with his body. It had been less than a minute because he hadn’t done just that. Like the crowd around you, running and pushing each other, he’d done the same: hauling your ass – and himself – out of sight and inside a building nearby.

You’d both been there. Though with all your training and your experience, you’d frozen on the spot. People had fallen around you, murdered in cold blood. But you’d been there, even though your body had refused you.

Hotch blinks, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t expect thanks from you”

“Jesus, Hotch”, this time you bump his forearm, like you would a friend to make him act right, “I’d never. Not because of what you think.”

He blinks again, perplexed by your actions.

“But because it reminds me how useless I got. I don’t need that fucking reminder”

He pauses, tiredness etched in his face. “You’re swearing in the place of work, Agent”

If you had rested, and gotten some sleep like the rest of your colleagues you’d have had the strength to roll your eyes at him. In normal situations he’d have never let your crude language get past one (single) fuck. In better situations, you would never use crass language in front of the man you’ve had high regards for, beyond simply respecting him as a boss.

“I’m aware, Hotch.”

Your lack of fight gives him pause. “Did I let him get that far?”

You nod. Not that you’d judge him for blacking out when the chief spoke - you’d done the same. “Not to our faces. I overheard him speaking to his subordinates that the tits gave him hell last night over a misspell on a report”

Hotch shuts his eyes, his frame shaking when he huffs out in frustration. He places a hand over the one you’ve got hanging in the air in-between both of you, waiting for him to act less like a feral animal and more… domesticated. He only guides your palm to rest over his other wrist, patting it twice. A gesture so strange to outsiders but not to you – indicating he’s granting you physical contact because it comforts you.

“I’ll forward his name to the board”

“Hotch, I don’t want you to fire someone because they referred to me as tits.”

He reads your implication because he mutters under his breath. “He called you other names, didn’t he? I’ll call someone right now—”

“God, no. Hotch, listen”, you drop your hold on him, his eyes tracking the movement, and you don’t want to notice how his body deflates at the loss of contact, “I don’t need you to fire that man because of some words. I can handle those. I’d rather we focus on our jobs”

Like a petulant child, so unlike him, he takes a step back. The intention clear as day in his eyes. He’s ready to head back and chew his head out.

“You are doing the same thing!” you blurt out, making him stop. “You’re letting him rip one at the BAU’s involvement because you feel guilty and that you deserve it. And I’m letting those words pass because I feel guilty as well. Guilt is eating at us”

“Right” He looks unconvinced. This might be the only moment you’ll have to address what happened outside so you steal it.

“Hotch, I swear”, you will your voice softer than before, “Homeland didn’t warn us to begin with. We couldn’t have predicted this.”

Those words open up his features: the lines between his brows easing up, the crooked wince of his mouth drawing into a line, and his shoulders un-slumping.

“Okay?”

He grants you a quick nod, the five minutes of privacy in a crowded precinct ending at once. Officers stop by you, and Hotch lets you go.

“I’ll handle the rest of the interrogations”, he murmurs just for your ears, brushing against your side as he moves past you.

Wait, and then…?

He pauses, like he’s reading your mind, knowing without you voicing it aloud that there’s something worrying you. Then he says the next words that render you breathless, before parting from you. “You’re in charge of communications with local law enforcement. Decide and brief me later. And behave .”

The trust he hands over is unwavering, blinding with its intensity. You remember it too with dubious clarity: the fight before had been about police visibility.

You shuffle in your feet and welcome the swarm of officers waiting for your signal. Without the presence of the unit chief, they seem calmer too, directing questions your way. Unlike Hotch, who’s strict in not giving anyone leeway, you do so. It takes hours, but it’s due to your inexperience. The day before Hotch had been the one commanding an entire panicked room swarming with law enforcement officers.

You find the rest of your team in the breakroom, having decided to forego a small rest in order to get back to business right away. Morgan briefs you on the new developments. Garcia through the speaker cuts in with her findings: the address of the suspect’s summer home. You feel it at once: a fresh new hope for the nightmare to end.

“Alright,” Hotch moves to stand beside you for a better vantage point. Exhaustion and lack of sleep makes your body feel relief from his closeness, the scent of his cologne making you let out a small sigh of content. “When we get the call, I want everyone out – Kevlar vest and helmets. Follow Morgan’s lead in terms of SWAT’s assessment of the situation. JJ will stay on top of the news…”

You keep your eyes to Morgan, knowing meeting your boss’ gaze will free the emotions you’ve kept down for so long. Not resting or sleeping isn’t only because of the grueling case. Some of it is the proximity to Hotch. Having to work side-by-side, sharing almost every meal time together – because of the different task forces he’d decided to set up – has taken a toll on you.

Not that you’d never done it before. Working within the unit and traveling were undetached parts of the job and Hotch has always been so professional. So fucking formal. So incredibly decent with you during your time at the BAU that catching feelings had been as surprising to you as it would have been to him (not that he’ll never know). But he is a gentleman. He is nice and kind and the most patient man. With a humor as dry as a desert, and a penchant to protect everyone he knows– yes, including his most recent recruit he never kept closer than two meters - the man had still reeled you in. Hook, line and sinker.

Doesn’t matter that he smiles and laughs like it physically pains him to do so – he'd still tricked you into feeling attraction to him. Restless in bed, you’ve spent this entire week considering if this is how poor souls felt when witches and wizards seduced them with contrived love potions. Because how... How does someone so reserved make you feel dazed and unbecoming just by looking at you?

Surely doesn’t help knowing your room shares a wall with his and at night you hear just how much he doesn’t sleep as well.

“...are you following?” Hotch snaps you out of your thoughts, yet you still don’t look at him.

It’s torturous because in this one week you’re getting to know him more than you’ve ever done in all your time at the BAU. Unfortunately for you, he’s not someone to hate and loathe.

“Sure. We don’t go in guns blazing.” You sum up, and Morgan smiles at your words. “You’re set on that tactic, boss? Can’t we switch up to my alternative?”

“No”, he says confused, “Had you been paying attention you’d have known I already declined Morgan’s offer.”

Even reprimands don’t make those emotions fade away. Documents shuffle and empty coffee cups are thrown in the bins, and Hotch stays there, staring at you until you give up and look at him. Morgan pats your back, following Reid and Rossi out. JJ and Prentiss chuckle on the way out, but neither of you makes a move.

“Steer clear of SWAT”, Hotch murmurs, eyes flicking across your face.

You hate that small action the most because you know what it represents. One late night after interrogations, with everyone gone, he’d confessed reading people’s body language had been his expertise since he was a kid. A talent gifted to him from growing up in a volatile household with an impulsive violent parent. Doing it had been his way to survive. Now, he’d made a career out of it. What a fucked-up talent , you’d said that night, and it had made him laugh like you’d been both in a bar, drinking and sharing stories like old friends.

Studying your behavior though, seems to cross a precarious line. If he’s any more attentive towards you. If he’s even just a tiny bit more protective of you...

“I won’t”

Hotch scoffs, not believing you. This week is to blame for him knowing you just as well. “Fine, stay close to Morgan then.”

Then in a move that sucks all the air from your lungs, he hands you his own cup – full, steaming and untouched. “Take it. I made it for you”, he says like he’s handing you a report to fill in, and not being sweet by preparing you a coffee every single time he made one for himself.

“Hotch, I--” First the massive responsibility of talking to the officers, and now this. God, your nerves are about to snap. Frustration loops around your throat, your heart about to burst with emotion. So, you resort to saying something unkind and awkwardly ridiculous. “We need to see other people after this.”

He watches you take a sip, the small sigh of content telling him he got the order right. Like Hotch has ever done anything incorrect.

“I’m getting used to you”, you try to joke, voice fluctuating and hands trembling, “One more day and I’ll learn your bathroom habits”

He shakes his head, a small smile parting his lips, like he doesn’t mean for it to happen. “I’d rather you just drink and follow my orders. Less spitting fire, angel”

You look up at him, holding back a grin that would surely tell him how much you like him. “You saying I should swallow, boss?”

The question – a goddamn slip up if there’s ever been one – affects him in the most enticing of ways. Red rises over his neck, climbing over the collar of his button-down, the way it does when he runs, and then it reaches quite slowly his cheeks. Your face heats but not because of this stupid thing you’ve ever said to him.

Hotch clears his throat, but he still doesn’t look away and that’s how it happens . Your heart beats a little harder, your skin zaps with awareness, and your fingers tingle.  Like it seemed to happen the first night you’d both found each other alone in the hotel’s restaurant. Like it did when you had to knock on his hotel room at an ungodly hour because you got a tip and found him wearing a white t-shirt and shorts and fluffy, sleepy hair. Like it seems to happen when time stills and slows down, everything quiets to a low comfortable buzz because it’s just you and him.

He says your name, half in pleading and half in warning. Something warm curls inside you but you shove it aside.

“I’ll head out”, your voice is softer, breathier, and you’re first to cut the tension, running away at once. You’re out of there before he understands the entirety of you.

The call, as Garcia dubbed it, comes in a few minutes. A confirmation that the suspect has been sighted at a local supermarket. His phone pinged near the summer home she’d discovered. Morgan and you are out, following the neat movements of SWAT officers through the neighborhood.

In your periphery, FBI and police officers secure the perimeter. A split second where you meet Hotch’s eyes, in full uniform like he’d ordered – a small understanding passing through both.

Then the rest happens. The building is a two-stories house, and Homeland had warned you about the sudden cult following the suspect had amassed, reinforcing his numbers. It took a simple attack into innocent civilians for him to get a blind following. A shiver goes through you recalling what Homeland Security’s words had been: Better they’re all together, making ridding them all the easier.

“First floor clear”, comes Morgan’s voice through your earpiece. He’s ahead, helping lead one squad while the other is taken by a leader of Homeland forces. When they split in two, you go against Hotch’s orders, deciding to not let any squad without BAU counterparts.

“Footsteps”, Morgan warns.

In retrospect, that single word should have been more alarming, more of a signal of what was to come, because in a split second the entire house bursts in repetitive rattling noises. You take cover, you take aim, your teeth chattering with every shot that rings in your ears, with every bullet zapping through the air.

This had been part of your training – the most aggravating one, but you aren’t a close match to SWAT and Homeland’s agents. There’s shouts and lightning quick orders bouncing in everyone’s earpieces. Stats to update on the enemy’s fallen men. And whoever becomes injured on your side. You know, in the same moment as you shoot and miss someone intent on doing the same to you that their retaliation will be greater. Those same warning words from Homeland come back: Trained to kill. No mercy.

And then you take a gamble, your own feet taking you fast to the other side of the room, through the same way you’d entered. Coward’s way out. The face of the man you haven’t killed startles you, quicker than you. His eyes bloodshot red. His face is pale but unforgiving. A regular man – similar to the one who’d shot in that piazza solely because he’d wanted to, and had wanted to be a leader to men like the one before you. Your hands shake but you still shoot. Not fast enough. Not when he fires two bullets before one reaches him.

“Agent down”, the voices in your ears shout, and you blink slowly, not comprehending the situation. “I repeat, one agent down”

Is that your heart on your throat or the effect of the uncomfortably tight bulletproof vest?

“ Clear. This floor is clear”

The man who’d been aiming at you falls to the ground like dead weight. Horror clutches your limbs, sticky warmth pooling at your thigh and well, yes, he is dead. Your laugh is dry, callous and it pains your lower back.

“Fuck, what is that?”

A Homeland agent crushes his arm around yours, lifting half of your side up, your legs shaking under you. “Easy, agent. Don't put your weight on that leg” He jerks his head to your own feet and your eyes bulge out of their sockets. Blood seeps out of you, gushing and your head goes light.

“Jesus, is that my thigh or yours?”

The agent chuckles, granting you a wincing smile through his helmet. “Yours, sorry. It’s a nasty one.”

No shit, you’re sure you say because he chuckles again. Something lighter in his face like you’re not in the middle of a shootout. His weapon hangs low too, and you glance around. In fact, nobody around you yields their weapons, and your ears don’t ring anymore with the constant sounds of bullets. Sensing your thoughts, the agent beside you nods. He carries you heavily through the hall, ungentle but doing his best when he doesn’t know you and is suddenly responsible for a wounded agent.

“Where--?”

Your question cuts off, another body wrenching you away. Large, strong and familiar and then you smell him before you hear his hurried, stern words.

“...an order. I told you to follow one order and you’re...” Hotch leaves your side, mumbles excuses to the other agent who hasn’t left your side before sinking to his knees before you. He looks ridiculous in his t-shirt and vest; arms bare showing his toned biceps and forearms and frowning at you. Stupid, because who struts in a dangerous situation like that? He tears one short sleeve, more fabric coming off than planned. Your mouth goes dry. It’s the fact you’re shot on the leg and not that those same rough hands go soft when they make contact with your wound. He’s unbearably gentle, wrapping your thigh to stop the bleeding.

“Thanks, I’ll take it from here” He stands at once, curt with the other man, but you’d still prefer him over Hotch.

“I didn’t--”

“No talking”, he snaps, throwing your arm over his shoulders, his other hand latching around your waist and landing on your hip. Even with the adrenaline and the heightened awareness towards the bulletwound, your mind is one-track.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Hotch says, and he lifts you with ease, using his own leg closest to your side to hold both your body weight. He doesn’t wobble. He doesn’t strain. Not like the Homeland man. He surely doesn’t squirm like you are, while his warm breath huffs against your temple and hair.

Mad at you is a different look on him. But you’re a masochist because this is the closest you’ve ever been to him. Insane too, because you’ve never felt more than in this moment.

“Stop”, he murmurs only for your ears, deftly leading the way out of the massive building. You hold a breath when he glances quickly at you. His eyes don’t relay the anger transferring to his body and actions. They’re soft and pained.

“Don’t look so glad you got shot” he whispers, and you think you imagine his hand squeezing your hip; the closeness that tightens the small distance between you.

“I’m not”, you lie, voice a squeak. You try again because the bad outweighs the good. Though the latter is his arms around you, and the blanket of his fierce protectiveness. “I’m definitely not”

Hotch looks at you again, the small crinkle at the sides of his eyes giving away the small amusement at your tone. Damned this week, for making him know you just as much as you do him. It doesn’t last long though. He guides you through the agents camped outside the house, further down the street where ambulances remain parked in standby.

“Here”, the EMTs run to you, rolling out the stretcher, but Hotch doesn’t give up. They help him lay you gently over it, and this time you don’t hide the disappointment in your face when he moves away. He witnesses it, eyes narrowing. “We’ll talk about this”

You close your eyes slowly, opening them back to that disgruntled face of his, staring you down. “Looking forward to it”

The EMTs get ready to roll you out but he stops them, his hand going out to squeeze your hand in his. Quick, supportive, and professional – the tiniest bit professional. Your throat clogs, one of the EMTs cuts through the pant leg, not wasting time to tend to you.

“I’m sorry for it... Hotch, I--”

Something flashes behind his eyes, and you don’t imagine it: raw emotion, untainted, unprompted. It makes everything so much worse. If he says something sweet it will ruin you forever.

“ You’re fine”, he mutters, soft, slow, like he’s reassuring himself. He puts that big hand of his on your arm, rubbing it in comfort. “Brave girl” So goddamn soft you think you must have been killed inside this house, gone and become a ghost.

You blink away tears, your heart swelling. The sudden potential that he might feel just a teardrop of what you do is dangerous. More than a goddamn shootout.

“You better not forward my name to the board", you joke humorlessly. Then you move. Your stretcher carried by the EMTs is taken inside the ambulance. The sigh of relief you let out surprises both workers.

“Doesn’t this hurt?” one of them asks, looking at your wound.

“Yes”, you confirm, watching the doors close, cutting your view of Hotch. “More than I'd imagined”

Maybe you’ll need a transfer, or perhaps Hotch will get rid of you for insubordination. Anything to keep these feelings at bay.

“ It’ll be quick surgery”, one of them says. “It’ll hurt less when you’re through”

The door launches open and you all freeze, the stubborn man you’d left behind pushing to sit down beside you and closing it again.

“Ready to go”, Hotch slams a hand, urging the driver to depart. The vehicle moves and your heart feels suspended, waiting for him to give you another sign.

“Had to make sure you're okay”, he says with a small smile. Foolish hope springs inside your chest.

“Or reprimand me on the way there”, you rebut, a jolt going through you when he reaches a hand to brush your hair away from your face – strictly unprofessional.

“Same thing, angel”, Hotch reassures.

Tagging: @the-modernmary @laurensprentiss @genevievedarcygranger @anetoupekelly @sleepyreaderreads @azenpal @skyler666 @ultrabuzzlightyear @rousethemouse @arsonhotchner

So cute😍😍

peter parker swinging by your bedroom window, full suit and everything, just to hand you a single wildflower he chaotically just picked from the side of the road. (who knows why he’s doing it, maybe he’s just being adorable, maybe he fucked up and is trying to apologise?)

my first ever peter fic!! i hope you like this, ilysm ♡︎ | fem!reader, fluff, 0.8k

warning: reader having summertime sadness

—

You've been feeling shitty, like really very shitty. A type of feeling that one gets when they're kicked out of the house with no money? Yeah, that kind of crappy and for no reason. That makes it even worse. 

You tried everything, from making some tea for yourself to doing your hair to cleaning your room and even clearing the god damn spam emails. Nothing worked. It sort of felt good to be doing something, at least you're not sitting idle, but the overwhelming feeling never left.

It's sticky and humid today and you're just waiting for the sun to go down. Summers suck.

You're loathing the weather when something hits your window. Like a bird, a very large bird or something.

Nevermind, It's your boyfriend. You see him before you can panic.

He and his weird ways, You smile a little and slide the window door open.

“Hi” he says breathlessly, as he sits down leaning against the wall, just as he enters. Mouth slightly open, gasping for air. He's in his spiderman suit with the ever present bag on his back. 

Which is quite a feeling because he usually doesn't show up like that. And you still don't know how to react knowing your own boyfriend is a vigilante. Quite too much to digest.

“Everything okay?” you ask, worried.

“Yeah. I'm cool.” he replies, getting up. A smile on his pretty face as he does so.

“Well?” you gesture towards his getup. 

“Oh yeah, that— I was on my way to meet you and then, let's say I happened to cross paths with an old, not so friendly friend.”

Understandable. 

“You're okay right?” you inquire, running your gaze from his head to toe, looking for any sort of bruise or cuts. Hands reaching to rub his shoulders up and down softly.  

“Ouch!” Peter feigns hurt, just to see that look on your face. skittish and way too scared for him. You're just so easy to tease, not that he's complaining. Truthfully his heart blooms with love whenever you worry over him. It's sort of lovely. Very very lovely.

 “Oh fu- I'm so sorry.” 

“Don't be, I was kidding.” he says, planting a quick kiss on your forehead and then immediately. “Oh, hey I got something.” 

He shrugs off the bag, puts it on your study desk. You watch his hand when he zips it open, you watch his arm when he lifts the bunch of green stems up, purple, pinks and whites adorning the top of it. 

“They reminded me of you.” Peter says, and You watch his lips curve upwards, brown eyes shining as he extends his hands to give you the flowers, so earnestly.

And you're not going to cry. Definitely not going to cry. Nobody cries in these kind of situations. You think. How do they react though? You don't know.

You have given plenty of gifts to your friends and family but never been on the receiving end ever. And the fact that he thought of you, like he really looked at the flower and thought of you? The thought makes you a bit dizzy but with love and something melancholic. You'd like to blame your mood earlier.

Which is why, though you didn't mean it, your lips slightly curve downwards and before you could stop it, tears manage to escape your eyes, down to your cheeks. You fucking hate yourself.

“Hey no- I- is it something i did?.” he asks, a hand reaching for your face instinctively, baffled by the response. 

Why would you cry, unless he hit a nerve? You're fairly new in your relationship and even though he knows alot about you, there are still plenty of things he doesn't know, yet. Though you literally know everything about him. 

“No.” you shake your head, “ it's just- nobody ever did something like this” you say, furtively. 

“I love them,” you tell him, bringing the flowers closer to your chest. 

He looks at you, fondly with so much adoration in his eyes as he wipes your tears with his thumb, his fingers behind your ear. 

“thank yo—” he cuts you off connecting his lips with yours. A hand snakes down to your waist, pulling you closer, the other holding your face.

For a second you freeze and then time. You lax in his hold, closing your eyes shut, letting the dizziness of love take over.

It takes a second to recover from the love haze when he pulls away. 

“What was that for?” you ask and Peter smiles looking at your love sick face.

“I don't need a reason to kiss my girlfriend.” he says, matter of factly before doting a few more kisses on your face. 

“You're crushing my flowers.” You giggle, the precious sound he longs to listen to whenever you're not around. 

That's okay. He thinks. He's going to bring you Chamomile and Tulips tomorrow, Chrysanthemum and Hyacinths the day after and more day after day until the novelty wears off or better he'd make you a garden. 

That's something I like

wrapping up the last three hundred and sixty-five days with a round up of all the 'x reader' fanfiction I have published in 2022. thank you all for all your requests, feedback, reblogs and support over the last twelve months, especially during the 10k month of fic! sharing this love for these characters with you all is such a mental refresh for me, and hopefully I can publish even more fics in 2023. and I hope that you'll love all the new fics as much as you've loved these ones :)

happy new year!

full content warnings and content can be found on each individual post, and each fic is labelled for length. follow me on bartonstark to find all my fic in one place, or check out my ao3. smut/sexual content: *** personal favourites: ///

BRUCE BANNER:

afterwards (drabble) *** aftercare with bruce.

bend, don't break (oneshot) *** /// the take a reprieve during a party, and take a new step in your relationship.

fear and loving in iowa (oneshot) when you’re injured in johannesburg, bruce blames himself.

fireworks (oneshot) thanks to the frigid air at the top of the tower, you share a tender moment.

first times (drabble) *** having sex with bruce for the first time.

p.s. (ficlet) an unfinished note leaves you confused during your college graduation.

restoration (oneshot) after johannesburg, you have nightmares. bruce provides you with comfort.

BUCKY BARNES:

bedside manner (oneshot) sam calls you to say bucky has been hurt on a mission,and you panic.

early hours (oneshot) *** after a mission, all bucky wants to do is crawl into bed with you.

morning grind (drabble) *** morning sex with bucky.

shards of glass (oneshot) *** /// you share a past, and now bucky's tracked you down to find closure.

CLINT BARTON:

after hours (oneshot) *** clint stops by your office after work to distract you the best way he can.

body heat (oneshot) *** /// the there's-only-one-bed trope in the back of an suv during a blizzard.

bound (drabble) *** clint is really into bondage and you're happy to spoil him.

coffee break (ficlet) there's an avenger bleeding in the bathroom of the cafe where you work.

crossroads (oneshot) clint receives an offer that could change his life & you encourage him to take it.

a delicate hand (oneshot) /// clint attempts to pull you out of a funk by helping you get ready for the event.

green light (oneshot) *** /// you surprise clint with a new toy, and he is very eager to try it out.

hey, you (ficlet) *** /// you receive a note from a certain avenger in the middle of a crowded bar.

in the stacks (ficlet) *** you steal a moment of intimacy in the back of a bookshop together.

respite (oneshot) when you’re hurt on a mission, clint has to convince you to take a breather.

think of me (oneshot) *** /// when you're dragged out for a night, clint has an idea of what to do in the club.

three a.m. (oneshot) /// a knock on your window comes from a certain injury-prone avenger.

we could play pretend (oneshot) you bond over all the little things you miss about being in a relationship.

welcome home (drabble) *** you welcome clint home after he's been away on a mission.

JESSICA JONES:

reprieve (oneshot) she has to drag you out of a dingy bar in the middle of the night.

snooze button (drabble) jessica isn't exactly a morning person.

MARC SPECTOR:

fast lane (drabble) *** /// marc gives you a preview in the car of what to expect when you get home.

NATASHA ROMANOFF:

follow my lead (oneshot) natasha offers to teach you how to slow dance.

PETER QUILL:

raincheck (oneshot) /// convincing quill to go to bed isn’t exactly an easy feat.

SAM WILSON:

miss me? (oneshot) you're finally reunited with sam in the middle of the battle of earth.

soul food (oneshot) /// when you’re sick, he ditches his responsibilities just to make you feel better.

STEVE ROGERS:

lost time (oneshot) *** late for your date, steve walks in on you working off your frustrations.

TONY STARK:

afterglow (drabble) *** after care with tony.

as you're told (oneshot) *** /// tony calls you to his office with a new game in mind…

between the sheets (oneshot) *** you've decided to try for a baby, and tony can't wait to get started.

come back to me (oneshot) after tony almost dies, you’re left lost and furious at what just happened.

count (oneshot) *** /// tony is nothing if not a giver. but… he is also a bit of an asshole.

echo (oneshot) /// you’re struggling to forget the past, so you try to bring part of it back to you.

idiot (drabble) *** just an soft, sexy moment between the two of you.

insatiable (drabble) *** the real question is, which one of you is the bigger tease?

mood lighting (ficlet) *** tony spoils you by candlelight.

on your knees (oneshot) *** the idea of having you on your knees is far too tempting for tony to resist.

quick question (oneshot) tony has a question to ask you, battlefield be damned.

red and gold (ficlet) an afternoon in central park lets you appreciate the seasonal color change.

simple pleasures (drabble) *** tony loves nothing more than eating you out.

sober hearts (oneshot) a look at your relationship as it has evolved over the years.

spare key (drabble) *** you give tony a key to your apartment.

subtlety (oneshot) *** impatient, you make use of the ‘emergency stop’ button in the elevator.

warm hands (ficlet) *** the two of you share an intimate interlude out in the snow.

WANDA MAXIMOFF:

hold tight (oneshot) *** /// she loves to spoil you & sometimes that means leaving you a quivering mess.

reflected in you (oneshot) you try on your new uniform, and wanda helps you find your confidence.

spicy sweet (oneshot) *** you plan on surprising wanda, but disaster means a change of plans.

sweetness (oneshot) *** /// wanda loves the way you sound, and doesn’t care who else hears it.

THREESOMES/POLYAMORY:

hands free (oneshot) *** /// you find clint on the phone, and you can’t help but distract him.

player three (drabble) *** /// clint x bucky x you. game night takes a turn when they team up on you to win.

SERIES:

to ashes chapters (full series, this year's chapters in bold) prologue - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 23 - more to come...

tags: @startrekkingaroundasgard @wittyforachange @lovely-dreamer19 @castieltrash1 @wefracturedmotivation @january-echoes @glossyloner @capitalnineteen @youclickedthislink @s0ftness @drakelover78 @queenoftheunderdark @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @lol-you-thought @sebbystanlover-vk @mikariell95 @csigeoblue @abrunettefangirlnerd @babyblues915 @aar-journey @moistpotatobear @bellamyblakemorley @diesinspanishbcimhispanic @sentimentalalien @agustdowney @akumune @xxboesefrauxx @patheticallysentimental @loki-is-loved @ruderavenclaw @enna-core @hearmyharmony @katsies @youralphawolf72 @whovianayesha @bradfordbantams @alice-the-nerd @ace-fandom-dumbass @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @twsssmlmaa @earth-pig-fish @hallothankmas @meeksmusic83 @fallinginlovewithqueue @justanothermagicalsara @dragon-chica @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @starrynightsforever @baku-writes @sorryurnotbrucebanner