so what if itoshi rin happens to stop by a cafe during a downpour, expecting it to be just another dingy cafe in the basement with a drink he doesn't even enjoy. fully prepared to book it out the moment the rain stops, rin doesn't pay attention at first to the person who goes up to the stage and sits, carrying a guitar.
but then, he hears your voice at the first pluck of string and he may have fallen in love a bit at the first melody.
of course, it doesn't hit him immediately at first. it begins with him sitting in silence until you finish the last song. then it's him visiting every time he could for two weeks straight. then it's him remembering that you play every wednesday and weekend, noon and evening. then it's you recognizing him after one show and then it's him learning your name as you do his.
and if his team and big brother wonder why he grows calmer and plays many untitled recordings—given by you, made by you—he will probably punch them out of panic. but, at least he owes them for making him realize that it's a crush, actually.
(or, rin falls in love with you, your song, and more.)
#1
"...that's...you like someone...?" isagi speaks as if he is an incarnation of some demented fish. the moron even gapes like one.
rin tries his best not to reflexively throw the water bottle at hand. he would, if it isn't for a series of loud "the fuck"s and "no way"s that resound through the locker room. there is also a "bitch pay up! rinrin is in love, see?!" that suspiciously sounds like the blonde roach's voice, but honestly rin's biggest concern is his brother—who freezes like a statue and goes wide-eyed with a grace of a dying clam.
from the corner of his eyes, sae truly looks like he gets a heart attack and turns out rin still loves him enough to worry. but if the hunch that says that shitty brother is considering either giving pieces of advice or bees-and-birds talk there and then is right—rin is murdering him along with hiori yo who looks way too amused for his own good.
in the end, rin does end up throwing that bottle to isagi's face. rin revels in his pained squawk.
"i don't!" rin shouts, ignoring the creeping heat on his cheeks. for some reason he feels like he is lying but for now, he better socks sae in the face because that motherfucker looks like he is ready to speak.
#2
you sit on the rough surface of the cement stairs. as you take your guitar out of its case, a train of thought walks through your mind. a few months ago, the thought of having someone to sit here with you, enjoying the sunset while you play is a bit too farfetched.
but then rin—the guy who keeps appearing at the cafe every time you play, the guy who is cool, the good-looking guy, the guy who always listens every time you speak or play—just enters your life.
rin sits one step below your feet and looks at you so attentively that it makes you feel special. as you adjust the instrument in your hand, you wonder if it's wrong for you to fall simply because of that.
it probably is—a part of you say. but, you know that part too was the one who made you doubt yourself weeks ago, before rin shuts it up with a simple admittance of his preference to your songs.
so, like a fool, you smile—lovesick, too honest, too obviously, "hey, have i ever played a love song for you?"
rin hums, filling in the silence as he seems to try to remember something. shifting his weight to lean on his elbow, he offers you a confident answer, "few times, in the cafe."
"but never in our solo shows, right?" you place your fingers on the strings. the word 'our' comfortably resting in your sentence.
you notice how rin's eyes soften and never have you ever wished that you didn't read things wrongly this much. "yeah," rin says, the orange of the sunset decorating his face in a way that makes you realize how pretty aquamarine suits him.
"then," you hope you will have courage, one day. "that shall be our song today."
notes: this hellsite ate this so out of spite i remade everything. also out of love because rinnie is babey. but yeah—rin who falls in love with musician you. the thought of a grumpy guy who listens to acoustic ballad played by his favorite person and cooking down immediately is cute to me. so here you have it, kinda post canon, kinda no plot just coming of age vibe kinda slice of life vibe. plus the thought of chance meeting in a cafe stage is cute. yeah i just think this idea is cute and i got bored in the train. this thing is a few weeks old actually, but. yeah. anyway another blurbs for now ❤ maybe i really should make masterlist for these stuffs 🐒 after the trip myb. but yeah, honestly rin feels soft for me since long ago. esp on the inside. and the thoughts of him getting "special" "only for him" stuffs feels good after all the "sae replacement" stuffs he went thru in canon. i think he is the type who will make you feel special because he really is all in for you. okay yeah my head kinda dizzy maybe i will add something more later. shout out to ms. lau/fey and mbak yu/ra yuni/ta for the songs that play in my head, it makes it better.
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Im the one who asked about requests lol, I just have this Hotch thought and I can't stop thinking about it 🫂😭
Imagine Garcia "screaming" about a video, telling the whole team about it (except Hotch and Reader), and that video is on tiktok. When they spill something about the video, Hotch and Reader ask which video they're referring to, not knowing it's from a tiktok account where the person makes videos on Hotch x Reader (like edits taken from some interview where they look at each other, slightly touches and things like that) and it's a whole profile with a lot of videos like that! So the whole team teases them and they obviously like eachother!!
Feel free to change anything!!
Gone Viral, Gone Wrong
Thank you to this anon for submitting my first request! I might have written it (and especially Hotch) be a little (way) too sappy, but I love your idea so much and I hope I did it some type of justice!
WC: 3.3K
GIF by ssa-aaron-hotch-hotchner
There must be something on your face. Toothpaste, maybe, or coffee on your shirt, or a tear in your trousers. Something to explain the numerous pairs of eyes following you as you dash for the elevator, just as you always do.
This morning’s been one for the books. Between a text from your highschool ex-boyfriend, congratulating you on your ‘newfound fame’ — whatever he means by that, you don’t know — and the incomprehensibly slurred voicemails you woke up to from your sister, you aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself.
You tell yourself you’re probably imagining it. But Anderson doesn’t say a word to you as you both make your way to the BAU, just casts you sidelong glances between the rapid texts he’s sending. You hope to God it’s not you, that he's just having an awful morning, then scold yourself for it. If you’re not off to a good start, at least somebody should be.
It’s the silence in the bullpen that confirms your suspicions. Emily, JJ, and Garcia sit huddled around Emily’s computer, squeezed onto two chairs they’ve pulled together. Morgan leans over them to look at the screen. He’s in the middle of laughing at something Garcia’s said when you walk in.
You don’t even need Reid’s not-so-subtle hiss of “Guys–” to know you’re not going crazy. The smirks that drop from their faces, the giggles that extinguish themselves as you enter through the double doors, are more than enough.
Four profilers and a technical analyst, as it turns out, can be rather terrifying when the force of their stares are directed at you.
A sheepish grin tugs at your lips as you hold up your peace offering: a tray of coffee. “Hi?”
You’ve come to know how the team works. You know exactly how they react when ambushed, how they spring to action like a well-oiled machine.
There’s something a little mechanical to them now, bared in their responses to your arrival. After giving you one of his usual tight-lipped smiles, Reid flips open a random file on his desk and begins to read. JJ grabs the computer mouse, clicks a few times, and turns away from the monitor to greet you. Morgan clocks the drinks in your hands and conjures a grin just a little wider than normal.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says as he plucks the tray from your hands, thanking you with a squeeze to your forearm.
Garcia, eyeing the gesture, nearly chokes on the end of the pen she’s chewing. She stands to usher you over to your desk, her chirpy voice a balm attempting to smooth over what has been a very odd start to your working day.
“What were you guys looking at?” You ask her, eyebrows raised. If anyone’s going to tell you what’s going on, Penelope is, without a doubt, most likely to spill.
You’re disappointed – and even more confused – when she stands her ground. Through her ramble, you just about make out the words “cat” and “spa” before she’s kissing your cheek and speeding away to your lair.
You sigh as you switch on your own computer. One thing is clear. The team doesn’t like to be ambushed. And, somehow, that is exactly what you have done.
—
After finishing off one of your consults, you suffer through a morning briefing that ends up being far more complicated than it needs to be. It’s only a paperwork day, by the looks of things. In theory, this is the ‘easiest’ your job gets; if you’re not called out on an emergency, you can bank on a day of case reports and shitty coffee.
Nothing is ever easy at the BAU, not even now. Everything is out of order. There’s none of the usual idle chatter that precedes a briefing, just a fragile silence. Rossi moves from his normal position to take your place between Reid and JJ. He mutters something about the chair being uncomfortable and shoos you away from your seat. Though you can’t resist the opportunity to call him an old man for his pedantics, you acquiesce and take his spot instead. You find nothing wrong with it.
Then Hotch walks in to start the briefing, and you find about a hundred reasons to curse David Rossi. He’s wearing the gray suit, again, the one he likes pairing with his red tie. That should be a crime in itself. When he takes the only seat available — his usual seat, the one now next to you — you’re almost sure you hear JJ snort. Emily pats her on the back as she conceals it with a very unconvincing cough.
Hotch frowns in your direction, probably mulling over the change in seating plan, then turns his attention to JJ. “Are you alright?”
The blonde clears her throat. “Fine. Thanks, Hotch,” she says.
Garcia rests her elbows on the table, her mouth concealed by the palm of her hand.
Hotch nods, casting another short glance your way. “Good.”
Then he launches into the briefing, and you can almost convince yourself things are perfectly normal, that your face isn’t alight with heat and you’re not avoiding looking at him, that everything is fine. When you’re dismissed, you scurry towards the door fast enough you almost miss it.
“Garcia?” His voice is quiet, his tone soft with something disapproving hiding beneath it. “My office, please.”
Everything is decidedly not fine.
—
By noon, you can’t take it anymore. “Emily Prentiss, what the fuck are you doing?”
The question comes out louder and more harshly than you’d intended. In your peripheral vision, you see Reid’s eyes widen at the desk next to yours. Emily, halfway through a sandwich, freezes.
“I’m sorry?”
The grin fades from her face.
You huff. “You’ve been looking between me and your computer for the last half-hour. What is it? Is there something on my face?” Morgan laughs from the other side of the bullpen, and you raise your voice a little in desperation. “Seriously. Have I done something wrong?”
JJ must have heard the commotion, because she pokes her head out of her office door. She takes one look at you and sighs. “Probably best to get it over with, Em.”
When Emily hesitates, your eyes narrow. “Get what over with?”
She stands and beckons you over to her desk, firing up her computer screen as you settle into her chair. JJ comes down the stairs to join you. Though they don’t move, you can practically feel Morgan and Reid staring at the three of you from across the room.
What you see projected on Emily’s screen doesn’t make things any clearer.
“That’s—” you pause, dumbfounded. “Why are you looking at me and Hotch?”
The picture is easy to place. It must have been taken a few days ago, during a small-town case. Hotch had asked you to deliver a profile to the media when JJ was working on something else. It was far from the first time you’d faced the press head-on during your time at the Bureau, but Hotch had stood by your side anyway.
You’re not sure why she’s chosen this photo, if any, to look at. The wind’s blowing your hair into your face, and you’re midway through changing expressions so it almost looks like you’re in pain.
“Just watch,” Emily says. She presses the spacebar and the picture bursts into action.
—
“—If you believe you have any information that may relate to this case, we’d appreciate you calling the following number…” you say. You proceed to rattle off the number for the tip line JJ’s set up, but only get halfway through before everything derails.
“How do we know this isn’t all just bullshit?”
The voice overpowering yours is weathered, and so is the man who pushes through the crowd of journalists to get close to you and Hotch, whose posture you see straighten in an instant. You watch as the reporters from the city turn to look at the interloper, pens out and waiting, no doubt, for either you or your boss to slip up.
For a long moment, Hotch watches the man, his face twisted in irritation. He merely restates the tip line number and your request for any potential witnesses to come forward.
But the skeptic doesn’t let up. “This guy’s an outsider. Not one of us. Everyone here knows each other, they have done for years—”
“We’re not trying to cause a panic,” you say, your tone even, “We don’t want you all to turn on each other. But the man we’re looking for knows this town. He’s confident finding his way around the forest, even the areas that haven’t been mapped out yet. He knows the shortcuts, which roads are quiet and which are too risky to take. We’re asking you to exercise caution, and to report anything suspicious if you see it.”
“So what? A few pins on a map and you’re convinced it’s one of us?”
Hotch’s jaw tightens. This case has been harder on him than most, and you can sense that he’s on the verge of responding in a way he’ll regret later. You put a hand on his forearm as he raises it to retort, squeezing it gently in the hopes he’ll get the signal you really don’t have the seniority to be sending him: stand down. He takes a deep breath, and you let your hand slide down to meet his wrist, guiding it just a fraction backwards to rest by his side. The contact lasts only a second, maybe two, before you let him be.
When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, his eyes slow to drag themselves from your face. “We’re not here to defend the science behind criminal profiling. Our priorities remain finding the person responsible for these crimes and the safety of this community until we do. If you have any information at all, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We appreciate your cooperation.”
Even the most amateur journalist would know he’s done answering questions. Hotch gives a brief nod, turns and leads you out of the Georgia heat and back into shelter of the precinct. All the time, his hand hovers over your back, his gaze searching for any potential disruptions.
Then there’s his voice, deep and almost inaudible. You feel his breath brush your earlobe. “Thank you.”
—
Oh.
Now you’re looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, you do look a little…cozy with Hotch. Not enough to walk the line of unprofessionalism, but enough for you to notice it.
Emily folds her arms, leans back in her chair. “What’s that about?”
Avoiding her eyes, you shrug. “What’s what about?”
“The canoodling,” JJ says with a smirk, and you slap her arm.
You’re a profiler. You should know your little attempt at denial isn’t going to work, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. “Canoodling? Seriously, Jen? I don’t think anyone under the age of eighty has ever said the word ‘canoodling’.”
You hear Penelope’s kitten heels clacking against the floorboards before you see her. “Doesn’t mean you’re not doing it,” she sings. Her arms wrap around your shoulders from behind.
You groan. “Penny, you know I love you, but what are you doing here?”
“I got lonely,” she says, and her expression is so genuine that you can’t even bring yourself to be upset with her. “Just wait…”
Leaning over you to press the escape button, she exits out of full screen mode and points to the corner of the screen. When you read the number she’s showing you, your breakfast threatens to make a reappearance.
“Would you look at that?” Emily laughs. “It’s gone up.”
You blink. Once, twice, three times. And once more, for good measure. “Six-hundred-and-fifty thousand people have seen that?”
It all starts to make sense. The texts, the calls, the stares, the team’s behavior…you don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. On the bright side, you’ve done nothing wrong, nothing that could get you fired. But more than half a million people have seen you practically mooning over your boss.
Emily makes a noncommittal noise. “Half of them were probably Garcia. And a good twenty-five or so were us, if that helps.”
“It doesn’t,” You resist the urge to slam your head against the desk. You’ll have to settle for burying it in your hands instead. “Six hundred and…fuck. And they all think–?”
“—That you’re in love with our boss? And that he’s in love with you? Yes.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“They think that, too,” says JJ, sounding sympathetic. If it weren’t for the frankly dastardly smile on her face, you’d think she was on your side.
Picturing the general population witnessing you make an idiot of yourself is bad enough. How do you even conceptualize that many people? How many stadiums could you fill solely with people who have seen you head over heels for your boss? Even worse is the thought of Anderson, or your parents, or – God forbid – even Strauss having seen it. You’ll be suspended. Fired. Or, even worse, be called into a mediated meeting with Hotch and HR, where they’ll ask him if you’ve been making him feel uncomfortable.
Emily’s voice pulls you from your shame spiral. “And there’s more, too.”
This world hates you. You’re certain of that as she opens Twitter, putting “FBI agents” into the search bar and bombarding you with hundreds, maybe thousands, of tweets with your image attached. Some are disturbingly sweet. Others poke fun at how obvious you are, and even more disturbingly, seem to think your feelings are reciprocated. That’s not a mental path you can allow yourself to go down.
“So…” You say after a long ten minutes. “What do we do?”
Footsteps, then Rossi appears at the stop of the stairs. “You go back to work. Your break’s over.”
He’s lucky you’re so fond of him. Had it been anyone else (save maybe one person) to disrupt your shame spiral, you’d have been furious. More than furious. You’re still a little irritated now.
There was nothing wrong with his fucking chair.
—
Your mission is simple. Avoid. Deny. Deflect. The rest of your afternoon drags along in a blur of paperwork and teasing comments you choose to ignore (mostly courtesy of Morgan — JJ and Emily have decided you’re nearing your breaking point and vow to leave you alone).
Five o’clock can’t come soon enough. Even when it does, there’s no reprieve. Reid turns out to be the one to betray you as everyone else packs up to leave, their files in his hand. “Sorry,” he whispers. To his credit, he looks like he means it.
“Judas,” you hiss back, but you stand and take the reports from him anyway.
Morgan raises an eyebrow at you. “Going somewhere special?”
You flip him off, muttering something under your breath that sounds just a little like “your funeral”.
The stairs to Hotch’s office feel much longer and much steeper than usual. At every step you reconsider. Reid’s probably still heading for the elevator now. If you catch him, you can guilt him into doing this instead. But your thoughts carry you close enough for Hotch to spot your approach through the blinds. He rises from his desk, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle.
You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Hi.”
Stepping aside to let you inside, he says your name, and it sounds so warm coming from his mouth. You wonder if he knows about your newfound fame, too. He seems to be focusing his stare directly between your eyebrows.
“I just came to drop these off.”
As if your words aren’t explanation enough, you hold up the files for him to see.
“Thank you.” Hotch reaches out to take them, and you feel his fingers brush yours as he does. He stops before the exchange is over. “Are you alright? You seem distracted.”
It won’t be long now before the sun sets. It’s making its final play for glory now, golden light filtering through the window and settling over Hotch’s face. Hints of amber tones surface in his eyes, usually so dark and unreadable, making him appear much softer than usual. Safer.
You sigh. “I think some people got a little more out of that press release in Georgia than we intended them to.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“You know about that?”
You wouldn’t half mind if a wormhole opened up, right there in his office, and transported you to another universe where you don’t even have to think about this moment ever again.
“I do.” He winces. “Garcia’s computer system is the most secure in the FBI, but she doesn’t have an inside voice.”
The dry comment shocks a laugh out of you. “No, she doesn’t. But…it’ll die down, right? No one is actually going to believe that. Us being together would be—”
“Unprofessional,” Hotch supplies after a beat. “Very unprofessional.”
He reaches backwards to put the files you’ve given him on his desk, somehow managing to do so without actually taking a step away from you. If anything, he gets a little closer.
“Exactly. Strauss would kill us if we even thought about it,” you say, “Not that we would, I’m just…”
Now he looks down at you, straight into your eyes. You swear his pupils are dilated, that he slips for just a half-second and lets his attention drift down to your lips. “There’d be a lot of paperwork.”
You nod. “Too much, really. You’ve got enough already. It’d also be…”
“…Nice.”
Hotch stops breathing, lips downturned in a frown. You’re sure you’ve heard him wrong. But half a minute passes, and he doesn’t retract his statement, though he looks as if he’s close to doing so.
“I’m sorry?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. He’s close enough you catch a hint of his cologne, and the woody scent of it makes your head spin.
“I can say it again,” he says through a long exhale, searching your face for any sign of discomfort as he takes another step closer. His breath ghosts your neck. “Or we can forget this ever happened.”
Your answer is almost immediate. “Let’s not do that.”
Hotch tilts your chin up so you’re forced to look at him. You lean upwards to meet him halfway in a kiss that is soft and tentative, the sort that promises everything and asks for nothing in return. One of your hands cups his jaw, and both of his find their way home to your waist, rubbing circles into your skin through your shirt. You smile against his lips. He leans forward as if to chase yours when you pull away.
It hits you, now, that this is really happening. The months you've been agonizing over this - whether to make a move or to shut the part of you that cares for him away - have led you here.
There's much you've got to think over: what this means for both of your careers, the risk to the team's dynamic, whether it'll even work in the long run, if Hotch wants that too. You know he's thinking the same thing; his face adopts the same mask of concentration it always does when he's considering something.
You take a deep breath. It might be hard, but does that stop it from being worth a shot?
In the end, you don't think it does.
“I think I’m gonna order takeout tonight,” you say quietly. “There’s a really good Thai place down the street from me.”
Hotch clears his throat. “That sounds nice.”
Shaking your head, you rest both hands on his shoulders, laugh at him. “That was my way of asking you if you wanted to join me.”
“Oh.”
His brow furrows. For a terrible moment, you think he’s about to say no. And then, “Haley has Jack tonight. I…I’d like that.”
You beam, pull back, and head towards his desk to find a pen and a scrap bit of paper. “Here’s my address.” A quick glance down into the bullpen, which is thankfully empty. “Give it ten minutes, then follow me?”
“Okay,” Hotch says. Even you can tell he’s grinning like an idiot, and you make a note of the rare expression. “Okay. I’ll see you soon?”
Squeezing his hand, you kiss his cheek and walk towards the door. “Soon.”
You feel his eyes on you until you reach the elevator.
If you got this far, thank you for reading! I've watched a lot more Dharma and Greg than CM, lately, so I have a feeling that my version of soft!Hotch is currently just a grownup version of Greg Montmgomery????
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