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atlabeth · 16 days

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too sweet

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: a night out makes hotch realize a few too many things.

a/n: me??? writing for criminal minds again out of nowhere??? what is going on. and i do not have an answer i was just in a hotch mood bc he's fine asf and i finally have the confidence to write for him here we are lol. hope u enjoy this short lil thing

wc: 2.4k

warning(s): alcohol consumption, a sexual joke or two, written in one go so might be a mess! aaron is all in his head but this is basically all fluff

Hotch can’t focus.

Mostly because he can’t stop glancing over at you. Normally it’s not a problem—he’d lost count of how many times he’d distracted himself from mounds of paperwork by meeting your eyes through his office window, often accompanied by a smile that made even his heart beat a little faster—and especially now, it shouldn’t be a problem.

You and Derek have had some kind of bet going on during the past few nights out—you didn’t believe he was as charming and suave as he claimed, and Morgan was all too happy to prove you wrong.

You bet that he couldn’t get at least five numbers every night, and come last Thursday, Morgan took the win at the end of the evening with a smile on his face. As punishment, the first round of their next night out was on you.

And that’s nice, sure. Hotch is always thankful that his team can still joke around and have fun with each other despite everything they have to deal with each day. He hopes they keep the light in their eyes as long as possible, especially the younger ones. He’s fine with being the stick in the mud, the one who never smiles, the iron willed chief that scares local uniforms.

Hotch is not so fine with the way he feels right now.

It’s a busy night at the bar, which is understandable. Hotch is sure half the precinct is out alongside them, celebrating the BAU finally solving the case that had torn them to shreds over the past week. You, Reid, and Garcia put the threads together an hour into scouring through evidence, and the unsub was cuffed before noon.

Certainly something to celebrate—there’s a reason the whole team agreed to go out tonight and leave tomorrow. Even Rossi decided to join when he learned you would be buying, but he’s already abandoned them in favor of catching up with some old friends. Hotch even thinks they might have another round in their future because of their solve, courtesy of the local chief. They had a long night ahead of them.

But you haven’t gotten the drinks yet, and Hotch wonders how long it’ll take even after you do. Because some officer is trying to talk you up, and you’re smiling and laughing along and giving him every bit of your attention.

Hotch recognized him the moment he set eyes upon him, even in plain clothes. He’s some joke of an officer from the station, and he’s been trying to get your number—or even just get your attention—throughout their whole visit. Always sidling up to you during debriefs, specifically giving you any information or evidence he finds—Hotch has overheard him asking for your number more than once.

Hotch has been so focused on the case he’s not even sure if you’ve rejected him or not, and the mere thought is enough to annoy him. If he wasn’t equally as sure of your ability to defend yourself and afraid of overstepping with you, he would have stepped in.

But it makes sense. The officer is young and handsome, you’re young and pretty—not to mention you have a way of lighting up any room you step into. Hotch spent the whole first month of your employment wondering why you would want to do a job like this. He’s spent the rest of it thankful that you did.

You’re sharp as a whip, naturally, but you’ve also done wonders for the team atmosphere. It’s hard to feel down with a smile like yours beaming his way. The job weighs you down like it does everyone, but you still manage to lift everyone’s spirits on the jet ride back before they jump into the next case. It’s impressive.

It’s also trouble. You’ve been part of the BAU for almost two years now, and Hotch has spent just as much time tearing his eyes away from you as he has working. It’s wrong, and it’s wholly inappropriate in terms of your working relationship—he’s your boss, for god’s sake.

But sometimes, Hotch will be beating himself up over one thing or another on a case, and you’ll plant yourself in his vicinity and refuse to leave until you’ve helped him work through it. If you ever tire of the FBI, he thinks you have a second calling as an elementary school teacher.

Sometimes the hotel they’re staying at will have truly shitty coffee, worse than they’re used to at the BAU, and you’ll already be in the lobby with a tray full of the team’s orders. Hotch never recalls telling you his order—you just figured it out, and you remembered it.

Sometimes his gaze will drift your way, and he’ll find you already staring at him. You look away just as quickly as he does, and it makes him wonder.

Hotch has made a living off of studying the behavior of others. More often than not, he finds himself profiling his co-workers just out of instinct. His job is to know what others are thinking.

But god. When it comes to you, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever felt more unsure in his life. Especially when you look at him the same way he wants to for weeks, then act nothing but proper another day; when you fall asleep against his shoulder on the jet one night and entertain some desk jockey another night.

It makes him feel like a highschooler again, trying to figure out if Haley really liked him or if she was just playing around, and it’s more embarrassing than it should be. Especially when he’s still dealing with the lingering emotions from the divorce.

“Hotch.” JJ’s voice is enough to break him out of his trance, and he blinks as he turns to her. At least someone paid him the mercy to dispel his thoughts, even if only for a temporary time.

“What?”

“Did you hear a single word I said?” she asks, a slight smile curving on her lips.

“Of course,” he responds. “The chief’s over there talking with the commissioner. He’s the same guy who made your life difficult the last time we were in Milwaukee.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, and she nods. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I think he just got lucky,” Morgan cuts in, his gaze darting over to you momentarily. “I think you were too focused on our drinks.”

Reid frowns. “I don’t think he was focused on the drinks. He’s—”

“Just making sure they’re still coming,” Hotch interrupts, and he straightens his tie. Today really has been a long one—usually, he’s better at covering these things up. “And I wasn’t lucky. I was listening.”

“Trust me,” Morgan says with a laugh, “I’m watchin’ her until I’ve got a glass in my hand. She’s not getting out of this after the way she bragged this whole month.”

“The stupidest thing to make a bet on,” Prentiss remarks, “especially with you.”

“She said she just wanted to prove you wrong,” Reid contributes. “She thinks you’re too cocky.”

Morgan grins. “It’s not cocky if you can back it up.”

Hotch’s attention goes back to you, and you’ve finally gotten their drinks. You’re loading them onto a tray like you’re the bartender yourself, and his brows crease. Maybe he should have gone up with you.

“Do you think she needs help?” he asks. How obvious is too obvious? Why does it feel like his brain only works at half power whenever it comes to you?

“She’ll be fine,” Prentiss says. “And if she needs it, that guy talking her up can help.”

“Jason Rodriguez,” Reid remarks. “He hung around her the whole time we were trying to pinpoint a location, and he wasn’t any help, which makes sense because he's practically desk-bound at the precinct. I’m surprised she got any work done.”

JJ chuckles. “I’m surprised he hasn’t given up yet. He’s been following her around all week, like some lost puppy.”

Morgan shrugs. “I dunno. She seems pretty into him.”

“I don’t think ex-frat boys are her type,” Prentiss says wryly. Hotch doesn’t think so either, but he doesn’t say anything. Contributing to this kind of conversation is certainly too obvious.

“I doubt we’ll be back here for a while. She might as well.” Morgan smiled. “She probably needs a win after such an embarrassing loss.”

Thankfully, before Hotch has to keep pretending not to care about this topic, you walk over carrying a tray of cocktails—and you’re alone. The subject of their previous conversation seems lost in the crowd, and he feels a dangerous amount of relief.

“Are you all talking about me?” you drawl.

“You know we are, sweetheart. Thought you were never gonna get here.” Morgan sits up, smiling at you. “What’d my win get us?”

“Long Island Iced Teas,” you muse as you set the tray down. “Enjoy it, because I’m gonna be working some overtime to make up for all these.”

Morgan grins as he takes his drink. “You should’ve never doubted my skills.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t need any help,” Prentiss says. “You’ve done this before, huh?”

“Bartended my way through college.” You slide into the booth next to Hotch, just a bit too close for a bit too long, and he hopes that no one can see his chest still for a moment. It’s impressive that he still hasn’t figured out how to lessen the effect you have on him. “I’ve probably got better hands than you, Morgan.”

“Do we need to make another bet?” he asks. “Because I’d love to clean out your wallet.”

“Maybe wait another month before you prey on any more poor, defenseless agents,” you croon, and Morgan laughs.

He pivots the conversation away from you when you pick up your drink and take a sip, and you look at Hotch. Whenever your gaze is on him, you make him feel like he’s the only person in the room. He’s sure you never look at anyone else that way, but Hotch wonders how much of that is his mind trying to justify his imagination.

“I’m surprised you agreed with this,” you say, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. “I thought you’d want us to go back tonight.”

“You all earned a night out after the work you did,” Hotch says. He thinks about taking a drink, but he decides against it, at least for now. He can barely trust his sober mind.

“You’ve earned it too,” you say. “We wouldn’t be anywhere without you, Hotch. You keep us all together.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever would’ve connected the dots like you and Reid can with Garcia. I hate unsubs with secret codes.”

“I’ve always liked puzzles,” you muse. “There’s nothin’ like it when it all finally clicks.”

Hotch hums, and for a moment, he’s silent. Your gaze remains fully on him, and that might be why he has trouble thinking. It’s too easy to get lost in your eyes.

“What did that guy say?” Hotch finally manages to ask, because he honestly can’t help it. Morgan’s points actually worried him a bit, and he wonders what that says about him. Ex-frat boy certainly isn’t your type, but someone forgettable for a one night stand isn’t the most absurd thing in the world.

Your brows knit together as you drink some more. “What guy?”

“The officer you were talking with,” he says. “He seemed to like you.”

He’d been flirting with you since the moment you stepped into the precinct, actually, desperate for your attention, but Hotch didn’t really want to say that. He’s sure you noticed either way, if the rest of the team did.

“Oh. Him.” You shrug. “He’s nice, I guess. Definitely a looker. But he’s got nothing beneath that hair.”

“Morgan’s surprised you didn’t bring him back,” Hotch says. He wonders if he’s pushing too much, and again, he feels like a highschooler testing the waters. Do you know what you do to him? What you reduce him to?

You shrug as you take a sip. “If he knows what’s good for him, he knows he doesn’t have a chance. My attention’s on someone else.”

Prentiss calls your name and you get drawn back into the middle of the team’s conversation, and thankfully, Hotch has a chance to digest your words—and the stunner of a smile you flash at him before you get pulled into their talk.

His decision to not drink seems even wiser, now. Hotch has to loosen his tie, and he ignores Reid watching him. It’s futile trying to hide anything from Spencer Reid—the kid already knows everything.

Again, it's dangerous how much satisfaction he gets from it—from knowing you never really paid that officer a second thought. You didn’t smile at him the way you smile at Hotch. You don’t smile at anyone the way you smile at Hotch. He thought he was imagining it at first, or that he was just a bit too stuck up, but it was the honest truth. You paid him special attention, and he couldn’t blame the warmth in his chest from the thought on any alcohol.

He tunes back into the conversation just to hear Morgan demand you pay for his next drink.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you say.

He puts a hand to his chest. “Generous? You’re just paying what you owe me.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Pick your poison, pretty boy.”

“How do you feel about tequila?”

You make a noise of disgust and shake your head. “As long as I don’t have to drink it.”

“You’re just paying, sweetheart.” Morgan’s eyes dart to Hotch, and he nods as he grins. “One for me and our fearless leader.”

Hotch shakes his head. “Someone has to get us back to the hotel.”

“That’s what cabs are for!” Prentiss exclaims. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Hotchner. You deserve to let a little loose.”

“It takes most people an hour to process a drink,” Reid contributes, “so you’ll be fine before we leave if you want to drive.”

“Come on, Hotch,” you say, and you nudge his shoulder. “You might as well—I’m paying.”

“...Fine,” he says, and the whole team cheers. Even Reid smiles.

“Y’know, you can smile tonight, Hotch,” you say with one of your own before you down the rest of your drink and stand up.

And one actually tugs at his lips. It feels a lot hotter in this bar with your eyes sparkling and you beaming right at him, and he fights the need to shed his jacket. Your grin somehow grows.

“That’s what I came out to see,” you remark as you pick your wallet back up from the table. “I expect another when I get back, Hotch. There’s a lot to celebrate tonight.”

Yeah, he thinks as he watches you go. There just might be.

#me ignoring all my wips for a hot man?? it's more likely than you think #also ive listened to too sweet on repeat for like 3 hours i dont want to take my whiskey neat anymore #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #sadie writes

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atlabeth · 1 year

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another day - aleksander morozova

part 2

summary: general kirigan saves you. but nothing comes without a price.

a/n: yes this is me in my shadow and bone era. what do you have to say about it

wc: 2.2k

warning(s): canon levels of violence, drowning + murder, but mostly in mini flashbacks, typical darkling manipulation. probably ooc but this is my first fic for the grishaverse so give me some grace pls

drüskelle = witchhunter

drüsje = witch

strymakt fjerdan = fjerdan might

You were drowning.

You were drowning in a storm of your own creation, water filling up your lungs, salt stinging your eyes, screams echoing all around you, you were killing them—

A shuddering gasp tore out of you as you surged up, and haggard breaths ripped through you. You weren’t in water, you were alone, but you still couldn’t breathe, your chest rising and falling as quick as your heart beat.

Your hands found purchase in the sheets below you, clawing at the rough linen as you pulled your legs up to your chest, each breath quicker in succession. Your eyes darted around, taking in your surroundings—far too nice to be a prison cell, far too warm to still be in Fjerda—and slowly, you began to calm down.

Perhaps that wasn’t the correct phrase. You’d managed to control your breathing to a respectable level, but you certainly were not calm—last you remember, you were in a fight for your life against some lovely drüskelle, and now you were in…

Saints, you had no idea where you were.

But you were not dead, and that counted for something indeed.

Carefully, cautiously, you stood up from the bed. Your quarters could be considered a room in the barest sense of the word, consisting of a small bed shoved in the corner and little else. You shivered slightly, and you glanced down at your clothes. At least they hadn’t taken the tattered rags you’d been traveling in for ages, you thought wryly.

Nicer than a Fjerdan prison cell, true, though that didn’t mean you were not a prisoner. Wherever you’d ended up might treat their captives slightly better than your home.

You were dry, though. Both of water and blood, which you realized no longer stained your arms. Your injuries had healed as well, scabs and thin white lines in place of cuts and slashes.

You could certainly mark Fjerda off your list, then. There wasn’t a single soldier who would have treated you with such kindness.

That was the strangest thing. You were not dead.

You were just about to try the door when you heard the lock click, and you stumbled back as it opened. Your heart hammered in your chest at the sight of a man in the doorway, though he had the decency to pause when he saw you.

“Ah,” he said, his lip curling in the smallest of smiles, “you’re finally awake.”

“Where am I?” you asked, and your voice was raspy from disuse. How long had you been asleep?

“I believe introductions should be our first order,” he said, and he closed the door.

You took a step back, hands clenched at your side.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “It would be rather foolish of me after all the work I put in saving you.”

Screams. Your screams, faltering in beats as you fought with everything in you. Ragged, from your very core, because you were going to die.

“You saved me,” you repeated, little more than a whisper.

“Do you remember?” the man asked, gaze unmoving from your face. His irises were of pure darkness, black as the loneliest night, and you felt wholly and completely bare in front of him. Another shiver ran down your spine. “You were hardly alive when we found you.”

Wrenched out of the water, limbs leaden and heart thundering as you were forced to your knees. Exhaustion tore through you, black spots dotting your vision, and the dead men in the shallows gave you no satisfaction because soon you would join them.

You nodded shakily.

“Good. That will make this easier.”

“The drüskelle,” you managed. “What happened to them?”

“I killed the commander with the knife to your throat, but he was the only one left. The rest of the lot were drowned.” Again, the beginnings of a smile, morbid for the conversation. “By your hand.”

He knew. Saints, he knew, and you were locked in a room with him with no way out, and you’d gotten away from the drüskelle just to die here.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said. He could hear the beat of your heart, surely, how it wanted to pound out of your chest. “Fjerdan waters are dangerous on their own, nevermind in a storm—”

“There is no point in lying,” he interrupted pointedly. “You’re a Tidemaker, and a powerful one at that.”

Your heart sank. You couldn’t escape, not from here, not in your state, not in the driest Saintsforsaken room you’d ever been in—

“I already told you,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe here. You’re in Ravka. Os Alta.”

You frowned. “Ravka— how?”

“You’re Grisha,” the man said. “You belong here.”

And like lightning, it hit you.

“The Darkling,” you whispered. The step you took back was one of instinct, but your legs hit the side of the bed and they nearly buckled.

You weren’t the most educated on Ravka and its government, but one learned some things about their homeland’s fiercest enemy. You knew of the Second Army and their Grisha, of General Kirigan— the man that now stood in front of you, the man that had brought you back from Death’s door.

Sënje Magda, save you now.

“You have no reason to fear me,” Kirigan said. “Truly, I do not want to hurt you. I’m only here to help you.”

You huffed a mirthless laugh. “What could you possibly want with me?”

“You’re Fjerdan,” he said, “correct?”

You nodded.

“You’ve survived there all your life as a Grisha without anyone realizing,” he said. “You made it across half the country on your own with drüskelle tracking you for a quarter of it. And when they finally caught up to you, you destroyed their camp and killed the lot of them with nothing but your power.”

You raised your arms and the sea erupted around you. A tense second of silence hung in the air before you threw your hands down and roared, guttural and primal and broken, and brought the world down upon them.

Blood pounded in your ears. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

“And I do not malign you for it,” the Darkling said. “What they do to our kind is barbaric. I took pleasure in ending their commander.”

“You call us the monsters and then murder all my men,” he spat, wrenching your head backwards by your hair to bare your neck. The blade rested threateningly against your skin, but you were numb to the cold. “I should have ended you long ago, drüsje.”

Your fingers ghosted up to your neck. You could feel the slightly raised scar. “I thank you for it.”

“Believe me,” he said with a slight chuckle—you were surprised a man such as himself was able to laugh— “it was the easiest part of my day.”

“How long was I out?” you asked, the question clawing at your mind.

“A week,” Kirigan said, and your eyes widened. “It took us time to get from the coast back to the Little Palace, and you hardly even stirred the entire carriage ride. You truly pushed your abilities to the limit against the drüskelle. You were like ice, freezing and unmoving—I believe my Heartrender was the only reason you made it back. You’ve been resting here since then. I’ve been waiting for you to awaken.”

Your throat bobbed. He truly was responsible for your life, for getting you out of your wretched homeland.

You shivered. You didn’t like the idea of being in debt to the Darkling.

Kirigan looked at you for a moment more then shed his coat, fabric as black as his eyes pooling around his hands as he offered it to you.

“Oh,” you began, “no—”

“Please,” he interrupted. “I want you to be comfortable. You deserve that much after what you’ve been through. I do not know if it’s from your being a Tidemaker, but you are always frozen.”

You hesitated, but you took it and slipped it on. Your skin was indeed cold to the touch—the rags you called your clothes weren’t much aid—and you had to admit that it helped.

“You will have clothes of your own soon,” Kirigan said. “And you will get a kefta as well, fit to your measurements.”

Your brows knit together. “What are you talking about?”

“You know of the Second Army,” he said, “how the Grisha serve Ravka.”

“I— but— I’m not—” you stammered, unable to form a full sentence, embarrassing as it was.

“Yes?” he said, almost patronizing. Your cheeks burned.

“I’m not Ravkan,” you managed. “I have no place in your army.”

“That is of no matter,” the Darkling said. “We take in Grisha from all over—Shu Han, Novyi Zem, Fjerda. Many willingly serve, especially from your homeland. I’ve worked with many Fjerdan Grisha and they all prefer honorable service to persecution.”

“So that’s why you rescued me,” you said stiffly. “So I could serve you.”

“Officially, you serve the King,” Kirigan said. “But in time, I would like you by my side.”

You shook your head, tightening your grip on his coat if only from instinct. “I don’t see how I can help you.”

“Then you clearly know nothing of yourself,” the Darkling said. “Surviving in Fjerda as a Grisha is no easy feat, nor is the journey you’ve made. Alone, at that.”

“Strymakt Fjerdan,” you said dryly. “That’s what my brother always told me.”

His lips quirked upwards. “Of course. But you know what you’ve done, the power you hold. You raised the sea and ended those men without any training. Imagine what you could do with Ravka’s resources at your hands.”

“I don’t want to fight,” you said weakly as you sat back on the bed. “I don’t want this power— I never wanted to be a Grisha. I just want to live a normal life without looking over my shoulder every second.”

“We do not get the chance to live normal lives,” the Darkling said softly. We, he kept saying, like he could understand what you were going through. As if he was like you, like you had any similarities beyond Grisha blood. “You are a Tidemaker—there is no running from it. Your only choice is what you make of it.”

The Darkling moved closer in your uncertain silence, taking a seat beside you. He carried an aura of power with him, not just in his abilities but in the way he moved. His assertions, his statements, it all seemed true just because of his demeanor. It was hard to think around a man like him, but you forced through it.

“You have the chance to be truly great,” Kirigan urged, and it bothered you how much it sounded like he believed it. “You were born Grisha for a reason, with your strength and resolve and bravery for a reason. A Tidemaker forged through the fire of Fjerda. You belong here, at the Little Palace, in Ravka—with me.”

He looked at you with such intensity that it took your breath away. You hardly knew him, he hardly knew you, and yet Kirigan spoke as if he would lay down his life for you, as if he expected you to do the same.

“Join me,” the Darkling murmured, “and you will never lay at the foot of another again.”

You stared into his eyes, a lingering abyss that called to you. Your skin itched just looking at him, discomfort and intrigue and a desperate need to know more boiling over inside of you.

You had no choice. Kirigan knew that as much as you did, no matter how much he presented it as one.

You didn’t want to fight Ravka’s wars. You didn’t want to serve a king who’d done nothing to help you, to be part of an army that waged terror against your homeland.

But what else was there for you? You had nothing, no one waiting for you back in your homeland. No family, no lover, not even a bed to your name. If you stepped foot in Fjerda again, you would be hunted to extinction.

The Darkling was offering you life itself, a chance for another day. Wasn’t that what you’d been fighting for all along? Clawing through Fjerdan winters, surviving at the barest margins every day, losing more of yourself with every body you left behind you—all so you could escape the brand of drüsje and live like any other woman.

The life of a Grisha was not the life you wanted, but it was life. Only a fool would pass it up, no matter what it entailed.

You were many things, but you were not a saintsdamned fool.

“Okay,” you rasped, and your throat bobbed. “Okay. I’ll join you.”

The Darkling smiled, dark eyes crinkling at the side, and you had the strangest thought of his beauty. “Excellent.”

He placed his hand on your forearm, his surprising warmth shocking against the cold of your skin as he pulled you towards him. Power swelled up inside you even at the slightest touch, and you gasped at the feeling of it, icy fire erupting inside of you. The temperature plummeted inside the room and the frozen chill creeped through your veins.

“My Tidemaker,” he whispered. "We are going to do marvelous things together.”

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator @louderfortheback

#the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #general kirigan x reader #the darkling fic #aleksander morozova fic #the darkling #aleksander morozova #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone fic #x reader #sadie writes #yes he is manipulating her but he's so sweet about it<3

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