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pkg4mumtown · 19 hours ago

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Scream (‘Til There’s Silence)

Pairing: Ghostface!Hotch x GN!Reader

Rating: Explicit / R

Summary: A serial killer comes to your small town. Will the FBI finally catch him?

Content Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, murder, stabbing/knives, manipulation, stalking, sexual content, strong violence, choking, GN!reader (no Y/N, usage of ‘mouse’ as a nickname), strong language, first person POV, Ghostface is his own warning

A/N: HEED ALL WARNINGS!! Keep yourself safe, seriously. Just because I wrote this does not mean I condone any of these actions in real life. This is a work of fiction. Also, if I missed any warnings, please let me know.

Now, POSTING TWO FICS IN ONE WEEKEND?? Who the hell am I? I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it. Also, enjoy the art and custom Ghostface costume that Hotchy-boy wears. Also, do not talk to me about plot holes lolll

I made an unsub playlist inspired by some of the Criminal Minds unsubs. I’ve embedded it below. A few in that playlist that gave me vibes for this fic were: Change (in the house of flies), Scream, Possum Kingdom, and Tear You Apart.

Also available on AO3

Aaron POV

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

A satisfied hum left Aaron’s throat as the young woman's heart finally stopped beating underneath his hand.

It was his favorite part, feeling the life drain out of their bodies. Choosing who and how each innocent person met their end. It felt different from killing an unsub on the job, which didn’t satisfy him whatsoever. In those cases, he usually preferred the satisfaction of outsmarting them through the legal system. He had only killed a handful of unsubs as Ghostface, ones that were legally elusive to the BAU and needed something more permanent. Still—it wasn’t the same. Sure, he still felt them die but they never fulfilled his prey drive. The terrified screams, the vulnerable situations…no. People like him didn’t do that. They fought back with anger, stoicism, and a little glee. They watched their back, paranoid of the government. They were armed more often than not.

Not satisfying at all.

Only once did he have to kill an unsub as Ghostface to protect his identity, the unsub having profiled him right back with terrifying accuracy. Foyet was able to clock that monster inside of him and despite the expressionless façade he gave the older man, it was jarring. Dare he say he was actually scared for once in his adult life. So, Foyet had to go, simple as that. But he let the older man die with his suspicions confirmed about Aaron. Let him watch the grin that pulled across Aaron's teeth as the knife slid into Foyet's heart with a satisfying grunt. It was poetic, and okay, maybe a little satisfying.

Ghostface had become such a problem that he was made a priority case for the BAU, the file having permanent residence on their desks since the killer—since Aaron—drove Jason Gideon to leave the FBI. Since Ghostface was directly responsible for David Rossi's reinstatement with the FBI. Since SSA Aaron Hotchner was made the golden boy to spearhead the Ghostface investigation. Oh, how giddy it made Aaron to see the rest of the BAU's frustration every time a new case popped up.

Yanking the long hunting knife out of his current victim's body, Aaron squinted underneath his mask for anything he might have missed—a rarity, but he liked to take precautions anyway. He had designed a mask that provided very little in the way of field of view, so he always took extra care with his surroundings. It was entirely his fault for the poor design but he wouldn't be caught dead in that cheap, plastic costume mask. Plus, he enjoyed the design process and threw in a little flair for the dramatic with sharp angles and pointed teeth.

He checked his watch, clasped neatly over a black, stretchy base layer he wore to keep his body hair at bay. It made him sweat like hell underneath the ribbed, long sleeve thermal, tactical pants, and cowl he wore but this was how he lived his life.

The plan was relatively simple each time. Aaron picked a city when they had a stretch of time off, drove there—because planes were obviously out of the question—paid cash for everything, found an easy victim, and terrorized the town for a few days. Usually racking up two to four bodies to get the police on high alert. His team unwound with vacations and family. Aaron? He preferred a different kind of alone time to unwind.

When the BAU was inevitably called in he would terrorize the town a little more in between working the case and find an easy scumbag to pin it on.

It was stupid how easy it all was when citizens and police were desperate to find a killer in a small town. They were willing overlook discrepancies and blame just about any bad guy in the town if they remotely fit the bill. They usually chalked it up to Ghostface copycats and despite the profile saying otherwise—Aaron didn’t mind a damn bit that the murders were blamed on a copycat. Anyone but him was good enough.

They didn’t even have a definitive profile on him, too many theories about whether he worked alone or if these “copycats"—copycats that didn’t exist—were a network of unsubs posing as Ghostface killers. Theories on if the continued murders were because they were catching the wrong people and the real Ghostface wanted recognition. In reality, it was easier for people to believe that one person couldn’t be this demented and bloodthirsty.

This was his last one for this stretch, having terrorized East Liverpool, Ohio enough for the moment. He had to report to work in oh…twenty-seven hours anyway. Roughly six hours to drive back to Virginia with no toll roads—cameras equal bad—time to stash his spare car, clean his equipment, etcetera. It was a full day ordeal.

Checking his secondary phone, one he set up to receive voice-mail from his work phone—which sat lonely in his apartment—showed a lack of incoming messages. He was grateful because it was a pain to locate public Wi-Fi or spoof a location on short notice, especially at 3:00 AM.

Humming to himself, he exited the house. He made sure that the neighbors security system caught a blur of movement as he arranged some staged, bloody equipment as a false disposal site and took off.

Aaron’s actual bloody equipment was wrapped neatly in plastic and stored in an aftermarket storage he created in the car—just in case he was pulled over. When he was safely in his spare car, Aaron still didn’t take his face covering—the one he wore underneath the Ghostface mask—off right away. He was too cautious of cameras despite the small city. He would wait until he was on a dark stretch of highway where he could quickly put some normal clothes on and change his license plate.

It's not until he does just that, that he feels wet, slick mud transfer onto his hands as he takes his boots off. It’s not the texture that makes him curse. It’s not even getting his hand dirty that makes him stop. It’s how high the mud was on his boot and how clear of a print he might have left that makes him overthink and wonder. Wonder where he left it, specifically, and if it would even get noticed.

Aaron quickly shook it off. He’s on a highway and doesn’t need to draw attention to himself.

People were dumb.

He was smart.

It would all work out.

It took all of two days for the small town of East Liverpool to get overwhelmed. The East Liverpool Police Department had a whopping twenty patrol officers to cover the nearly ten thousand citizens. Their station was lacking in equipment, forcing them to call in the Columbiana County Sheriff's Department for assistance with the three murders Aaron left behind. CCSD was barely any better in the personnel department.

The BAU was called in by the ELPD Chief, something Aaron expected, though he gave them much less credit and had estimated a day at most. The flight was quicker than the twelve-hour round-trip Aaron subjected himself to.

As soon as they arrived, Aaron was splitting his team up amongst the different crime scenes. He sent Rossi and JJ to the first murder to see if they could get a handle on victimology and patterns. Reid and Morgan went to the second to see what else they could get for their profile and set up a timeline.

Aaron needed to be at the most recent one to see if he really did fuck up. The evidence there was the freshest, so if he needed to fix anything, he would do it here without alerting Prentiss.

Aaron and Emily arrived to the modest, single-story house with police tape blocking off the front lawn. A few citizens were gathered, worried expressions as they murmured amongst each other and stared down the federal agents. Their glares felt like they blamed the agents for the massacre.

Well, that was sort of true.

The scene was quiet, eerily so, except for the murmur of officers and the clicking of cameras. As many Ghostface crime scenes as they’d been do, Emily couldn’t help the breath that left her throat at seeing the blood all over the walls as the victim was chased—hunted—in their own home. The interior was disturbingly pristine with no overturned furniture, no forced entry, nothing impulsive. Just controlled violence.

The body was in no better condition.

Cuts were strewn over the young woman's body, a common torture seen in these murders, with deeper stab wounds, and ending with a final deadly stab to the heart.

One thing that had always helped Aaron was his lack of preference in victimology. Well, maybe “vulnerable" was a preference but he could make just about anyone feel that way with a little bit of effort. The ones that spiraled into madness were extra special to him.

A detective—Hotch presumed—stepped out of a hallway to greet them, accompanied by a crime scene investigator with a camera hanging around their neck.

“Detective Miller,” she introduced herself. “We were both brought in from Columbiana County,” she gestured to the tech.

County or city didn’t matter. In an area like this? Aaron was confident wherever he left his boot print wouldn’t matter.

“Run us through it?” Emily asked.

The detective looked at the forensic investigator, who comically pointed at themselves in question. Another urgent nod from the detective and the nervous investigator finally started speaking.

After introducing themselves, they stuttered before speaking under the heavy gaze of the federal agents. It was irking Aaron that they couldn't get a word out but also gave him more confidence that these departments were not equipped to handle this.

“R-uh-right, so the killer entered here through the side window. We have a couple boot prints on the floor, but they’re too smudged to see much. Looks like the killer ambushed her here in the living room and started slashing. The sprays here and here indicate they were running toward the hallway where the victim fell. They didn’t move from there and the pooling suggests this is where the victim died. No prints or hair here but we did find camera footage from a neighbor across the street showing the killer disposing of evidence in the foliage. I did bag some traces of hair from those clothes that we’re testing now back at the county lab.”

Aaron was surprised. Not necessarily at any of the information because it was pretty spot on but surprised at the accuracy and detail as the forensic investigator continued explaining. The hairs were also not surprising. He planted those himself on the false evidence with short, red hair he snatched from someone in town.

He liked his chances, so far.

“Anything else?”

“Yea, well,” the investigator started and stopped. “Yes, actually. But a thing about the hair we found with those disposed clothes...it felt…I don’t know. Out of place?”

“I told you not to speculate like this,” The detective interrupted sternly.

Aaron cocked his head, intrigued at what the investigator had to say but would wait patiently.

“Sorry, Miller,” they shifted awkwardly.

Hotch nodded along, feigning impartial analysis. Internally, he scrutinized the investigator, watching for any sign that they picked up on anything else that was crucial.

Emily chimed in, “This level of organization is consistent with the other two. It’s almost surgical how controlled the scenes are.”

The investigator’s eyes brightened despite the glare of the detective warning them to back off.

“T-that's what I thought, too,” the investigator blurted out. “I’ve read up on the past cases you worked and I know there’s stuff left behind often but it doesn’t feel…right. The murders are so meticulously planned, with no evidence, and the killer throws stuff in a bush or makes rookie mistakes? We found a boot print on the side of the house and I know some of the ones you’ve caught haven’t even done that. I’ll show you. Follow me and—er—watch your step.”

As everyone stepped outside, two more SUVs rolled up to the house, the rest of the team getting out and walking toward the house. None of them looked like they had anything important to share which pleased Aaron.

“We found a boot print back here in the mud. It was raining early last week, so the ground has been pretty soft,” the investigator guided everyone around to the side the killer entered from.

Aaron suddenly remembered feeling like he had lost his footing climbing in through the window. It was the mud. He hung back in the group following behind Reid.

“Just watch your step he—”

The forensic investigator was cut off as the front of Hotch’s shoe met the instep of Reid's foot as the group turned the corner. Reid stumbled and Hotch did his “best" to grab the back of the younger man's collar to yank him back but wasn’t fast enough. Reid's foot stepped in the mud next to the print, distorting the print near the heel.

“—re…” the investigator sucked their lips in, an awkward smile pulling across their features. “And I thought the city guys were bad.”

Morgan snorted as Reid pulled his foot out of the mud. The rest of the team consisted of varying levels of cringing and head shaking while Aaron did his best to hold in the devious laugh threatening to bubble up.

“Sorry…” Reid mumbled.

“It’s alright, we took the cast yesterday and they’re analyzing the print now. We’re estimating size eleven boots and one-eighty to two hundred pounds.”

Aaron’s elation promptly died. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers digging into his palm.

Derek stepped forward, frowning. “So, we’re looking at someone fit, strong, tall? Especially if he can get into this window. It’s a bit of a pull up.”

Emily nods. “Clearly trained if we're running with the idea that planting those clothes are forensic counter measures?”

The investigator turned back to the group, “I’m guessing you’ve seen that before?”

The forensic investigator’s eyes fixed mostly on Hotch, who looked calculating but conflicted.

“We have,” Rossi murmured.

Hotch's mouth formed a grim line but not because that theory is absolutely in one of their profiles of Ghostface. No. For the first time, Hotch studied the investigator not just as another mediocre forensic scientist, but as a genuine threat.

MC POV

Doing all I could at the underfunded and understaffed ELPD station, I made my way back to the Columbiana County Sheriff’s Station. About half of the BAU joined the twenty-minute drive to the station for a closer look at the findings our lab eventually called about.

The hair didn’t match DNA from any known criminal investigations, bringing us to a dead end right away. All we knew was that the color was a natural red, fairly thin, and that the hair was forcibly yanked versus falling out naturally.

The BAU theorized to no end.

“The hair could have gotten stuck to the mask when he ripped it off?”

“Could have ripped the hair off someone, too.”

I wasn’t satisfied with the dead end and left their conversation in the conference room Sheriff Tanner let them convene in, a step up from the dinky broom closet Chief Banks set up for them at ELPD. I retreated to the lab, moving on to the boot print. The forensics lab was cold, humming with fluorescent lights, the kind that made everything feel clinical and impersonal but I was too focused on my work. It was also empty, many of the other investigators having left for the night with no other evidence to examine in these murders.

That boot print shouldn't have been there.

Everything else was methodically cleaned up—no DNA, no fibers, no obvious traces. But the print was deep in the mud near the side of the house and was hidden enough in the bushes that most would have overlooked it.

I only noticed it by accident, seeing the bushes dented unnaturally as I examined the outside of the house.

We ran the tread pattern through several databases, cross-referencing it against law enforcement, military, and civilian models. Unfortunately, it was a common brand, nothing special or expensive.

But something about it stuck with me. A gut feeling I couldn’t seem to shake despite there being nothing helpful to go off.

This was a mistake.

An actual one. Not whatever cover ups were passing for mistakes in the other cases the FBI worked. The Ghostface murders rarely, if ever, had actual mistakes in the hunt itself. The killer took far too much pride in it to leave mistakes like that.

Then, my phone buzzed and interrupted the eerie silence. I clenched my jaw, worry building up in my throat despite knowing there were officers and agents just outside the doors.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated before answering, not usually one to answer unknown numbers, but something told me it was important.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a distorted voice crackled over the line.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

I rolled my eyes, how had someone gotten ahold of my number for prank calls?

“I’m hanging up. It’s a crime to prank call police departments,” I sighed, hoping to scare whatever idiot was on the other line.

My thumb hovered over the red circle to end the call, when the voice spoke again.

“You like playing detective, don’t you?” His voice sounding harsher but still robotic like a modulator. “You should be careful. It’s not good to be too smart.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine as his voice vibrated unnaturally.

“Who is this?” I asked dumbly. At this point, I knew full well who it was.

A soft chuckle passed through the receiver.

“Come on, sweetheart, you don’t have to dumb it down that much,” he just about giggled. “I’ve been watching you work. It’s impressive, really.”

The seriousness of the interaction finally dawned on me and I frantically tried to get my desk phone working to have Detective Miller run a trace.

“Ah, ah, none of that.”

“None of what?” I mentally cursed as I typed the wrong extension.

“Trying. To trace. The call,” he growled. “Maybe I was giving you too much credit. You’re playing dumb a little too well to be acting.”

I stopped pressing buttons, clenching my fist closed.

“We don’t want you getting hurt, do we?”

“Okay,” my throat tightened in fear, my breathing increasing.

I had hoped that the more he talked, the more I might recognize the rhythm of his voice. Unfortunately, it wasn’t recognizable, not to anyone I knew at least. But, the way it spoke—calm, assured, with a hint of humor—it made my stomach turn.

“What do you want?” I finally worked up the nerve to ask.

“I just wanted to say how much I admire your work,” he cooed, voice shifting to another ragged growl in an instant. “But you’re getting a little too…interested…for my taste. Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, really. It makes me wonder how enthusiastic you are for cock,” he snickered over the line.

All I could do was clench my teeth. Any threat I wanted to throw at him was meaningless, not when he could easily do to me what he did to those innocent people. I made a mental note to keep my gun out and ready at home until this case was solved.

“I’ll see you soon, little mouse.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Hours later, I had changed gears again, going over crime scene photos and camera footage from residences. I was waiting on the FBI’s analyst to look over the footage for height estimates. Most of the footage was unusable, but the blurred mask in the corner of the screen was haunting me. It was like he did it on purpose, got just enough of himself in frame to guide us where to look.

And we were falling for it.

I was startled out of my trance by a hand on my shoulder. Reaching for the wrist quickly, I grabbed ahold and turned my chair in one motion.

Oh.

“Agent Hotchner,” I sighed, gulping and putting a hand over my rapidly beating heart.

“Reflexes are good but you should probably not have both of those in,” he gestured to my earbuds.

“Yeah, um,” I cleared my throat. “Was there something I could help with?”

“Oh, no. We’re going to get some shut eye and come back with fresh eyes,” he leaned his hip against my desk, glancing briefly over the files on my desk. “Long night?”

“Long couple of days actually. Just one murder scene is rough enough on us. But three? Most of the techs that went home today hadn't slept in a couple days.”

“I imagine it would be hard to considering...,” he added.

“Yea,” I glanced at my screen again. “It’s freaky. How do you guys manage?”

“We usually partner up and sleep in shifts,” he sighed. “You shouldn't be here this late, though. Finish it at home.”

“I was probably going to sleep here. Feels safer.”

His head cocked slowly to the side, looking at my expression where I was focused on the screen and not on him, “Did...something happen?” His gaze flickered to the entrance of the lab before looking back at me.

“I just—no—I, uhm,” I stumbled over my words, lying poorly through my teeth.

His gaze was so heavy. Why was it so heavy? Why wouldn’t he look away?

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

I hesitated, but the pinched look on his forehead softened and he let himself smile just the slightest.

Was it stupid considering my thoughts on the killer?

Yes.

Would it be stupid to leave alone?

Also, yes.

Would I hate myself if I fell asleep under my desk?

Most definitely.

I nodded, and picked up the file to look over at home, stuffing my notes underneath all of the official paperwork in the file. I gathered my other belongings and shutdown my computer for the night.

The air outside was crisp and cold. I felt myself looking around wildly at each pitch-black space created by the old street lights and dim glow of the moon. The streets were mostly deserted, the only cars left in the parking lot being the night shift deputies. Even Agent Hotchner’s team was gone.

“Where do they have you holed up?” I asked as I climbed into the SUV.

“Uh, some motel back in East Liverpool.”

I knew the one. There weren’t even many options anyway. One motel there and one bed & breakfast. One hotel across the river (and state lines) and one a half an hour north.

I directed Agent Hotchner where to go, my house being just on the outskirts of East Liverpool. You could say I was a little invested to catch the serial killer based on that fact alone. The leather seats had barely warmed up to my body heat when he spoke again.

“Your talents are wasted here,” he spoke.

If I had a nickel for every time someone complimented my work today...well, I’d have two. And one of those was from a serial killer, so I didn't know if I even wanted the nickel.

“Thank you?”

“Just saying. You’ve caught a lot of details that many small departments miss in cases like this. A lot of them are so eager to see it go away that they don't make conclusions based on the evidence.”

“It’s my job,” I stated simply.

“It is,” he agreed. “But you’re better than your average forensic investigator. Have you ever thought about bigger departments? The Bureau, even? I can pull some strings if you ever wanted to apply.”

“I like helping the communities I grew up in,” I shrugged.

“Shame,” he hummed.

He soon pulled up to my house, following my directions to a T. Agent Hotchner put the car in park but I didn't immediately move to get out. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, he looked over at me as I stared out through the windshield.

“I lied earlier,” I finally murmured, glancing at my dark house with only the porch light on.

“About?”

“I think Ghostface called me.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d ‘see me soon’,” I punctuated with finger quotes and scoffed. “Can you believe that bullshit?” I shook my head, feeling the fear rising like bile.

“He has an obsessive personality. There's been evidence of victims being stalked and called repeatedly. You’ve seen the phone records,” Agent Hotchner shrugged. “So, yea I can believe it.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at the house once more. I was being ridiculous.

“Let me walk you up and clear the house,” he nodded his head toward my house.

“It’s fine, that’s not necessary—,” I shook my head and moved to open the door.

“Humor me,” he smirked and shut the car off.

I finally relented and jumped out of the SUV, leading the tall agent to my front door. I hadn’t led a man to my door in ages, but that was beside the point. I unlocked the door and stepped aside, following him into the house and shutting the door behind me. His gun was drawn and his steps made virtually no sound—besides the old wood creaking beneath his weight—as he cleared every inch of my house. Every movement was practiced and deliberate from years of training, each lock, window, and room checked with efficiency.

It was kind of hot.

Which was a big deal for me as I tended to ignore the advances of the cops at the station.

I poured a glass of water as he finished up in my living room, setting the file I brought with me on the counter and my bags on the floor. I heard the back door open, as he presumably checked outside, then closed and locked again.

“You live alone?” his voice was casual, as he came into the kitchen, but the realization of it made me uneasy. “Not even a dog?”

I shrugged.

He stared at me again, a little too long, just like before.

“That’s dangerous.”

I nearly choked on the water I was drinking. Clearly, he thought just about everything I did was dangerous.

The way his voice deepened when his voice lowered in volume and the way he smiled, small and almost imperceptible made my skin tingle. I couldn't tell if it was a bad feeling or a good one and I was just out of practice.

“Well, this area doesn’t normally have trouble like this.”

Silence hung heavy between us as he made no move to announce his exit.

“I’ll stay,” he offered. “You’ll be safe and you can get some rest.”

“That’s not necessary,” I protested weakly.

“Well, I think it is. He’s threatened all of us at least once.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, finally nodding, “Okay.”

Agent Hotchner nodded, “Be right back.” He opened the front door quickl;y and jogged outside and I was compelled to watch is back as he opened the back of the SUV to get his go-bag.

I let out a breath as he came back in safe and sound.

He ditched his bag near the door, finding his way back to me in the kitchen and leaning on the counter.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Not really.”

“Yeah, me either.”

He looked down in thought, then took a step closer. His eyes darted all over my face, looking for any sign that I would push him away. He stepped closer still, hand reaching out and brushing the wrist of my hand that was propped on the counter while the other held my water. If I had been any weaker, the glass would have probably slipped out of my hand. His touch lingered longer than necessary, the tension growing in the room. His half-lidded expression casted the slightest of shadows over his eyes with his eyelashes.

Wow, they were pretty.

As if he expected me to drop the glass, he gently took it from my hand with his free hand. His stature, demeanor, presence...it was all overwhelming—commanding, like he could see right through me. The logical part of me screamed that he had no business standing this close and looking at me like that.

This was exactly what you didn't do in a scary movie.

And yet, when he leaned in, my breath hitched.

“You should trust me,” he murmured.

I didn't have the bandwidth to analyze the choice of words.

‘Should.’

Not ‘can’.

‘You should...?’

‘You can...?’

Against my better judgement, when I felt his mouth on mine, I responded by immediately grabbing his lapels and pulling him closer.

Aaron POV

Aaron didn’t normally do this: sleep with the object of his obsession. He killed them. That was the whole point.

But, they were so scared.

So alone.

So brilliant.

So willing.

From the second he walked into the lab and to their desk, he fantasized about how easy it would have been to drive his knife into their back. Over. And over. And over.

He saw that spark. The one he saw when his victims were fighting that fear, trying to keep from spiraling out of control. And, oh, how he wanted to make them crack.

With how guarded they were, Aaron was surprised they even told him about the call. As they did, though, he had to dig his thumbnail into his finger when they called his carefully crafted praise, ‘bullshit’. He would address that later.

He could see the fear in the way they shifted in his car, staring at the dark, empty house. Oh, it made him so excited. So, he played the action hero: clearing the house and making sure there were no cameras, animals, or lovers to get in his way.

No cameras? Check.

No animals? Check.

They tore into his dress shirt, belt, pants, boxers. Oh, that was warm, oh. His fingers gripped the counter tightly, his head thrown back in pleasure.

No lovers? Check. Double—no—triple check, even.

Aaron wasn’t averse to sex by any means. It was the people, the feelings, the time, and the effort that all made him grimace at it. Luckily, it was easy to ignore with his day job.

Pulling their mouth off his cock—why were they so good at that—he practically dragged them over to the bedroom he located earlier and pushed them not-so-gently onto the bed and stripped whatever garments were left.

It was almost cute how they fumbled in their drawer for a condom. Aaron was actually grateful for the precaution, not wanting to leave more DNA here than he needed to and waited impatiently for them to grab everything they needed.

His patience was short-lived.

He was a busy man, after all.

Clenching his jaw, he took the items and unceremoniously dropped them on the bed. Wrapping a large hand around their ankle, he dragged them back down into a laying position and covered their body with his. As calculated and methodical as Aaron was, he was rushing. He had a limited amount of time to put them to sleep, dig through their shit, drop another body, and get back in their bed before it was time to get back to work. If he was lucky, he might get to enjoy another round in the morning.

Pressing into their warm, welcoming body was a struggle of control. He wanted nothing more than to take and take, but he was Aaron Hotchner right now—a simple, sex deprived, busy, stoic, charming government agent. He had to check in, be attentive, and obviously make them cum, too.

Ugh.

So, he slowed down, mindful of his fingers digging bruises into their body. The last thing he needed was them looking at their arm and realizing the prints were the same size as the prints on the victims. It was a long shot, but Aaron had already fucked up with the boot.

He stared at them amidst the thrusting, no longer looking like a staring idiot since they were otherwise preoccupied. The way they moaned his last name, reaching for him and the weight he provided, the way they gripped his hair...it was all so needy. He hated to love it. He'd much prefer to hear them scream. Actually—he could do that part. But he’d enjoy their screams of terror so much more.

Hotchner

Hotch

Hot--

Oh, there was the scream. And it was pretty damn close.

Their neck was tense and long as they came. It was so inviting. It would be so easy to tear into and make a mess. He didn't even let himself bite down and have a taste of their skin, knowing he’d get too carried away. Kissing them was much safer.

He came shortly after with a series of grunts, sighing against their lips. Pressing one last kiss there, he retreated. Aaron was careful to not make a mess as he tied off the condom, wondering how to get this wrapped up and into his bag without suspicion.

“Water?” he asked and they nodded gratefully.

It was a little brave to bring his bag into their house but a little thrill never hurt. Plus, he was prepared. Digging through his bag, he pulled out some over the counter sleeping pills that he’d crushed ages ago.

It should be relatively tasteless, though, tasting the water...

He grimaced.

The chalky pills might actually be an improvement.

Ensuring they dissolved and his DNA was safely stashed away, he drank an untampered glass of water, washed the cup, and brought the other back to the bedroom with a damp paper towel for any messes they might have made together. When he did, they were staring out their bedroom windows through the cracks in the blinds.

“Are you okay?” he asked, snapping them out of their thoughts.

Aaron handed over the glass, eyes widening as they gulped down the entire thing.

That was easy.

“Yea, just thought I saw...something...outside.”

Aaron fought back a snort. The paranoia was setting in, goodie.

“I can do a sweep outside really quickly?” he offered.

“No, no. I think I’m just tired and imagining things,” they settled deeper into the covers.

Wordlessly, he slipped in behind them, wrapping an arm over their waist and brushing his lips over their shoulder, “Just let me know if you need me to make you more tired,” he hummed, smiling as he pressed himself against their back.

They laughed. An honest to God laugh.

Aaron didn't get those much. It was...weird.

The pills set in quickly, but Aaron gave it a good hour to make sure they were in a deeper sleep. The way the front door had creaked loudly when the two of them came in meant he was definitely using the back door he checked.

First, though, he needed to look through their notes. Untangling himself from the bed carefully, he placed a pillow in his place. He started changing, wanting to be ready to dash if he needed to. Dressed, except for his Ghostface mask and cowl, he flipped open the file. He had watched them throw the notes into the file earlier—where were they?

Tucked behind all of the documentation were handwritten notes. He was a little excited to see what they thought. The first thing there made him freeze.

“Possible law enforcement?

· BAU suggests he understands police procedure.

· No DNA, no prints, no physical evidence in kill area – knows what we look for.

· Different states (if the copycats are frames) but consistent method.

· Aware of local jurisdictions not cooperating but continues with FBI involved? Travels on purpose in car, ‘05 Honda Accord.

‘05 Honda Accord

· Located car on residence footage, plates not visible.

· Tracked to cameras on US-30 E, Pennsylvania State Police combing footage.

Forensic countermeasures

· Footprints – too careless, actual mistake?

· Red hair and stashed evidence – too convenient? No matches

· Why bother misdirecting if no one saw? Panic? Copycats? Framing?”

Finally, Aaron got to the last part of their notes in all caps, circled and underlined.

“Is he inserting himself into investigation??”

Aaron had to resist the urge to crumple the notes and throw the file across the room.

Fucking.

Nosy.

Ass.

Shit.

He had warned them and one chance was all he afforded people; his next phase was set in motion. But first? He had some anger to let out. Shoving the notes back in the folder, he grabbed his mask and cowl and headed to the back door, silently opening it and stepping outside. He fitted the cowl over first, keeping the cold away from his body, then fixed the mask over his balaclava.

Committing the murders when the team was in town was trickier. One, he didn't have his car and would have to hoof it. Two, it was much harder to hide his clothes and make sure no blood was on him when he went back to work in the morning. It was a challenge, but he liked that.

Luckily, he’d done some recon while they were in town and the trek to his next victim wasn't going to be as rough as he expected. His sleeping little mouse’s house wasn’t a far hike from the next victim.

Aaron was extra careful around the mud this time around. He really needed to rethink how narrow the eye slits were in this mask.

HIs next victim lived alone, spending his evenings getting shit on in first person shooter video game lobbies. Aaron had briefly watched from the window, wondering how any of that could be appealing when the real thing was so much more fun. Slipping his lock pick set from his pant pocket, he made quick work of the backdoor and slipped side. The light in the office where the resident was playing video games had been on as he was casing around the house, so Aaron was safe for now in the opposite corner of the house.

Aaron’s steps were silent as he swooped around the house, figuring out where to begin his hunt.

Screw it.

He leaned against the counter, feeling over confident in his post-coital haze. He pulled out a burner and dialed the man’s number, which he acquired earlier in the day during interviews.

Aaron could barely hear the phone ring over the man’s shouting at the game. He sighed as the call rang out and called again.

“What the fuck!?” Aaron heard from the room, followed by a clatter.

The bastard threw the fucking phone.

Aaron’s head hung in discontent.

Unbelievable.

No one answered their phones these days.

He was still too pissed at the notes he read to be patient and try something else. This one was going to be bloody.

Making his way over to the room, he leaned against the threshold, arms folded as the man was hyper focused on the screen. He hadn’t seen a webcam through the window, so nothing would be live streamed—he wasn’t a monster. With the shouting clearer now, he was talking to someone, though, Aaron couldn’t be sure how many people as he squinted through the mask at the screen.

At least the headphones had a visible microphone and were hardwired to the computer. That made his job a little easier.

Not bothering to take out his knife yet, Aaron stalked toward his victim, standing behind them and watching the screen flash. Did this guy have zero self-awareness?

Reaching forward and grabbing low on the wire, Aaron gave it a hard pull. The wire gave way, whether it ripped out of the ports or broke the wires itself didn’t matter to Aaron. The chair spun; his victim startled with hands ready to fly.

The fight left his body immediately. Flight wasn’t even an option as the man stared at the menacing figure in front of him. No, freeze took hold.

“It’s rude not to answer someone’s phone call,” Aaron sneered through the modulator in his mask.

He grabbed the man by the throat, pushing him back on the chair so roughly that both man and chair flipped back onto the floor. That seemed to knock some evolution into the man and—surprise, surprise—flight kicked in.

The whimpering man scrambled to get up to his feet while Aaron watched the pathetic attempt but the arms of the chair slowed his escape down.

Sighing, Aaron stepped forward, pressing the front half of his boot onto the man's trachea and kneeling down to the ground.

“You’re not making this fun for me.”

He only received gurgling in response.

“Does it help if I show you this?” Aaron unsheathed the knife strapped to his chest under the cowl that draped across his body.

The man’s movements became more frantic form both the pressure on his throat and the sight of the sharp knife.

“Then get to running,” he growled, taking his boot off the man’s neck and watching him scramble to his feet.

The man was halfway to standing, ready to take off into a run with his weight poised on his front leg. Aaron might like the hunt but it wasn’t supposed to be fair. He kicked in the side of the man’s knee, hearing a sickening crack and pop followed by screaming.

“Fuck you! You sick fuck!” he screamed.

“Aww,” Aaron cooed. “You’re making me blush.”

The man hobbled out of the room, propping himself up on the hallway walls as Aaron strolled after him. He made a beeline for the front door, making Aaron chuckle through the modulator. Aaron hopped over the sofa that the man had to hobble around, making it to the door first and stalking toward him head on.

“Wrong way, peanut. It’s like you’re not even trying.”

Aaron was enjoying the moment of hopelessness on his face. Doing his best to turn and run, the man made a very slow break for the back door.

Aaron checked his watch.

He hummed sadly, not having enough time to play anymore. He grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt, shoving him roughly to the floor.

“Sorry I can’t play longer,” Aaron sighed sadly, stepping over and straddling the man’s ribcage as he groaned on the floor.

To prevent the man from grabbing Aaron's weapons, he slid up to his upper chest, stapling the man’s biceps to the floor with his knees. Between the pathetic sobbing, screaming, and effort, the man was struggling to breathe even more now.

Aaron trailed the tip of his knife down the man’s forehead, to his nose.

“I want you to pick a number between one and...twenty.”

“W-wh-y?” came a strangled sob.

“Because I fucking ask you to,” he snapped. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

That little sliver of hope glimmered in his eyes for a second, quieting his sobs briefly.

“Uh-uhm.”

“I don’t have all night,” he pressed the tip harder into the sensitive flesh of his nose.

“Twelve! Twelve…please,” the man wailed again. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Wow,” Aaron breathed. He pinched the man’s cheek with a gloved hand, “You’re so brave. You won twelve stab wounds…are you ready?”

“N-no-no—" his screams filled the living room as the knife slid into the muscle of the man’s shoulder.

“Count with me,” Aaron requested. “One, two, three, four, five, six—look, we’re half way done—seven, eight—no, no, no nine not ten—mhm good boy, now ten, eleven…”

The blood was pooling rapidly and as excited as it made him, Aaron took precautions to be covered in as little of it as possible. He had his knee and shin across the man’s stomach with his other leg planted out far for stability, just beyond the edge of the pooled blood.

Aaron pressed the tip of the knife where he knew the man’s heart to be underneath the shirt. Slowly but surely, Aaron put pressure down, “Twelve.”

The life finally faded from the man’s eyes. Aaron stayed there, staring at the widening pool of blood. He was still angry. If he bothered to profile himself right now it would be the irritability and anger that made him play with his food a little more than usual. He felt the need to take control again after feeling derailed by those notes—how, when did they find so much and would they even be able to scrounge up evidence for some of those claims? Either way, making the hunt more fun reinforced his need to dominate every situation blah, blah, BLAH.

Aaron continued staring.

The blood was inviting.

He wasn’t stupid enough to write with it, though he’d love to write that cute little investigator a letter in blood. Describe how good they felt on his cock. He was right about them being enthusiastic after all, he laughed to himself.

It was tempting but no.

He grunted as he heaved himself up, careful to not step in blood. As far as blood went—he looked down at himself—he didn’t do too badly.

Pleased with himself, he gingerly exited the house, careful of what blood he did have on him and stripped the outer layers off, mainly his heavy cowl, mask, and gloves which he doubled up with rubber gloves underneath. He stuffed them into a clean plastic bag he’d brought with him and took off into the dark.

Entering his little mouse's surprisingly quiet back door, he carefully stripped the rest of his clothing, leaving the door unlocked. It was all intentional, aiming to imply Ghostface broke in—because he did. Once his balaclava came off, he could breathe clearly again.

He’d memorized some of the squeaky floorboards on his clearing of the house and used that knowledge to make his way over to his bag and stashed his gear. Peeking in to make sure they were still asleep, Aaron checked himself in the bathroom for any blood and was happy to find none.

The body odor?

Well, a little hand soap would have to do.

Coming back out of the bathroom, he spotted their gun on the nightstand.

Naughty little mouse.

He grabbed a couple tissues and picked it up, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber, and unloading all of the bullets. He snapped the magazine back in with a sharp click and placed it back. They weren’t a cop; they didn't carry the gun out with them but he didn't need any surprises the next time he paid them a little visit.

Aaron gingerly climbed back into bed, feeling the steady rise and fall of the breathing next to him.

MC POV

The morning light filtered through the blinds in thin, slanted lines, cutting across the disheveled sheets. My body ached—not entirely unpleasantly—but there was a strange heaviness to my movements and an unease that gnawed at the edges of my mind and woke me up.

I didn’t actually want to open my eyes. Not because of what might lie beyond my eyelids, but because they felt so damn heavy. My head and arms did, too.

For a few moments, I let myself exist in that haze, the warmth of another body beside me was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Then, reality began to settle in. It wasn’t just a body.

SSA Aaron Hotchner was in my bed.

I slept with the lead agent working this case. With a literal serial killer on the loose. Was I stupid?

For the millionth time, this was how people died in scary movies.

Finally opening my eyes, I was startled at how close his face was. His breathing was slow and even, his bare chest rising and falling rhythmically. In the dim light, he looked almost peaceful—normal, even—from the robotic stoicism he held in the field. But something in my gut screamed that something was wrong.

I shifted to sit up, nearly jumping out of my skin when his eyes shot open. He stared at me, almost as equally confused as I had been from the looks of it.

Fragments of last night flickered in my mind: the ride home, the way he insisted on checking the house, the way his gaze lingered too long. The way his touch had burned—slow and deliberate.

“You’re up early,” he commented, looking at the clock over my shoulder.

It was barely 6:00 AM.

“Yea, I don’t know. I just felt weird,” I furrowed my brows. “I just feel so heavy.”

He stared at me for a beat before his features grew mirthful, “Last night took a lot out of you?”

My face heated up, “Shut up.”

I turned over, facing away from him. He hummed behind me, shuffling closer. His hand drew a wide path over my hip, rising higher until he could pinch my nipple. My hips involuntarily pressed back against him.

He laughed softly, pressing his nose against my ear, “We have some time to kill.”

I ignored the poor choice of words and chewed my lip, finally nodding, “Yea, okay.”

“Stay there,” he rolled away to find the drawer I’d rifled in the night before.

I shivered as the cool air made its way under the blankets, but I didn’t have to wait long before his warm skin was pressed up against me again.

The slicked-up condom was as cold as the air above the covers, making me jump as he prodded around.

Stars, he hit the lottery when they were handing out dicks.

My mouth dropped open as he fully seated himself, the fullness forcing out a gasp from my throat. He controlled the pace with a firm grasp on my hip and used his other arm to wind under my head, grasp my jaw and force my face to look at him. My mouth was all too willing to open for him and the way his hand engulfed my jaw made my brain buzz with excitement. He was just so large.

The hand on my hip slipped low, working its way between my legs until it landed on my heated, sensitive flesh. I could feel his mouth spread into a satisfied smile as I practically moaned into his mouth. He moved his hand in time with his hips, stroking faster until I was shaking in his arms.

“Sh-fuck,” I felt the pleasure building.

I was so close.

“Ho-otch-chn…” I moaned.

“Aaron,” he corrected.

“Aaron, please.”

That seemed to shift another gear for him, his movements rougher, his teeth scraping my skin.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Come on my cock. Need to feel you.”

Holy hell, the mouth on this man when he wasn’t buttoned up tight.

And just like that, my orgasm hit me hard. My loud moans breaking the silence of the early morning. His hand didn’t let up, making me grasp at his forearm to get him to stop as overstimulation set in.

He didn’t stop.

His teeth scraped my neck this time and I wondered if he’d finally do it—sink his teeth into my neck as he came. I could feel him holding it back, not wanting to ask and not wanting to just spring it on me. He didn’t, and I was only mildly disappointed. He buried his face into my neck, moaning loudly as he finally came.

We lay there, not moving except for our heavy breathing making our chests expand rapidly. Aaron’s tongue laved over my sweaty skin, pressing a kiss, and then another.

Do it.

With one more kiss there, he pulled away with a soft groan.

“Mind if I use your shower?” he asked, groaning as he stretched.

“Go ahead, I’ll get some coffee started.”

Aaron smiled gratefully and went to grab his bag, bringing it into the bathroom with him and closing the door.

I pushed myself up to sit upright on my bed—which was a total mess that I wasn't looking forward to cleaning. My limbs still felt heavy and yeah, maybe he was right and I was just out of practice. I stood and stretched, pulling on underwear and a t-shirt from the floor while I waited for my turn.

I padded over to the kitchen, my feet softly scraping the old wood. I doubled my usual coffee routine and looked out into the living room from the kitchen as I leaned back against the counter. My eyes drifted over the counters, seeing the glass he washed last night—very considerate—before landing on the file I brought with me. Some of the pages were sticking out. I didn’t think I threw it there so casually that papers fell out—well I did end up in bed with a federal agent so anything was game at this point.

It was my notes that made me freeze when I opened the folder. I distinctly remember putting them in the back before leaving the station with Aaron. The paper was haphazardly shoved back in, crinkled deeply in some parts where it looked like someone was holding it tightly.

What the fuck?

I hadn't realized how long I stood there looking at it when Aaron emerged from my bedroom in a black polo and dark jeans. It was a far cry from the suit he showed up in but I’m sure suits weren't exactly space savers. I wasn't complaining either, the way the sleeves clung to his biceps and contrasted with his pale skin made my mind race. His hair was still damp, flopping innocently onto his forehead.

“What?” he stared at me with a half-smile.

Ripping my eyes off the way the polo stretched across his chest, I shook my head, “Uh, did you go through the file last night?”

“No, why?”

“Because I know where I put these when we left the station,” I gestured to the notes. “And now they’re in a different spot.”

His smile was gone, replaced by a pinched expression. His eyes darted around the room, hand automatically flying to his hip. Silently holding out a hand to me to tell me to stay put, he made his way to the living room taking overly cautious steps. It was unlikely that Ghostface would be out in broad daylight but everyone was on edge already.

“I locked this before...well, you know,” he was stopped at the back door, both locks undone.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Ghostface been in my house.

I was frozen. I hadn’t heard a thing. How could I be so stupid?

“I-uh,” I wrung my fingers together, suddenly terrified. “I’m gonna get ready, coffee’s almost ready.”

The shock settling in was distracting. Ghostface knew my suspicions now and if they were anywhere near true, I was in deep, deep shit.

I made my shower quick and was putting on my shoes when our phones rang at the same time.

Damn. That can’t be good.

“Hotchner. Okay, be there in a bit.”

My conversation went mostly the same. The coffee was packed in to-go cups and only upon stepping through my front door did I realize I didn't have my car or my spare kit.

“Oh, fuck me,” I groaned.

Aaron made a noise of amusement from his throat.

“Not a word,” I grumbled. “My car with my spare kit is at the station. Those fucking oafs are going to ruin my crime scene.”

“It’s okay, we have lights,” Aaron grinned as we got in the SUV and flipped the lights and sirens on, letting us speed up the road to retrieve my kit, then back down into the residential area for the crime scene.

We arrived at the same time as the rest of the BAU. I had a one-track mind to catch this fucker and ditched Aaron, grabbing my kit and racing to the house. Detective Miller was already inside, along with a few other officers which made my eye twitch.

“Can you get them out?” I asked her, gesturing to the cops who were standing around. “Who found him?”

“His online friends called the station, I guess he was playing some video game with them and his microphone got disconnected. He wasn't answering his phone and he never logged off the game. I guess he’d told them there was a serial killer so they were worried. Rightfully so, too. ELPD did a welfare check and saw him through the window. Back door was unlocked so, looks like he came in through there.”

Marking what I immediately saw, I squinted at the body. I snapped pictures of the deep stab wounds, the way his knee was caved in at the wrong angle, and zooming in on his neck.

“Look at this,” I tilted his head up. “He was stepping on his neck. That’s not just playing with his food. He’s mad.”

Fuck. I had to tell her.

“I think I know why, too,” I continued.

Detective Miller looked at me quizzically.

“My back door was unlocked, too. We—I had locked everything before I went to bed.”

“We?”

“I.”

She looked at me pointedly, “We?” Her body leaned to look around me at where the BAU was talking outside, “Which one was it? The old one? I know you prefer salt over pepper.”

“Oh, fuck off, Miller.”

She laughed, making eye contact with Aaron by chance as he glanced inside through the open front door.

“No...” she gasped. “The Neo looking, mother fucker? Come on. He’s weird.”

“He’s not weird. The kid is weird.”

“No, he’s cute.”

I stared at her, gesturing to the body on the floor to remind her of why we were here.

“Did he at least have a big—”

“Yes.”

“You do know this means your place is a crime scene now,” she scribbled notes on her notepad.

“There was nothing of use, I looked. He went through my notes and left. I’ll document it.”

“Deal,” she sighed. “Struggle started over here,” she cocked her head toward the hallway.

Walking into the small office, I got an overview of the scene, moving to the desk first. The computer was still on, the game having disconnected from the servers for inactivity. The entire computer tower was skewed from the headphones being ripped out so violently, that one of the wires had ripped off of the jack. Pictures of the computer and chair were snapped, then Miller directed me to the phone across the room.

“Dent in the wall here and the phone over here,” she commented.

Once I took the pictures, I clicked open the phone. It was locked but I could see the recent notifications. Several Discord notifications from the guy’s gaming friends and two missed calls from an Unknown Number.

“Maybe he tried to call 911 and Ghostface chucked the phone?” Miller suggested.

“One sec,” I grabbed the phone and unlocked it with the body on the floor of the living room. “Sorry, buddy.”

The phone immediately opened to Discord, not the phone keypad. I scrolled through the recent calls and only saw the two missed calls from the unknown number, nothing outgoing or incoming after that. Making my way back to Detective Miller, I sighed.

“But, we know he calls his victims to taunt them. What if the guy didn’t answer and it made him mad? That coupled with the notes? Guy is sitting here, playing. The phone keeps going off and he throws it because, I don’t know he's frustrated with the game?”

“It’s a theory. Got everything? I’ll call them inside.”

“Yea, let me check the back really quick.”

I went out through the back door, photographing scratches where the lock was picked and looking around for anything out of place. Anymore boot prints, blood, anything. Looking out into the lawn I saw one of the ELPD officers reaching for a plastic bag.

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” I shouted but he had already grabbed it and stood.

I heard a commotion behind me, several footsteps hurriedly rushing out the back door.

The officer looked at me cluelessly, “What?”

“Are you being serious right now? You’re not wearing gloves!”

“Just trash, I mean...” he shrugged, thrusting the bag toward me.

I need a vacation.

“It’s an active crime scene, Christ.” I pulled an evidence bag out, shoving the plastic bag inside and grumbling to myself.

“Everything okay?” Aaron and a few of the agents had rushed out of the house with guns drawn.

“Sorry,” I sealed the evidence bag, writing on the outside. “Going to have to eliminate his prints now,” I commented, annoyed.

“You found that here?” he questioned.

“He did, yea. Then, grabbed it without gloves,” I shook my head. “Might take you up on that FBI offer.”

I heard him laugh softly next to me.

“Want me to—” Aaron offered his hand to hold the bag as I couched down.

“I got it,” I cut him off clutching the evidence bag like a lifeline, I photographed the area around where I saw the officer pick it up but nothing stood out.

“I want to hear your thoughts on this come on,” he indicated his head back inside.

“So, I know he likes to taunt people, but I thought the phone was strange,” I said as they followed me to the office, stepping carefully around the mess. “He called the guy twice, neither call was answered, and the phone ends up thrown over here.”

“So, maybe he was trying to call the cops when he saw him?” the blonde one, JJ, I think answered.

“Maybe, but he had headphones on and was playing this video game. I find it hard to believe he heard much of anything. He was playing with other people, who said he just cut off—and look, the cords were yanked out of the computer. I don’t think he had time to call.”

“So, the unsub gets mad that he's not answering, then,” the older agent, Rossi, chimes in.

“Video games, particularly first-person shooters like this one, have been shown to increase aggression, especially when players experience frustration or failure. Studies suggest that competitive gaming can elevate cortisol and adrenaline levels, leading to heightened emotional responses. If the victim was fully immersed in the game, already experiencing stress, and then received repeated phone calls, it’s plausible that he reacted impulsively—throwing the phone out of frustration rather than fear.”

I blinked at the information that fell out of Dr. Reid’s mouth but eventually nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"And that would explain why he didn’t bother to check who was calling. He wasn’t worried about being watched—he was just annoyed,” Emily agreed.

“Which pissed off the killer,” Morgan ran a thumb along his facial hair.

The only one who hadn’t spoken at this point was Aaron.

“It’s possible. Repeated interruptions, especially in the middle of a game, could have made him dismissive of the calls instead of suspicious. The unsub might have expected a different reaction—fear or immediate compliance—but instead, they were ignored. That could have triggered an escalation,” Reid continued.

“Which lines up with the scene. The killer physically yanked the cords out—cut him off from the game entirely. If he was already feeling slighted by being ignored it could have been a way to force the victim’s attention back on him,” I turned around, pointing back to the living room. “I have more for you.”

I led them out of the office and to the body.

“This guy was mad, like he was being mean...” I started, stopping and cringing at myself. “...okay murder is mean but he was meaner than the other three.” I crouched, mindful of the blood, “This here looks ante-mortem, he was stepping on the victim’s throat for an extended period causing this bruising. And then this bruising here is also ante-mortem,” I pushed up the sleeves of the victim’s t-shirt. “I was going to say he held the victim’s arms down with his hands but he has one on each arm and it's not tactically sound to have both hands occupied. I’m thinking he was kneeling on the guy's arms and he was sitting on his chest. I don’t know if the twelve stab wounds has any significance to you guys but each murder had a different count, so I don’t have anything there. But, his knee is shredded, look at the angle. No wonder he didn't get very far.”

“Didn’t we interview him yesterday?” JJ tilted her head to get a better look at his face.

“Mm,” Detective Miller located his wallet, “Tommy Crites?”

“We did,” Prentiss nodded. “Maybe he knew something?”

“Why do you say he was being “mean”?” Rossi asked curiously.

“Well, ripping the cords out and making the guy pay attention was easy, right? He could have killed him there in the chair. The guy has to get out of the chair or off the floor and the killer is just standing there watching him struggle? He was taunting him, playing with him.”

“He wanted to be in control,” Aaron finally spoke up.

“Yea. So, he takes back control,” I paused taking a breath. “And I think it was because he saw some of my notes. I think he broke into my house last night and didn't like what he saw.”

“What did you write?” Rossi asked.

I paused, surrounded by the very people I was accusing.

“That he might be law enforcement and inserting himself into the investigation.”

The BAU looked at each other grimly.

“So, he sees your notes, gets pissed off that you’re getting too close, and comes here to blow off steam,” Morgan murmured.

“We’ve all been threatened by him, welcome to the club,” Reid smiled sadly.

We leave the body to the county coroner and begin to leave, immediately met with several media vans outside. The reporters are being held back by a few deputies but could easily overwhelm them if given the chance.

“Who called the media?” I looked over at Detective Miller.

“Don’t look at me,” she glared, looking pissed at their presence.

Questions were immediately bombarding us as we tried to leave:

“Is the BAU any closer to identifying the suspect?”

“Is it true that the killer has been targeting people at random, or is there a pattern to the victims?”

“Some sources claim the killer has made direct contact with law enforcement. Are you in communication with him?”

"Do you believe he’s local to the area? Could he be someone within the police force?”

I almost stopped walking at that. Aaron shifted next to me, looking for who asked that question, his expression cold and unreadable.

“We can’t comment on that,” he answered.

“Then, should we be looking for a 6-foot, red-haired male, 180 pounds, with size 11 feet?”

Everything stopped there.

The words slammed into me like a physical blow. That information hadn’t been released to the public. I hadn't even mentioned the height that the BAU’s analyst had managed to figure out from the video footage in the notes.

My stomach twisted as I finally located the reporter in the crowd and snapped toward him, my voice sharp, “Who told you that?”

The reporter just laughed, shrugging. “Can’t reveal sources, you know how it is.”

Before I could stop myself, my hand shot out, grabbing the front of the reporter’s shirt and yanking him closer.

I was furious and practically shaking, “Who. Told. You?”

The cameras flashed more frequently at the scene. The reporter looked startled, but also amused.

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

A firm hand clamped down on my shoulder. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that it was Aaron’s hand.

“Let him go.”

For a beat, I didn’t move and my grip tightened. Then, I realized how bad it had to look and shoved the reporter back, storming off toward the SUV.

From then, the station was a madhouse.

The tip lines were ringing off the charts. The town had gone feral in a matter of hours after learning about the description.

Someone—an anonymous “inside source”—had leaked that the partial evidence suggested a red-haired suspect, male, with an approximate height and shoe size matching a partial tread found at the scene.

The result was pure, unfiltered chaos.

Every red-haired man within a thirty-mile radius was getting side-eyed. People were calling in tips over neighbors they’d known for years. People called to tell on their male friends who recently changed hair colors from red to something else. The worst one was a young man who worked at a family-owned auto shop in East Liverpool getting the shit beaten out of him by some overzealous vigilantes because his hair was lightened by chlorine and the sun from his time on the high school swim team.

The kicker was that it was all bullshit.

I knew it and the FBI knew it, but there was nothing we could do to calm the panic. The shoe print had been a lucky find, but something about the way the case was unfolding reeked of misdirection and I couldn’t help but think that the killer released the information, further supporting my theory that he was working on the inside. The evidence was just too convenient—just enough to keep people focused on the wrong thing.

The plastic bag at the scene was a dead end, too, forensically. The only prints we managed to pull were the cop’s and he was far too stupid to be our killer. The killer must have had several bags and dropped one in his haste to protect the evidence from us.

I was hesitant to start picking out who it could be. One, it could piss Ghostface off even more. Two, accusing the wrong law enforcement officer is a surefire way for me to get fired. Three, based on just this case alone, I was absolutely certain it was the real killer and not some knock off. Which, four, meant that he wouldn’t be from here with all the traveling he did and the fact that neither the East Liverpool Police Department nor Columbiana County Sheriff’s Department had any recent transfers. He couldn’t insert himself through local channels—so that only left federal.

And ‘federal’ was a scary word. Connections were everything and I had zero, except maybe Aaron but he could very well be on the suspect list, too.

My own weakness for dick was apparently shooting me in the foot.

If I had to make a list, Prentiss and JJ were not on it. Not because they were women—I'm an equal opportunity accuser—but because of the height and weight. Rossi was on the shorter, older, and therefore potentially weaker end, still possible but not in my top three. No, my top three would be Morgan, Reid, and, unfortunately, Aaron. All three fit the height requirements though Reid was maybe on the lighter side of the three. All three men were also highly intelligent with in depth knowledge of law enforcement tactics and forensics.

All that to say: I really should not have slept with Aaron.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when Sheriff Tanner barged in to the lab, which was a rare occurrence when he had several detectives to do that for him.

“I need all the reports you have on the evidence from these Ghostface murders,” he barked, ‘Ghostface’ leaving his lips with a scowl.

“Yes, sir, but the hair—”

“I asked you for the reports, not your opinion.”

“But, Sheriff, it’s not--"

“ELPD has ten thousand frightened citizens blowing up their god damn phones and ours. I’m done with Miller entertaining your conspiracies. If you still want a job after all of this, shut up and give me the reports.”

I begrudgingly handed him the reports, following him as he stormed back out into the main bullpen. The BAU was lined up in front of the press just finishing up their interview, trying to ease the public about what had been fed to them.

The Sheriff was on his way to tell them to go to hell and follow the evidence.

I stormed into the media briefing behind the Sheriff, cutting through the sea of reporters. The consequences of my actions were the least of my worries when compared to a serial killer.

“Sheriff, this entire investigation is a cover-up!”

The bullpen went dead silent, the only sounds being the rapid clicking of cameras. Video cameras snapped toward me, away from the federal agents they had been focused on.

Aaron, stood among the BAU and other law enforcement officials. He barely twitched at my exclamation but his eyes locked onto me with an unreadable expression.

I was already putting my foot in my mouth, so I kept going.

“You’re looking for the wrong person. The real killer is someone in law enforcement, and you all are wasting time hunting some imaginary suspect instead of looking deeper!”

At that, the reporters started whispering, murmuring. Sheriff Tanner’s face turned an ugly shade of red.

Aaron, though, Aaron didn’t look angry.

He looked amused.

Like he was enjoying this.

Aaron POV

Oh, his brilliant, little mouse. His brilliant, stupid, little mouse.

It wasn’t enough that they read his beautiful kills like a book, dissecting every piece and fucking up every ounce of his enjoyment. Then, they had to go and do it in public when he had specifically told them not to.

He was lucky that the plastic bag didn’t have any forensics on it. That was mistake number two of East Liverpool, Ohio and he wondered if he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be or if his infatuation with this smart, insignificant, funny, irritating, fool was messing up his game.

They were gone by the time the team had decided to call it a night—Sheriff Tanner having told them to pack their shit and get out—which worked out in his favor. Aaron snuck out of his motel room late that night, when he was sure the rest of the team was asleep. He’d slipped Rossi some of the same sleeping pills, ensuring he’d be asleep for the rest of the night. Not like he needed to worry about Ghostface trying to kill him, Aaron laughed to himself.

Aaron stepped out into the dark, melting into the shadows of the barely lit town. It would have taken him close to an hour to walk to their house, which he cut down to about twenty-five minutes by running the couple of miles. He took off his cowl to be a little more aerodynamic so he wasn't weighed down by the wind resistance, and shoved it in his backpack. The backpack he carried made the feat a little more challenging, but it was all for a good cause.

His cause.

As he approached, he slowed down, blending into the bushes that separated the investigator’s house from the one next to it. He pulled out his burner, seeing them through the blinds just enough to see that they were distraught. Their knees were pulled up to their chest, head heavy in their hands. Smiling to himself, he found their number, double checked his modulator, and made the call.

At first, he was sure they wouldn't answer. But then they lifted their head up a little, peering down next to them on the bed.

Stupid blinds, he cursed to himself.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Aaron asked with a disappointed edge to his voice. “That was a cute stunt.”

“Not when some asshole is threatening my town, no, I really don’t.”

“I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Doesn’t mean I had to listen. Why don’t you come shut it yourself?” they responded, irritated and coarse.

Oh, his mouse. His brave, little mouse.

“Answer me this,” they spoke again. “Why haven’t you killed the feds following you? Surely, they pose a bigger threat?”

“I’m not bulletproof, baby. And I’m not stupid enough to poke a hornet’s nest.”

“Hmm,” they hummed over the phone. “See you soon?”

“See you soon,” he practically giggled.

He watched the bedroom light flick off.

His mouse wanted to play?

Oh, he would play.

Aaron hugged as close to the house as possible, already at a disadvantage since the outside was now illuminated by the moon while the inside of the house was pitch black. Was it too obvious to use the back door again? Yes, but he would have a more silent entrance that way.

Unlocking the door with his lock pick set, he let the door swing open, waiting—listening—before making his first step over the threshold. He dropped the backpack near the back door to be more mobile.

Where, oh, where could they be?

They wouldn't hide or cower, no, his mouse was pissed, so Aaron needed to be ready for a fight. He tip-toed gently around the house, mostly remembering where the creaks were except for a couple. With his hand gripping the handle of his knife—where it sat strapped to his chest—he started passing the kitchen, free arm reaching out to push open the bedroom door.

Before he could step toward the bedroom, two arms wrapped around his leg from behind, emanating from the kitchen floor.

Like an actual little mouse, oh, sweetheart.

One arm wrapped around the outside of his ankle, the other wrapping through his legs and on his quad. Feeling a strong push on the back of his hamstring and a yank on his ankle, he was soon careening down to the ground face first. Aaron had to let go of the knife handle to brace his fall with both hands, stuck in a sprinter’s stance. They still kept a hold of his leg, trying to drive him onto his hip, but his foot was able to twist free. It took him two tries to yank his foot back to him enough to donkey kick back, landing directly into their chest if the resulting wheeze was anything to go by.

“Not bad,” Aaron consolidated his limbs, standing back up and trying to anticipate their next move in the dark.

A punch barely grazed the edge of his mask. Reaching out, he grabbed the forearm of that arm, pushing it away from him so they were turned around—back against his chest. From there, it was easy to entrap both of their arms with his and lift them, dragging them to the bedroom.

“Oopsie,” he laughed in their ear. He flicked the light on with his elbow, glancing around and spotting their cellphone set up suspiciously. “Sweetheart—tsk—filming me? Really? I didn’t consent to that...”

“Fuck you,” they spat back.

Aaron laughed, the modulator making it all the more terrifying. Been there, done that.

Throwing them on the bed, he straddled their hips and reached over on the nightstand for their phone.

Pause.

Delete.

To add insult to injury, he snapped the phone in half and tossed it across the room.

“You won't be needing that.”

He was so preoccupied with the phone that he missed their hand travelling under their pillow until a pistol was pointed in his face.

“Oh,” he taunted. “And what are you going to do with that?”

“You said it yourself. You’re not bulletproof.”

“You’re right,” he wiggled, making himself comfortable in their lap. “Come on, then,” he urged, pressing the forehead of the mask against the end of the gun. “You feel that power? It feels good, doesn't it?”

Their hands shook from the adrenaline and fear.

“Are you like me?” he grinned under the mask. “Are you going to get off after you pull that trigger?”

They readjusted their grip on the gun, their sweaty hands making it slippery.

“Do it, Mouse,” he pressed harder. “Do it, don’t be a little bit—”

Squeeze.

Click.

The shock on their face was priceless.

“Performance anxiety is super common, baby, don't worry,” Aaron teased, prying the empty gun from their hands and tossing it to the floor. “You should always check your chamber before starting a fight.”

To avoid any more surprises, Aaron turned them on their side and zip tied their hands behind their back, laying them back down on top of their hands. He enjoyed the way they struggled as he shimmied his way up their chest.

“Just kill me, you coward,” they spat, still struggling. “Hiding behind a mask,” they scoffed.

He leaned down, keeping his weight balanced by framing their head with his hands on each side as he brought the mask to their cheek, “Oh, I’m not here to kill you. You’re far too smart, I need you.”

“I’m not helping you.”

“Frankly, I don’t need your permission for that.”

He gripped a fistful of their t-shirt, hooking his fingers into the collar and pulling the fabric across the centerline of their neck so it pulled taught against their carotid artery. With his free hand, he made a fist and pressed it slowly into the other artery. He kept his face close, hovering just above theirs as they worked to loosen their hands to no avail.

There was silence between them, just the sound of struggling.

“Which one of you is it, huh?” they laughed, smiling through it all. Their consciousness was struggling to hold on as the blood was slowly cut off from their brain. “Is that you, Aaron? Gained my trust by being a knight in shining armor and fucking me?”

Aaron just stared, clenching his jaw tightly.

He hated them.

“Or sweet little Dr. Reid? Pretending to fumble and mess up the crime scene?”

He cocked his head to the side, pressing harder with his fist.

He loved their brain.

“Or Morgan? So, charming, strong, and witty.”

He was stronger. He was better. He was smarter.

He could see them fading away. It was relaxing, watching them fight it. If the shirt had been any thicker, they would likely be asleep already but he had to hold this one a little longer.

Aaron got sloppy, leaning too far into them to see their teeth scrape the edge of the mask and bite down. He felt a tug and yanked back, the mask staying and his head exposed. This was why he wore the balaclava. But it didn't matter.

Recognition gleamed in their eyes as they met his rich, honey, brown eyes, darkened from the shadow he was casting over them.

They opened their mouth to say something but it was too late. Their eyes shut and their body went limp.

MC POV

My eyes blinked open slowly, the blinds drawn tight in my room. My head and body felt heavy and I wondered how long I’d been out. Waking up after being choked was usually fairly quick, unless it's so long that brain damage or death happens. But, I was very alive.

Aaron.

Fucking. Aaron.

Then, I remembered how I felt after waking up the other morning after we slept together. I felt just like this.

Had he drugged me?

Feeling around for my phone, I realized it had been destroyed last night but my alarm clock blinked at me.

10:42 AM.

Brief panic set in before I realized I didn't have anywhere to go. No words needed to be said as Sheriff Tanner basically fired me yesterday—’pack your shit’ was explicit enough.

I needed to go, I needed to explain to the Sheriff—to Miller—about yesterday. Trying to sit up was a feat as my body protested. My chest and neck throbbed and I was sure I had a fist sized bruise on one side of my neck. I had to catch myself several times as I looked for clothes, barely managing to get pants on when my front door was kicked open with such force that pieces of the threshold went flying.

Fight? Flight? Freeze? I couldn't do any of it. The room was still spinning, making me feel nauseous as I finally successfully buttoned my pants after attempting for the fourth time. When I was able to focus on the commotion around me, I couldn’t process much of the screamed orders at me, but I focused in on several guns pointed my way.

Morgan. Prentiss. Aaron.

They were all in the front, sights trained on me with unwavering focus.

My eyes locked onto Aaron’s.

“Oh, this is rich,” I laughed, not able to do much besides stumble and barely catch myself.

Aaron holstered his gun, giving the everyone a command to search the house as he pressed me up against a wall and cuffed me.

“Ow, that hurts,” I winced uncomfortably.

“You think Tommy Crites thought that when you stabbed him twelve times? What about Carolyn Turner when you stabbed her six times—” he snarled.

Bastard.

“Oh, what a load of shit,” I spat. “I’m the wrong shoe size—the wrong, everything!”

“But you’re just the person to be able to fabricate that,” he chuckled.

“I can't fabricate video footage, asshat.”

I could hear the police and agents tearing apart my house like rabid animals. Papers were falling to the floor; evidence bags being filled with things I’d never seen before. I watched, craning my neck as a knife was pulled out from under my sink, bloody and dark clothing from under my floorboards and—

The realization crashed over me as Morgan pulled muddy boots out from under my bed.

Aaron was framing me.

He squeezed my wrists tighter, daring me to say something.

“Are you kidding me? Those aren't even my size,” I struggled against Aaron’s firm grip.

Morgan peeked inside the boots, seeing padding stuffed into the toes to mitigate the wrong size. His glare was almost as deadly as Aaron’s as he left the room to log the evidence.

“You’re sick,” I whispered harshly to Aaron under my breath.

“Maybe,” he leaned in laughing softly, his warm breath ghosting over my ear. “It really is a shame you couldn’t keep your mouth shut when I told you to,” he said, sounding regretful. “I really do like you.”

“I’m going to nail you for this—”

He shoved me harder against the wall, making me wince as the wall bit into my brow and cheekbone, “You’re going away for four murders. You’re not getting me for shit.”

The cuffs bit into my wrists as he pulled me off the wall and led me outside. Reporters were shouting over each other, cameras flashing like strobes but the noise barely registered. My mind was racing, trying to find a way out—any way out. I looked around for a familiar face.

Miller.

Miller, please.

She refused to even look my way.

Aaron matched my wobbly steps, following at a measured pace. His presence was so heavy at my back. How could I have let this happen?

Just as we reached a patrol car, he leaned in again. His voice was low and calm, with such malice behind it that it sent another wave of nausea through me.

“You’ll call me,” he stated.

I jerked against his grip.

“Like hell I will.”

He only chuckled, like I was telling him a god damn joke.

“You will. When you get tired of rotting in a cell. When you realize no one else can help you—you'll call me.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze over my shoulder, challenging his domineering stance.

“I’d be happy to reopen an investigation,” he continued, feigning nonchalance. “Get you exonerated. Clear your name,” he paused, his voice shifting. Almost affectionately he cooed in my ear, the venom so much more pronounced without the robotic tin of the modulator, “But you’ll owe me.”

His words settled over me like poison.

“You’d work for me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You’d go where I tell you. Do what I tell you.”

I swallowed hard, my jaw clenched and tense.

“You’d be free,” he promised, eyes shimmering with something dark. “And I’ll own you,” he smiled sweetly. Aaron opened the car door, hand on my head as he guided me in roughly. “Plus,” he pouted, mouth so close that I felt his lips skim my ear as he bent over and looked at me through the still open door, “you’ll miss me so much, little mouse, I just know it.”

He slammed the door shut.

I barely registered the car starting. I didn't even register Detective Miller getting in the front passenger seat, flipping down the visor and looking at me through the mirror.

All I could hear was his voice echoing in my head.

Aaron POV

Aaron watched the patrol car drive away.

Would they call him? Maybe not today. Maybe not even this year or the next.

But Aaron was a patient man and he always got what he wanted.

Some extra art: